I close my eyes, let the sounds of the TV wash over me. Everything comes flooding back; my first thought is that I killed a man. I got shot in the process, but...I shot someone. Ended his life.
"Quit thinking about it." India doesn't look at me. "What's done is done."
"I can't not think about it."
"Wasn't some innocent person you shot by accident," she says, offering me a smile. "He had it coming. He killed a kid. I knew Lil B. He was a nice kid. And they ran him over for no reason."
"Not sure that excuses it, but...thank you." I let my head fall back against the back of the couch, feeling dizzy all over again.
We watch TV together for a while, and I start to feel hot. Feverish, achy, tingling skin, thirsty. Faint. At some point, I think I passed out, because I start back to awareness, but now I'm horizontal on the couch, my head in India's lap, a blanket covering me. I'm sweaty, and move to push the blanket off, but immediately I'm freezing, and pull it back up. My shoulder aches, throbs, fiery and impossible to ignore.
My mouth is dry, as if I'd tried to eat a jar of cotton balls.
Everything hurts.
I pass out again.
This time, I'm woken up by India's hand on my shoulder. "Come on, Colt, you need to take this."
I don't even question her. I sit up, woozy, head thick, fever raging, shoulder on fire. She dumps a handful of pills into my palm--Tylenol, and what looks like antibiotics--and then a sweating glass of ice water. I down the pills, and then slurp the rest of the water greedily.
"Thanks."
She gestures across the room. "Thank my mom, she brought the antibiotics back from work."
India's mother is beautiful, of course, hair pulled back in a frizzy puff-ball at the back of her head, wearing green scrubs and white Keds, eating something from a takeout container.
"Thank you," I say.
"My name's Maya," she says, waving at me with her fork.
"Colt."
"You're a sick man, Colt. Cleo cleaned it out just fine, but sometimes infections are just inevitable, especially with gunshot wounds. You can stay here till you're better, but I don't want none of your gang-banger bullshit spilling into my life or my daughter's, you hear?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Oooh, an' he's even got some manners." She smiles to make it less of an insult. "Best thing you can do is rest. And take those antibiotics on schedule. India, I expect ya'll to behave. Not that he's in any shape to be causing any trouble, but I know kids ya'll's age."
"Mama!" India is mortified.
"I'm just saying. I ain't stupid."
"Don't you have to get to work now, Mama?" India says.
Another smile from Maya, this one knowing. "Sure do. I'm on a double, so I won't be back till tomorrow. Bye, India. See ya later, Colt."
I can only manage a tiny wave as Maya collects her purse and exits.
I'm in and out of it for a few days, if the brightening and fading of the light through the curtains is any indication. The fever takes a toll on me, keeping me down and out, barely lucid. I see India in fragments and flashes, her hand on my forehead, a cool compress on my face now and then, helping me take Tylenol and antibiotics, helping me drink water when I'm too out of it to even hold a cup. She's always there, whenever I wake up, smiling at me, asking me how I feel, asking if I want some water. Maya I only catch a few glimpses of, always in scrubs, hair pulled back, purse on her shoulder, keys in one hand, a can of pepper spray dangling from the keychain, a huge to-go mug of coffee in the other. She checks on me too, changes the dressing in my shoulder--which hurts like a goddamned motherfucker.
Callie, Split, and T-Shawn show up at one point. Split goes to spark up a joint, and India lays into him, which is funny, because Split is usually so scary, but somehow India has a way of putting even him in his place. It's clear I'm out of commission, and my friends leave again, with admonishments to get better.
I don't see them again after that, even though they said they'd stop by. Just as well, though, because until the fever breaks, I'm useless, barely coherent, fighting just to stay conscious, and hating it when I am. I don't think I've ever slept so much in my life as those days on India's couch.
On the fourth day, by my calculations, the fever has broken.
"I really don't want to, but I gotta go to work. I traded shifts so I could be here while you were out of it, but now that your fever has broken, I need to go in." India says this as she comes out of her room, wearing khakis and a Walgreens collared T-shirt. And she even makes that uniform look hot; I know I'm feeling better when that thought crosses my mind.
"You work at Walgreens, huh?" It's a non sequitur. I mean, obviously she does.
"Cosmetics department."
"So when will you be back?"
"I get off at seven. Not long after that. I'll bring some food back with me." She hikes her purse over a shoulder. "You still need to rest and sleep as much as possible."
I groan. "I've never spent so much time resting in my whole life. I'm going crazy."
She laughs. "It's good for you. Give you time to think."
I really don't want the time to think. I sit on the couch all that day, thinking. Reliving. Feeling the 9mm buck in my hands, seeing the red mist spray...fuck. The slamming ache of the bullet hitting my shoulder.
What's done is done.
He deserved it.
I'm a killer.
Colt Calloway, body count: one.
It's heavy, that weight. I don't remember his face. It's all a blur, except the physical sensations. I don't remember the color of the car we were chasing, how many others were in it with the guy I shot.
Just the buck of the gun, the spray of the blood, the slam of the bullet into my shoulder.
At some point, I'm beyond exhausted, both from the recently-departed fever and from the mental and emotional tax of reliving the scene over and over again, wondering what I could have done differently. I can't take any more, and I'm sick of the couch, so I move into India's room, examine her posters, a few framed photos of her and Maya across the years, a small collection of books, all of them dog-eared romance novels. An old, peeling, white wicker armchair overflowing with stuffed animals; the collection is huge, dozens of stuffed animals of all sizes and kinds. It's an odd thing, that chair full of stuffed animals. She's a twenty-something girl, not a child anymore, and, overall, her room reflects that. It's a distinctly feminine place, but it is the sanctuary of an adult, not a stuffed animal-collecting little girl.
The bed, now neatly made, has only one stuffed animal on it: a clearly special, old, faded, much-loved teddy bear. One glass bead eye, one button eye. Obvious stitch marks where it was torn, restuffed, and sewed back together. That button eye, though. It's a bright blue button, four holes, sewn on with brown thread. Blue the color of periwinkle and cornflowers, in stark and vivid contrast to the black bead eye on the other side.
I set the teddy bear on the foot end of the bed and stretch out, close my eyes.
Fade.
*
She wakes me up by sliding into the bed in front of me, her back to my front. She's dressed, I can make out that much. Booty shorts, a tank top. But god, all the skin I can feel, the heat of her body...it's intoxicating. I want more. But I want her to want more. I don't want this to be quick and easy, or convenient. I don't want her to be a hookup. I've had so many of those over the years I've gotten sick of it. I want more. I slide my arm across her middle, tug her closer. Breathe in her scent, relish in the tickle of her curls against my cheek.
Stifle back a groan as she wiggles her tight little ass against me, getting closer. Burrowing, nestling.
I react.
I know she feels it, and I know she knows I know. We're both awake. She's waiting for me to make a move, I think.
But, for once, I pass on the moment. I need more of her, more time to know the woman, the person, the mind, the heart, the soul of the girl, and not just the body.
So I suffer through the delirious, d
elicious torture of my hard cock being nestled between the globes of her ass, and I do nothing but hold her.
"Colt--" she whispers, twisting her head a little.
"Hush. Not yet."
She makes a disappointed sound in the back of her throat, but clasps a hand over my hand. I hear her snoring not long after.
It's a long time before I find sleep again, wondering what kind of fool I am to pass up such an obvious invitation. She wants me, I want her, we have mad chemistry. But I don't just want a quick fuck. I don't want a blow job in the backseat of a car, given by a girl whose name I'll never even ask. I want more. I want something meaningful with India. She's worth more. She's not a hookup kind of girl. She's not a back-alley fuck kind of girl. She's not a bent over the arm of a couch after a fight kind of girl.
She's quality. She's got potential, a future. She has dreams.
I fall asleep wondering what she wants out of life, and realizing that's why I waited, why I turned down her invitation: I want to know her dreams, I want to know what she wants, where she's going.
When I wake up, she's facing her closet, in the middle of pulling off the clothes she slept in. She still has the shorts on, and it's a good thing I couldn't see her last night, because the shorts are...not really a garment, in any sense of the word. Just a bit of cotton stretched across her hips and molded to the cheeks of her fucking incredible ass.
I realize she doesn't know I'm awake, and I also realize I'm holding my breath. She shimmies out of the shorts, baring her ass for me. I'm hard, rock hard. No panties underneath, either. Now she's naked, and she twists a little as she kicks the shorts off and toes them onto a pile of dirty laundry. The kick and twist gives me a tantalizing glimpse of her breast via sideboob, a hint of nipple, the rounded outer edge. I swallow hard as she turns to the dresser, and now I've got a full-profile vision of her. Thin, lithe, lovely. Full, heavy breasts, dark caramel skin. Wide brown areolae, flat nipples just begging to be kissed and licked. Trim hips, and a taut, muscular, bubble-shaped ass. Strong thighs, shapely calves. Hair is loose and wild, a profusion of black spirals. And god, her face, the beauty of her face in profile takes my breath away even more than her body does.
She withdraws a green thong from the drawer, and glances at me as she does so. Realizes I'm awake, and watching her. Twists to face me, giving me a front view, now. She's trimmed close, between her thighs. The shadow of the V of her thighs is taunting me, beckoning me.
I just look at her. Let my gaze move up and then down and then back up, and her eyes are warm, dark, probing. Not shying away from mine. She looks me up and down too, blatantly. Returning the gesture. I'd kicked off the blankets, apparently, so I'm in nothing but a pair of shorts, and the evidence of my desire is obvious, clearly outlined. Her gaze goes to the bulge, then to mine.
"You're beautiful." It just pops out. I feel like an idiot stating the obvious, but I've thought it every day since I've been here. And right now, her bangin' body on full display for me, I can think of nothing else.
She smiles at me, though. Ducks her head, grinning. "Thanks." A glance up at me. "So are you."
"I didn't mean to watch," I say, needing her to understand. "I just woke up and you were taking your clothes off, and--there was no way I could look away."
"I understand."
"I just wanted you to know, I'm not, like, a creeper or anything."
She takes a step closer. "It's fine, Colt. I wouldn't have risked getting undressed with you in the room if I was worried about it." Another step.
She's less than a foot away now, and my every sense is on high-alert, attuned to her. I could reach out and touch her, take her in my arms and pull her down to me. Do a million dirty, wonderful things to her.
"About last night," I start.
"You don't have to explain," she cuts in.
"No, I do. I wanted you so bad. Right now, I want you." I sit up. Clench my fists on my knees.
Her eyes go to my erection, still raging, still visible as a bulge in my shorts. "I felt it last night, and I can see it now." Her eyes flick to mine. "So why aren't you moving on it?"
"Because...I want more than that with you. I've never had a real girlfriend before, India. Not someone I cared about. But you...you're different."
"How am I different?" She still has the green thong dangling from her fingers. She's still naked, inches from me, testing me to my limits.
"Jesus, India, you've got to put on clothes." I mutter this, because the majority of me doesn't want her to. "You're not a girl I'd just hook up with. And that's all I've ever really done, is hook up. You're better than that. More than that. And I want that with you."
"So you're saying you want to wait to have sex because you want to get to know me?"
I sigh. "Yes, that's what I'm saying."
She laughs. "I think that's a dream come true for most girls, to hear a guy she likes say that. But you know how frustrated I am, right now? This is the second time I've all but thrown myself at you and been shot down."
"I'm not shooting you down, India."
She furrows her brow. "Yeah, you kind of are. Sweetly, and for a really great reason. But Colt...I want you. I want you to touch me. I want to reach into your shorts and..." She shakes her head, cutting off. "And you're just sitting there, got that big ol' hard-on going, me naked in front you, flat out telling you I want you, I want this. And you're not making a move."
"You think this shit is easy?" I shake my head. "It's the hardest thing I've ever done, keeping my hands to myself."
A moment, then. Her eyes searching mine. Mine searching hers. "You for real? You want something long-term with me?"
"Hell yeah."
"And you for real want to get to know me--" That phrase is heavily emphasized, almost sarcastic, "before we sleep together."
"Yes."
"You're crazy." But her smile is bright, brilliant, and hopeful. "But I'll play your game."
"It's not a game, India."
"I know. I guess I don't see why we can't get to know each other and get it on."
"Because once I get a taste of you, I won't be thinking of anything except getting more of you. Not for a long-ass time."
I'm not sure that helped, judging by the excitement that lights up her features.
"Oh," she breathes. "It's like that?"
"It's like that."
"So I'd better cover up, huh?"
"Before I come in my pants just looking at you, yeah."
"I could help you out with that."
"Don't tempt me, woman. I'm trying to be the good guy, here."
"Oooh, the bad boy is trying to be good." She's teasing me, on so many levels.
She tags a robe off the top of a laundry basket full of clean clothes, shrugs into it, sadly but prudently covering her glorious body.
"So, I've been wondering. Why doesn't Callie want this to happen?" I gesture between us. "What's she got against white people?
Another smile and my heart flutters. "It ain't because you're white. Not really. It's more because you're part of the Bishops. She's worried about me," she says, sitting on the bed beside me.
"I'm not exactly part of the gang."
"You're Split's friend. That's all that really counts to her. She's just protecting me."
"That's what friends do, I guess."
She nods. "She's afraid I'll get attached to one of Split's boys, and then--" India shrugs, waves a hand. She doesn't really need to finish the thought.
I nod. "I know what she means. After what I experienced, it makes sense."
"There's history behind it, though." India returns her attention to me. "Callie had a brother, Isaac. Split grew up next door to Callie, and me on the other side. Split and Isaac were like brothers--closer than brothers, really. The three of them started the Bishops together. Split's mom is...not a good person, so he was at Callie's most of the time. Cleo is like a mom to him, only one he's ever really had. Him and Callie have been together forever, their whole lives. Never was mu
ch of a question about that." She blinks back tears. "And Isaac and me..." The way she trails off says everything that needs to be said.
I don't like where this is going. "What happened?"
She nods. Her tight spiral curls bounce. "They were out with the other guys. Some kind of beef with some other gang, the usual shit. Split and T-Shawn came home carrying Isaac and they were all bleeding. Shot up bad. Isaac died in his own living room. Cleo tried her best, and Mama too, but they knew, they both knew it was too late, even for an ambulance. Split blames himself, even though he's never really said what happened. Can't forgive himself for letting Isaac die." A long, shuddering breath. "They carried him two miles to get back home, even though they were both shot too."
"Were you--there?"
She nods again. "Yeah. I was...I had Isaac's head on my lap. I watched him...I watched him--"
"Fuck. I'm sorry, I--"
She shakes her head, tries to smile, blinks hard. "It's just a sensitive subject. For all of us, but for Split most of all."
"Are you worried?" I wonder where the question came from, but now that I've asked it, I can't take it back.
"About?"
"What Callie is worried about."
"Oh." She bobs her head side to side. "Yes, and no. I'm an optimist. I try to believe the best. I want to get out of the 'hood. I want to make something of myself. I want to find a man who ain't like the others in the Bishops. Nothing wrong with them, necessarily, but...that's all they know. That's all they'll ever know."
"And you want more."
She nods. "I want more."
"Me too." I hear myself say it, even though I hadn't even dared think it to myself until now.
"You do?" Once again, she sounds surprised.
I laugh, a little self-deprecatingly, a little sarcastically. "Yeah, I mean I never thought I'd be...doing what I'm doing. I'm not exactly sure what it is I do want. But I want more. I'm from the white suburbs outside Detroit. My dad is a senator. It's not like I moved to New York and went, 'Hmmm, I sure do want to join an inner-city gang.'"
India eyes me. "A senator? Like in the Senate in D.C.?"
I shrug. "Yeah. Don't get too excited, though. I refused to go to college and he disowned me."
Falling for Colton Page 13
