Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Warm fingertips bit through the icy dread of the moment. These hands were firm, yet kind. Rough. Callused. Soothing.
Montana took my wrists. The padding of his thumb caused my body to go limp. The knife hit the herringbone wood with a clatter. I fell into his arms.
Weak as I was, I’d never felt so strong. Those arms.
“Shhhh …” His hand dragged over my bare spine. But why’d he shush me?
Oh. His lips touched my cheek, then my mouth. I opened up. Tasted what he had—tears.
“My bad, Journey.”
“No,” I croaked. Because he’d done everything right but call me by my name.
“I’m so sorry, bébé. They were zenfan—children … teens. I knew when they came inside. They didn’t have guns. Opportunistic? Yep. Dumb as hell. I wanted to teach these young’uns a lesson. I wouldn’t have …”
I couldn’t decipher his words.
“Darius …” My voice scraped raw with emotion.
In my mind, New York still had me by the throat.
The man hadn’t stepped away from my son’s crib. Instead, he stood, spine to me. Between my child and me. Tried to assure me that Dr. Heine wanted us to come home.
Us.
Bull.
He’d spun on me …
“Journey?” Montana’s questioning tone brought me to the present.
My eyes swept around the disarray. Small mahogany tables were tossed aside. A chair lay shattered near a trampled banquette. I almost picked up one of the peach-colored throw pillows scattered on the floor. Wanted to hug it to myself and find comfort, but my mind was all confusion and chaos. Had these guys been … hired? “I gotta get home.”
Montana sighed as if he knew every tender R&B love song created wouldn’t relax me. “Lemme call first, okay? See how he’s doing?”
I dug through my purse, frantic. The restaurant pen fell to the ground. A tube of lip gloss. The old flip phone tumbled.
Montana caught it. Without a lock, he said, “I’ll call Shanice.”
Through anxious hollowed breaths and while rubbing my palms on the front of my bodycon dress, I said, “If she doesn’t answer—”
“I’ll call my brothers. We’ll call the police. Everyone within a thirty-mile—” He blinked, and someone laughed from behind his large frame.
Montana staggered into me. Hot stickiness washed over my fingers. A copper scent I knew well suffocated me. “No, no, no … Montana?”
He dropped to his knees, chuckled. Actually chuckled.
“This is some bulls—” He gasped through clenched teeth.
Wedged in his ribs sat the knife I brought to a fight where he wanted to teach these kids a lesson.
With him on his knees, my eyes clashed with the assailant. PTSD hadn’t allowed me to understand Montana then, but now I did. This kid stood just tall enough to meet me eye to eye. Thighs skinnier than mine. A smedium hoodie. Was he even fifteen yet? Chin held high, his eyes challenged me in the moonlight.
Montana growled.
The kid’s hard demeanor landed on my friend. The vengeful mask fell. He rubbed a hand over his shocked face, then ran. The kid thrust the French doors open. The glass panels slammed against the brick and shattered.
Montana reached behind him.
“Don’t!” I stopped him from removing the knife.
I called 911. As Montana knelt, panting through his mouth, he asked for my phone.
“What?” I said, ending the call with dispatch. I’d also asked her to send a unit to Shanice’s apartment.
“Your phone,” he repeated, brown skin fading to a distant gray. “Dial Ten. Gimme—gimme the phone.”
Once Tennessee answered, I blurted, “Your brother—” I cleared my throat to stop it from cracking. “Montana needs to speak with you.”
“What’s wrong?” Tennessee’s worried voice echoed as I passed the phone.
“Get to Journey’s place. Protect Darius.”
“Bruh, what the—”
“Do. It.” Montana’s voice was sharper than a blade. He let the phone drop from his hand.
I slipped to my knees, my medical training kicking in. He took my hand, his grip strong yet mindful, as if trying to avoid crushing my fingers like a pistachio.
“Relax. Don’t tighten up. Tensing causes—”
“I got it,” he forced, teeth gritted.
Okay. “We can’t remove the knife, baby. When impaled, the item must stay in place, or we risk catastrophic bleeding and damage—”
“Don’t do that to me.” He barked the words, laughing, as we kneeled in a pool of his warm blood.
“What?” I wiped away a tear. Crying again. I’d only cried after my first foster placement change, and I’d bounced around a lot. Cried during labor.
Cried when trying to get my baby and me out of the hospital, which was practically owned by Edwin.
Cried when that man almost stole Darius.
My baby was my heart.
Now, Montana had found his way inside.
Minutes later, I stumbled onto Royal Street, tears streaking my cheeks, as I held Montana’s hand. He lay on a gurney.
Frost clung to the night air, and jazz spilled faintly from some bar down the block, but all Montana’s breaths rasped. EMTs cut his shirt. Blood created tiny pools on his perfect abdomen. Metal wheels rattled over uneven pavement.