Bullet (Running Duke Book 1) Page 5

  At my silence, she huffed and stomped to the front door, giving me a delectable view of her curvaceous backside. I already missed seeing it naked. My hands had traveled all over it as I rammed her from behind. I would like to claim that ass as mine, but it wasn't. In fact, watching it walk away was a true testament to it not being mine at all.

  Trisha paused for a moment, her hand on the knob, as if giving me more time to make the situation right. I opened my mouth, yet nothing came out but a harsh breath. Fuck, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her the things she longed to hear. I was good at breaking shit in my life and horrible at trying to fix it. I was fucking this up between us by holding my tongue. I'd never felt such strong feelings before, and I didn't know how to express them properly.

  However, Trisha was too adamant about the things she wanted. She was so sure of everything in her life. I envied that about her. I was nothing but a piece of shit; a Georgian thug from the gutter that tinkered on cars and barely had two nickels to rub together when living an honest life. I fucked up Jamal by bringing him into my world, I couldn't live with myself if things went wrong with Trisha, and it was my fault. It didn't matter; her threat of leaving was probably empty. I could never see a couple of weeks going by where she didn't show up hounding me. So, living a good or bad lifestyle didn't matter. She'd be in my messed up life regardless.

  She stood by the door, her back to me, possibly hoping for some last word to make her stay. Fuck this shit. It was probably safer for us to be on the same touch-and-go platform we'd established over the years.

  I reached over and grabbed a half-smoked cig off the nightstand ashtray. I put it in my mouth before muttering, "Thanks for taking the place of my one-nighter. See you around."

  "No, you won't." The soft click of my door closing behind her twisted my gut.

  Rage at seeing her abandon me welled up strong enough for me to reach for the closest empty bottle of beer. I chunked it across the room where it busted against the wall. Glass rained down over the barely used TV and the last remnants of beer trailed down the wall. I watched the mess in angry silence as I finished off my cigarette. Fuck her. I wouldn't take her words too close to heart. Before long, she'd be knocking my door again, trying to sweet talk me into bending to her will or begging for a fuck.

  I laughed to myself as I blew smoke up in the air.

  She'd be back, she always came back.

  Chapter Eight

  Four months later…

  I hadn't realized how late it was until I glanced at the clock on my wrist. I sluggishly climbed the stairs to enter the apartment. I tripped as my foot caught the edge of the last step. I'd taken on the role of a workhorse to distract myself. I pulled late nights trying to keep the negative shit off my mind. Because I knew, as clear as every night before, I had fucked up things with Trisha.

  I closed up the shop a little past one in the morning. I should've felt an immense bout of joy for getting the old car running. It had consumed me for three months, and I was starting to give up hope. If I got the old tinker running, I had a guaranteed job as head mechanic at my new employer. Finally, my years of experience counted for something. I worked on it obsessively because I had to fix something in my life.

  Just like every night before this one, a dark fog of misery covered me when the stairwell to the apartment sat empty. My bones ached from the physical labor, but my heart hurt from the haunting remembrances of Trisha. True to her word, I hadn't received any contact from her since that morning back in the summer.

  Our time together had a huger impact on me than I gave it credit for, and I'd felt some semblance of happiness in my life when I got to see her face unexpectedly. Now, a dark void, heavier than the one of my past, clouded over me every day. She'd somehow tattooed herself in my mind and soul. It's why the memories of her departure seemed to burn almost as equal to the shit concerning Jamal. I hadn't seen Trisha in four-fucking-months, but it felt like years. I never stopped looking for her everywhere I went.

  Her random appearances had become a fastened piece of my life. Her presence was something I'd come to rely on, it gave me a bit of ray of light in the dark insanity. Without her, I could feel the desolate loneliness swallowing me bit by bit like a fucking famished python. I never thought her withdrawal would leave a chasm of pity, sadness, and shame. Deep down, I wanted to go to her, but my pride became too big of a lump to swallow. Then the fear of rejection caused me to scrap any plan of seeking her out.

  Plus, I knew I'd had to face Jamal to see her, and I wasn't ready for that just yet. I'd acted foolish the last time I saw her. Clearly, she was perplexed about our situation, and instead of pushing to help sort through it, I brushed off our night like a one-night stand. I accused her of using our time together as leverage and a well-played trick. At the time, I was sure she was playing me, but now I'm not so sure. As I looked back on that morning, it became apparent I wasn't the only one running away from things.

  Key in the door, I turned the lock, and entered what should've been a dark apartment. Except, an array of light streamed out of the small corner of the kitchenette. I heard water sloshing about in the bathroom and the faint smell of sand and blood lingered in the air. A pot of water boiled on the stove and a familiar noodle box meal from the cupboard sat on the countertop.

  I looked down at the tattered backpack sitting by the front door. I knew exactly who would walk out of the bathroom. It wasn't too uncommon for him to feel like he ruled the world and the people in it, but I was occupying his safe house. I dropped my keys on the clustered dining table and noticed the past due bills had been shuffled through. Some were even opened and piled together in a stack. I also didn't miss the stack of banded cash sitting beside them. No surprise there, Vashton felt it was his duty to take care of Gable and me. I didn't want to accept the blood money but my bills had gotten out of control when I tried to pay them the legal way.

  I waited in silence until my older brother walked out of the steaming bathroom about ten minutes later. He had a fresh pair of pants on, and his chest was bare as he left a towel draped over his shoulders. Vashton was a big ass motherfucker who moved in a silent grace only fighters had. He took up space without meaning to and reminded me of a ferocious tiger. There was an untamed aura about him, like he would turn on you any minute if you did something he didn't like. Due to his street cred, he earned a top-ranking position in the local fight pits.

  There wasn't a time when he didn't have the marks of battle on him. His chest bared some blue and yellow bruises all over. Fighting wasn't just a hobby; it was his way of life. Vashton had acquired new arm tattoos and facial scars since I last saw him. He kept his hair shaved off to keep his opponent from having something to grab onto. A small cut was healing under his right eye, and a few blemishes on his cheek accented his sharp features.

  "Hey, bro," was all he said before moving toward the small stove to stir in the noodles in the small pot. He looked like a retired veteran turn mercenary standing in the small space. He scanned the dingy apartment. His gaze lingered on the greasy food containers and empty alcohol bottles accumulated in the corners of the room. "The place looks like a fucking sty. I left you enough money to pay bills for the next few months. Don't blow that shit on booze and bitches. I know how you are."

  How I was. I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms to keep my temper in check. I wasn't in the mood for Vashton's cutting remarks. Yeah, I was staying in his place, but I had too much stress in my life to worry about housekeeping.

  "Sorry, if you'd told me you were coming into town I would've hired a fucking maid. And I don't need your fight money for my shit. The rent gets paid regardless if I have electricity or cell service."

  My brother turned and glared at me for a long moment. His steel gray eyes working over my face, trying to read me a bit deeper than before. It was unlike me to cop an attitude with him. We were normally on the same wavelengths in life and coexisted with little to no disputes despite our differences. He was my brother, and
we were closer due to similar life paths chosen. However, snapping at him was out of character for me, and Vashton was the type of person who liked everything to be kept in its place, including his younger brothers.

  "What the fuck has you acting like a damn bitch?"

  Vashton wore the hat of authority, but he liked to intimidate his way into situations if he thought someone wasn't going to be upfront with him. He pushed buttons to get a rise out of people, but I felt too tired to fight with him this late… or this early rather. Vashton turned to face me, his chin rising in challenge as if he thought I wanted to fight him physically instead of using our words. Really, he wanted anger in return for his "bitch" jab. He used anger to pry the weakness out of someone and he tore through it like a damn rabid animal. I have been on the receiving end of his mind games and mental exhaustion he could put his intended target's mind through. A fight I wasn't up for at almost three a.m. I settled for venting instead, a curveball Vashton wouldn't expect. Not from me, since I tended to keep things bottled up.

  I fell back on the bed, Vashton's eyes narrowed at my heavy sigh. He probably couldn't believe he wouldn't have to fight to get to the bottom of things. In my next breath, I laid it all out: Trisha, what was up with Jamal, the stalking, the phenomenal night of sex, the absence and what it has done to my psyche, and the longing to see her but what that would entail. After I ended the series of events, Vashton finished devouring the stovetop noodle meal and listened to me without interrupting. He sat halfway on the table without responding to anything. It had been a lot to take in, especially since I expressed how much I cared, maybe even loved Trisha.

  He scooped the last morsel in his mouth and sat the bowl on the clustered table. He ran a hand over his face and winced when he hit the cut under his eye.

  "First of all. I can't believe you let some ass get into your head like that." Vashton shook his head; a mocking smile twitched his lips. "Damn, you and Gable are fucking pussies when it comes to chicks. Secondly, you need to go see your boy. You're off parole now; no one will give you shit for walking in there to see him."

  "It ain't about that."

  Vashton nodded, his face serious. "I know, but you need to move past the blame and shit. This is the only way to get that damn monkey off your back. Walking around with all that bullshit is poison, Ry. Trust me on that, bro. Do yourself a favor and go see him. You were both fucking stupid ass kids who got caught up in the game. Now, it's time for you to grow some balls and accept responsibility that it happened and figure out how you can grow from this."

  "You sound like a fucking doctor. You going to secret therapy sessions? Finally decide to pick up where we left off all those years ago?" I laughed at Vashton's deep frown.

  "Fuck you, man. I hate those bullshit docs. Seriously though, you hear what I'm saying?"

  After a moment of silence passed between us, I nodded. "Yeah, I hear you."

  Vashton was right, but I already knew that. Hearing him say it added a cherry on top of my problems. I knew what I had to do, but hearing him finalize my insecurities meant I was severely in the wrong. I had to bury this thing once and for all. If I got Trisha in the end, it would be a major bonus. If not, at least I made my peace at what happened. As much as I hated the next steps to take, it had to be better than wallowing in my own sorrow.

  Vashton stood. "Good. Get right with it or you'll end up a fucked up piece of shit right back in the pen, getting yourself killed over some bullshit." Just like our damn father. Though that thought went without saying between the two of us. As our grandpa used to say, the road in the Dukes' lives was only a few wrong turns away from either the penitentiary or lethal injection. Of course, he said that to us right before the cops carted him off for breaking several laws.

  I rose up and grabbed the bowl Vashton walked away from. I placed it in the crowded sink and turned to find him putting a fresh shirt on. He lifted the khaki backpack off the ground and slipped his arms through the straps. It hung low against his lower back, the seams stretched to their limit. My curiosity was peaked for sure. No doubt it was probably drugs, guns, or money, maybe even all three. He was a rogue thug for hire, with a reputation as long as his winning streak in the pits. So he became a muscled errand boy and enforcer between multiple leaders in the lower region, but he mainly did the dirty work for Louisiana's top cartel.

  "How long you in town for?"

  "I'm just passing through. About to check on Gabe then head back to New Orleans," Vashton said as he snapped the chest clamps on the straps together.

  I decided to ignore the Gable talk. He'd see for himself that our younger brother was back on the dope again. However, I was having a bit of nostalgia about being an errand boy and my eyes barely strayed from the sagging backpack. "What's in there?"

  He gave me a sinister grin as he adjusted the straps across his shoulders. He gave it a good tug and seemed satisfied with its fit. "You don't even want to know, baby bro. If I tell you, you'll have to come do this run with me. As fun as that would be we both know you need to stay on the straight and narrow." He walked toward the door and turned the knob. He looked back over his shoulder. "Get that stick out your ass and get your new life on the right track. And clean up this fucking place." Vashton walked out the door to disappear into the night like always. No wonder folks called him Ghost.

  Chapter Nine

  I inhaled the cigarette and glared at the building with malice. One would've thought the pristine white painted bricked monstrosity offered a verbal insult to me. Might as well have. The caged and silver barbed wired yard was a grim reminder of the bullshit I'd had to deal with when I was in the pen. Fuck this place, but I couldn't curse the man waiting within. That had already happened. Silver Oaks was a prison, albeit different than the one I was in but still a reformatory nonetheless. The shabby walls felt like a continual punch in the gut the longer I stood observing it. It was Sunday, which was visiting day, and I could see Trisha's fancy red car parked underneath one of the lot lights. The shit was about to get either really fucked up with her here, or it might come out as a peace treaty. Either way, it wasn't going to be easy for any of us.

  I flicked my cigarette and stared at the people walking in and out of the barred doors. Their depressed faces were evident, and I had no desire to feel the same way. The place was a vortex of sorrow, no matter how much you tried to look on the bright side. No person wanted to be kept within its walls.

  I wanted so fucking bad to turn around and walk back to my bike, drive off and forget this shit. But to have some semblance of a peaceful future, I needed to make things right with my past. I had to move on to better myself for the people in my life…including Trisha. Over the months my mind twisted with the dread that she had moved on and spent her nights reliant on another man for solace. It should be me creating the backbone in her world.

  I knew in order to see Trisha again, it meant walking through those goddamn doors and accepting the hardship to come. It meant taking her by my side, holding true to promises I made years ago and even standing by the new ones to come. Damn her for causing me to feel this way and making me see through the bullshit I'd been trudging through over the last few years. Oh how I wanted to turn away and leave her and this crazy road to redemption behind. However, Vashton was right, Trisha was right, even down in the depths of my soul was right. Time to man up and take this bull by the horns.

  I strolled inside the building, my limp heavy due to my nerves causing a hesitation in my steps. The minute the glass door opened, the smell of cleaning solution and muffled wails of angry, scared, and lonely occupants assaulted my senses. The waiting room was crammed with people mourning for the shackled and caged individuals behind the cells.

  I walked up to the desk and numbly listened to the methodical instructions the snotty bitch behind the desk gave me. I stepped into the room where they had me walk through a metal detection scanner for precaution. I nodded to the affirmative questions and gave a slight shake of my head for the questions that might cause
me to be interrogated for hours. I'd be damned if I was held up in the bowels of this shithole. This had been the first time since my release that it felt like I was back in the pen. A bit invasive with their questions, I was sure in a minute they wouldn't believe a fucking word coming out of my mouth and they'd cavity search me on suspicion.

  After what felt like an hour of procedures and scornful looks from the orderlies I walked inside the door marked "Jamal Duncan." The stark white walls were a hot blaze to my eyes, but I saw my old friend lying on the bed. Jamal's body had been a thin shadow of what it used to be. Gangly and quivering, the once buff street thug looked like a patient going through a terminal illness. Trisha had a book open in her lap while she sat in the chair beside his bed. She concentrated on the story, reading to try and soothe him, but by the slight twitch in his limbs and rolling of his head he seemed disinterested.

  His eyes were wild, the spark of coherence barely there. His mouth lay askew and gaping as drool ran down the side of his chin. Guttural noises came from his throat, drowning out the sweet sound of Trisha's voice. I ran a hand over my mouth to muffle the groan of sadness threatening to escape. Shit, this was fucking torture, in its purest form. I didn't even know what to expect from Jamal, but this wasn't it. I knew our friendship was cheated, and I knew his life hung by a thin piece of thread. He'd been so close to dying and being so far gone that most of the family contemplated on pulling the plug when he was in his coma. Seeing Jamal again did lift a bit of the heaviness in my cold heart, even if he was a mere shadow of the man I cared for like a brother. He was still in there somewhere, just lost.

  My old friend turned to the door when he caught sight of me; a childlike joy gleamed in his eyes. He made an inaudible sound which startled Trisha. Jamal wiggled on the bed, the restraints keeping him contained when he wanted to come to me. He tired out quick, and I knew the reason the orderlies kept someone restrained is if they were a danger to themselves or others. I wished there was something I could do but this, by all accounts, was the best place for Jamal. Things were not like they used to be, nor would they be ever again.