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.
“Yes. I do.” She grips my hand with fierce strength. Her palms and fingers are callused and strong. “My India, she was all I had. Now she gone. And…I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it. It’s because of you that she’s gone. If she hadn’t gotten mixed up with you, she’d still be alive. I told her not to hang out with no more of them Bishop boys. They bad news. Bad, bad news. She knew it. I knew it. After Isaac…I didn’t think she would ever go back to being with a Bishop. But she told me, ‘He’s different, Mama. He ain’t like the others.’ And I believed her. I let you be here when you wanted to be here, and do what you want. Ya’ll are adults, gonna make your own decisions. And…you loved her. I saw that. I saw it in her. She was hurt so bad when Isaac died. And you brought her to life in a new way. She was getting that cosmetology degree. Gonna be a model in the city. But now…she gone.”
I can’t help a choked-back sob.
Maya takes a long breath and grabs my other hand, holding them so tight the bones grate together. She fixes her eyes on mine. “I forgive you. And you…you got to go. You stay here; you’ll waste away on that bed. I can’t let you do that. She wouldn’t have wanted you to lie there, giving up, letting yourself go. I forgive you. And for her sake, I’m gonna make you go. If you wanna give up, it ain’t gonna happen here. And…honestly, you got to go, for me, too. I need to learn to be alone now. And you remind me of her. So you got to go. For you, for her, and for me.”
I nod. It’s all I can manage. She’s right. I know she is. But…it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I can’t feel anything but the pain. So I stand up, turn and face Maya. She sees the I’m sorry in my eyes.
I can see there is something else she wants to tell me. “What, Maya? Just say it.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t—I just can’t.”
I stare at her for a long time, but she remains silent. “Thank you. For…everything.”
“Goodbye, Colt.” It’s final. She puts a hand on my shoulder, and then she’s gone, and and I’m alone.
It only takes a few minutes to pack my things. I’ve got my saved cash, clothes, extra pair of shoes, that’s about it. That is all I’ve got. And the gun. I hold it in my hands, staring at it. Stuff it in the back of my pants, because I don’t want it in my bag. Got to get rid of it.
I’m done. Done with the Bishops. Done with everything.
I’m at the front door, bag on my shoulder, taking one last look at the living room where India and I spent so much time together. That couch…god, we made love on that couch so many times, under that ivory afghan, watching TV.
Maya stops me. She’s carrying one of India’s teddy bears, the one with the blue button eye. Wordlessly she hands it me. For a moment that feels like an eternity, I hold the teddy bear in my hands, smelling India on it, feeling her on it. I swallow hard, blink harder. With tears in my eyes, I leave India’s apartment. Don’t look back.
Down the stairs at the front of the building, turn right, and start walking.
This is familiar. The walking.
I make it a few miles before Split catches up to me. He stops his GTO in front me and gets out. He looks hard at me. “You’re gonna leave, just like that? Fuck you, Colt. I thought you had more guts than this.”
I shake my head; I don’t.
He pushes up against me, chest to chest, nose to nose. “Fuck that, man. I ain’t letting you walk away like this. I know you’re hurting. I know you hate yourself. But you don’t get to walk away. We’re in this together.”
In answer, I pull out the 9mm, eject the clip, pull the slide to eject the shell in the chamber, hand it all to him. I push past him.
He grabs my arm, spins me around, shoves me backward, and then decks me with a wicked right hook. It levels me. I topple backward to the ground, blood dribbling from the corner of my lip. I stay on the ground, shocked. Split tosses the gun, clip, and shell onto the backseat of his car, and moves to kneel in front of me.
He grabs the front of my shirt. “I’ve had it, Colt. You can’t puss out on me. I ain’t gonna let you.” He stands up, hauling me to my feet.
He lunges at me, hits me again. I let him. I take it on the cheekbone. He hits me yet again, a right to the gut. I double over, then straighten up. I deserve this. Again, and again, he punches me, and I do nothing but take it.
“Fight back, goddamn it!”
I can’t. I won’t.
He stops, breathing hard, staring at me in fury. “You gonna give up like this, then…you didn’t deserve her. You never deserved her.”
That cuts. Deep.
I stagger from the pain of his words. It’s a real, physical agony, the knowledge that I don’t deserve her. That I never did. And the pain from Split’s hard, accurate punches makes it all the more real.
I like the pain. It’s something to hold on to.
“Thought you were my boy, my brother.” Split is cracking. Anger and agony are a maelstrom in his eyes. He shoves me, hard. “You ain’t. You ain’t nothin’.”
I can’t argue with that.
But the slicing pain of knowing he’s right drops me to my knees. And Split is there, grabbing me by the hair. “Get angry, Colt. At me. At yourself. At the assholes who caused all this. I took care’a them, you know? Made sure they paid. They paid. Now, you gotta get up and show who you are. India wouldn’t love a pussy. A pathetic piece of shit who would just give up like this. Just walk away. From me, from Callie, from Maya, from Cleo, from the Bishops. That ain’t you. You gotta find you again, Colt.”
He hauls me to my feet by my hair. Shoves me. Watches for a moment, waiting for a reaction. I say nothing, do nothing. I have nothing, I am nothing. I’m not the man India loved. He died when she did.
Split spits on the ground at my feet, gets in his car and drives away. But he only goes a few yards before screeching to a halt. Stalks angrily toward me, grabs me by the shirt and hauls me to his car. Shoves me in, closes the door after me. Gets in and starts driving. I don’t ask where. It doesn’t matter.
Split drives a few blocks, to the hospital, and parks in the general parking lot. “C’mon. Mo’s in here, got hurt bad in all that bullshit. You owe it to him to at least pay him a visit.”
Fuck, I gotta visit Mo. He’s a good dude, a little crazy, but good. So I haul my ass up to the ninth floor and check on Mo. He took one to the chest and made it to the doctors in time to get patched up. He’s hooked up to all sorts of machines and monitors, looking pale and pissed. Bored. I’m there, and that’s all that’s necessary. He doesn’t say anything to me about India, and I don’t say anything at all.
Eventually, I have to get out of the room. I’m halfway to the elevator when I’m stopped by a pretty young girl with her hair in cornrows, wearing nurse’s scrubs.
“Hey, you Colt?” she asks.
I nod.
“I was friends with India.” She ducks her head, seems hesitant. Afraid. “Not sure if Maya’s mom told you, but…um. India—she…when she died, she was—” A long, long pause, then. A tear trickles down her face. She finally looks up at me, eyes w
et. “She was pregnant.”
I think I collapse. I only remember cold tile under my face, and feeling cold inside. Then I become aware of hands lifting me, carrying me. I might have been crying, I don’t know. It’s all a blur, a haze, darkness.
I’m on a couch at some point and realize I am at Split and Callie’s apartment.
I feel hunger, and thirst, but I ignore it.
Split forces me to eat, and I do it just to get him off my back. I’m empty, for I don’t even know how long.
* * *
I’m on Split’s couch.
I’m seeing India.
I’m seeing her bleed onto my legs and onto the grass.
I’m hearing Maya tell me it’s my fault but that she forgives me.
I don’t forgive me; all I deserve is pain.
The only thought I have is that I need to feel pain.
Late one night, something—I don’t know what—propels me to get up off the couch and tiptoe into the kitchen. I open a drawer and pull out a steak knife. I don’t know what drives me to stand over the sink and drag the blade across my wrist. It stings, but not enough. I’m shirtless, and something dark and black and thirsty whispers to me, telling me to pull the blade across my chest. Directly under my left nipple, a long slow slice.
The pain is sharp and sweet. While I bleed, I can breathe. But it fades all too soon. So I pull the blade across my chest on the other side. I press hard so the blade cuts deep. I flex and the blood flows. I breathe, sucking in a breath.
But when the pain dulls, the anchor pressing on my chest is back.
I’m about to cut my chest again when the door to Split and Callie’s bedroom opens. Callie comes out, wearing one of Split’s shirts and looking sleepy. She doesn’t see me at first as she grabs a glass from the cabinet and moves to the sink to fill it with water. Then she sees me.
Falling for Colton (Falling #5) Page 17
