Page 2 of Riot

“Only because the owner survived getting shot three times.”

This could not be happening again.

Just like before, my mother was going to pretend Ramos wasn’t a criminal. Pretend he wasn’t still capable of dragging chaos into this house like he always had.

She ignored me completely and hurried out the front door, muttering about being late.

I followed her outside and paused long enough to lock up behind us.

Then I stood there in the heat staring at the house, feeling like my prison sentence had just started.

* * * *

As soon as I turned onto my street, I knew something was wrong.

I only lived three houses down from the corner. Close enough to spot the unfamiliar car sitting in our driveway before I even reached the house. A black muscle car. Charger, maybe. A decal stretched across the back window, a red-outlined skull that looked like it was glowing.

Music drifted through the open living room windows as I got closer. Rap. Not loud enough for the neighbors to complain but loud enough to carry through the heavy summer air.

Ramos.

Not even twelve hours out of prison and he already had people over.

I should’ve expected it. The silence around our house never lasted when Ramos was involved. Sooner or later he filled every room with noise, strangers, smoke, and trouble.

The question wasn’t whether he’d changed.

It was how much worse he’d gotten.

I didn’t want to know. Before he’d been sent away, Ramos had been wild but a decent brother. Criminal, but caring. A bubble of laughter escaped when that dumb shit went through my mind. Those two words should never exist in the same sentence. Not when referring to Ramos.

Sweat clung to my back and scalp as I climbed the porch steps, then slowed when I noticed the front door was cracked open. My brain shouldn’t have flagged it. Plenty of people left their door ajar without feeling something ominous crawl over their skin.

After blowing out a long, quiet breath, I pushed it wider and stopped just inside.

Ramos was sprawled in Dad’s old recliner, one ankle over a knee, beer in hand. He’d invited two old friends I’d hoped to never see again.

Oscar sat on the couch, broad and quiet, elbows on his thighs, watching TV. Honestly, he wasn’t so bad. The guy barely spoke, unlike the other one.

Miguel.

He was leaning against the wall near the TV with a cigarette hanging between his fingers. I’d met him when I was seventeen, and he’d always felt vaguely wrong in a way I couldn’t explain. Like something under his skin didn’t sit right.

The corner of Ramos’ mouth turned up in a small smile. “Little bro returns. How was work, honey?”

I flipped him off automatically while taking in the disaster spreading across the living room. Beer bottles crowded the coffee table, two tipped onto their sides. The ashtray overflowed onto the table and floor beneath it. Smoke clung to the air thick enough to taste the menthol.

Then I spotted an empty plastic container sitting beside Ramos.

My leftover lasagna.

Fantastic. I’d spent the entire walk home thinking about eating it.

The smell of weed drifted through the room beneath the odor of cigarettes. Ramos must’ve gotten high and inhaled everything in the fridge.

Ramos laughed. “Fuck, I missed you.”

Oscar glanced over at me long enough for a quick once-over before returning his attention to the game. “What’s up?”