Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (22 page)

Six guys come swaggering onto the court. They spread out, hands in pockets, heads tipped back, eyes glittering in the sun. They’re new, think they’re tough. But they don’t know who they’re fucking with.

I wait beside Split as they trade insults, spit venom, the usual shit-talking that leads up to beef. Except, in this case, it’s an excuse to start a turf war. I stay out of it, like I usually do in these circumstances. My job is to be backup. Jump in if I’m needed. I’m the exception; still an outsider, and anyone not in the inner core of the Bishops doesn’t really accept me. Members of other gangs certainly don’t. They’d shoot me on sight, just for being who I am, and for being here.

Shit goes south in an instant—a knife blade flashes, and suddenly this turf war is real.
 

I can only watch it happen. Everyone is paired off, fighting, one-to-one. We’re winning, too.
 

And then the fucker T-Shawn is pounding on rolls away, digs in his pocket, flicks open a black three-inch blade and shoves it into T-Shawn’s throat…twice.
 

Blood sprays.
 

T-Shawn falls onto his back, and I hear the most fucking awful sound: gurgling, wet bubbling gasping for breath.

I toss aside the little punk who came over to scrap with me, level him with an elbow. I’m across the court in an instant, and I’ve got the fucker in my hands.
 

I shove him to the ground, sit astride him—I can feel myself doing this, but somehow it’s not me. It’s just happening, my body on autopilot. I know as it happens I’ll never wash this blood off my hands. I’m smashing his head against the concrete, over and over and over, until my hands are red and my face is wet and sticky, and hands are pulling me away.
 

The rest of the enemy fuckers are gone, they ran off, leaving their dead friend on the court with us.
 

Colt Calloway, body count: two.

T is on the ground. I grab him, pulling him into my arms. He’s bleeding everywhere, and the gasping gurgling is fading, and I can tell he’s slipping away.
 

“T…” I rasp. “Come on, man.”
 

Split is impassive, but I see the cracks in his expression. No one says a damn thing, we all just watch as T-Shawn bleeds out, and goes silent. It all happened in a few seconds—there was nothing anyone could do.
 

Except prepare for the next time because, sure as shit, there will be a next time.

* * *
 

And, sure enough, a week later it’s Lil Shady. Bad shit. Him and me had just smoked a blunt at his place, and then we left to go our own ways. Then, an hour later, the door slams open at the pad of the guy I’m doing some mechanic work for. Mo and Split have Shady, carrying him. He’s gone already. Limp, head lolling, blood dripping nasty from a hole in his skull.
 

Who’ll be next? Me? Split? Mo? Red?
 

T-Shawn is gone, and now Shady?
 

Fuck.

India and I talk that night for a long time. Then we go to bed and it’s rough and hard, and then it’s sweet, and she holds me, like she did after T died. Like she does every night, but she holds me especially tight that night.

Before sleep claims me, I decide to wrap things up with Split tomorrow.
 

India and I are getting the hell out of here.

* * *

The next day I get up early, and when India wakes up I tell her to pack her things, that I’ll be back around lunchtime to collect her. I’m going to go see Split and then India and I are heading over to Brooklyn. I’ve got enough saved; we’ll find a place.

It’s time to start over.

I see India’s face light up when she hears my plan—she’s as ready for this as I am.

I’m passing the basketball court, and I see a rumble in progress—it’s the same fucking rival gang. They’re using bats, chains, and fists. It’s wild and gnarly for a few minutes, but then it breaks up on its own. Sort of. Some guys scatter, others go after them. Split and me are left alone, and there are still a good half dozen of the other guys piling out of cars, coming for us, pulling pieces as they swagger toward us.

“Shit.” Split pushes me. “Go, dog. Go! Run, motherfucker!”
 

If Split says run, you know it’s bad. We run. Like dogs, we run. The six guys chase us down alleys and side streets. Something cracks behind us, and the windshield of a parked car shatters. Bullets thunk into quarter panels and into the asphalt. The road dead-ends at a chain link fence around a vacant lot. Split—lighter, smaller, more nimble—scrambles up and over it like a goddamn monkey. I make it halfway up when I feel something tug at my sleeve, and then hear an angry buzz past my ear, followed by a
snap
. Too damn close. Pistols crack a split second later.

Split is torn, about to climb back over to help me.
 

I jump back off the fence. “Go! Get the fuck outta here. I’ll go through the yards.”
 

“Meet back at the court.” He says this as he turns and runs. Then Split is gone. Boy can run like a goddamn cheetah when he needs to.

I risk a glance as I peel off through the backyards of the neighborhood. I’m slower than Split—speed and agility aren’t my strong suit. I have a piece, of course, but I’m reluctant to use it, always have been, since the shit with Lil B; I had planned to return it to Split today, but now I don’t think I have much choice. I pull it out, check the load of the clip as I hide behind a crumbling partial wall. I trip over scooters and Big Wheels and fire trucks as I twist down a side street, juke down another. They follow me, just a few yards behind me and gaining. Occasional shots ring out. A round stings my thigh; another rips the hat off my head.

Run, motherfucker
.

I turn at random, circle back, and hop fences when I can, trying to lose them. Run, run, run! I go a mile, maybe more, through old run-down neighborhoods, past ramshackle houses, shotgun houses, all built close together with the paint now fading and bars on the windows and doors, surrounded by chain link fences and yellow strips of grass and cracked sidewalks.
 

Finally, the shouts fade; I lose them by running right through somebody’s house, an old black couple watching
Jerry Springer
. They aren’t fazed in the slightest. They just curse me out from the couch and demand that I at least close the goddamn front door behind me.

I slow to a walk, listening, my senses hyper-alert. I’m gasping for breath. The sweat is pouring down my face, my lungs are aching and my legs are burning.

Just as I go through an intersection, I hear a shout. “There he is!”
 

They smell blood.

I take off again but they’re right behind me, all six of them. They’re less than twenty yards behind me, and they’re gaining fast. All of them have guns. One lifts his piece, cracks off a shot, which goes wide and plunks into a car. Then another shot is fired, missing as well. A third round goes high and smashes into a house. Someone shouts, screams.
 

Goddamnit. They’re gonna hit someone innocent.

I pivot, take careful aim, slowing down to do so, and crack off a round. Blood spills, and he topples over, holding his gut. I fire again, and a second one goes down, clutching his chest and I can see him choke back vomit. The third is quick to fire back, and a round hits my bicep, tearing a gash along the outside. I take off again as a hail of careless rounds fire behind me. Fuck, fuck. Fear hounds my every step.

This is it. This has to be it.

I just shot two more people. Fuck, fuck.
 

I scrabble around a corner, gasping in agony at what I’ve done, barely aware of the searing pain in my leg.
 

Colt Calloway, body count: four.

He’s right behind me. I’m tripping over my own feet. I cut through a yard, hop a fence, run pell-mell down a street that looks exactly like all the others, but it’s familiar somehow. I’ve been on this street before; I’ve partied at a house here—it’s a frequent hangout spot for anyone associated with the Bishops.
 

Then, at the house, some thirty feet away, I see a face and wild black hair.
 

India.

What the hell is she doing here? There’s a bunch of other people sitting on the porch with her. They see me hauling ass toward them, and they all scatter or drop down onto the ground. The guys on the porch haul iron and pop off shots, scattering my pursuers.

“Get down!” I shout so loud my voice goes hoarse.

India sees it’s me, and ducks behind the porch, out of sight.
 

I see Split in the distance, with Red and Easy, driving this way. I shout for them, but they’re too far away and they can’t do anything from where they are.
 

Guns pop and crack around me, and I turn behind to see they’ve mostly all scattered. All except for one.
 

He stops, almost uncaring, and petulantly fires off a round. It misses me and goes over my shoulder and makes a hole in the thin wood slats of the porch.

I hear a wet
thunk
.
 

There’s no scream.

“Oh, shit.” I hear him say it.
 

He knows.
 

I know.

I stumble to a stop, willing India to be okay.

Willing the truth to not be reality.
 

I forget the other guy, I forget everything.

Run.

Slip in the grass, fall, and scramble around the corner.

No.

No.

No.

Blood, India’s blood stains the grass.
 

There is no screaming, no pain, no crying.
 

No sounds.

I pull her to me and scream her name.
 

My thighs are wet with her warm blood.
 

Her eyes are open. Staring at me. Unseeing.

Hands pull at me. Voices shout. Sirens howl.
 

Someone pulls me, pushes me, gets me to my feet and into a car.
 

Where is India?

And then I remember. I see her blind stare—and the hole between her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes.

Split is driving. He’s crying silently.
 

Sun glints on the water as we cross over a bridge. I am aware of the sound of tires humming on the metal bridge deck.

“It ain’t your fault,” he murmurs. “It was a accident.”

“She’s dead.”
 

And those are the last words I speak for a very long time.

Chapter 11: A Seedling Sprouts

“Colt. C’mon, man. Talk to me, brother.” Split squats in front of me.
 

He’s been there for…I don’t know…a long time. Pleading. Begging. Getting angry. He’s trying to elicit a response from me. But he’s not getting one.
 

I’m empty. Except for the pain, I’m empty.

I just stare right through him. Not seeing him. The only thing that fills my vision is India, the hole in her skull, the vacant eyes.
 

“You’re gonna starve to death. You ain’t eaten in a week.”
 

Good. Starving to death would be a fitting punishment, and death would feel a fuck of a lot better than this.
 

“You gotta get up. You gotta let her go, man. She’s gone. I’m sorry, but she’s gone. You giving up ain’t gonna bring her back. I miss her, too. Callie misses her. Maya misses her. And none of us blame you. Okay? You might, but I don’t. Callie don’t. Nobody blames you. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”
 

Something acidic boils down deep in my gut; thick, hot, angry, bitter gall. Rage.

I’ve got rage boiling in the pits of my black, unfeeling soul. I choke it down. I blink and shake my head. It
is
my fault. I led them to her. The bullet missed me and hit her instead. It should have been me. Should have been me. I ran, instead of staying and fighting. I ran, led them to her, and got her killed.

No matter what anyone says, it’s my fault that India is dead.

Split rises to his feet, hissing in frustration, scrubbing a palm over his unkempt scruff of hair. He hasn’t shaved his face or his head since India died. I haven’t either. I haven’t showered. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t moved. I’m on India’s bed. I keep trying to call up the feel of her in my arms. Try to summon the beauty of her nude body beside mine. The way she kissed me. The light in her eyes first thing in the morning, when she saw me.

Split leaves without a backward glance. Good. Go. Stay away. I don’t deserve friends. And I sure as fuck don’t deserve their forgiveness or pity.

Shadows shift as the hours fade one into another. I see only memories, only images of India. I’m consumed by the thoughts of what we could have had, what we nearly had, and I hate myself even more.

The door to the bedroom opens, and I expect Callie or Split, but it’s not. It’s India’s mother, Maya. She looks haggard. Bags under her eyes. Shadows within shadows in her gaze; India was her only child, her only family.

She sits near my feet and stares into nothingness, not speaking for a long time. Finally, slowly, her gaze shifts to mine. “Cain’t stay here, son. Not no more.”
 

I expected this. I nod, and—stiff and sore and aching from being immobile for so long —I sit up. I get to my feet, feeling wobbly and dizzy. I move toward the door.

“I wasn’t finished. Sit down, Colt, and listen to me.”
 

I turn, stumble and take a seat beside her. I owe her this, at least. I have to listen as she tells me she hates me. That I killed her daughter. She stares at the carpet under her feet, hair bound back for work as it always is—I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with her hair down. She’s wearing hospital scrubs, as always.

She reaches out and takes my hand. “Look at me, boy.” I look up, but it’s hard to do, hard to meet her gaze. Hardest thing I’ve ever done, looking this woman in the eyes. “I forgive you.”

I shake my head; deny the hot salt stinging my eyes. I deny the ache in my heart. I shake my head so hard it hurts.