But I was so desperate to stay like we were. January's mom and brother were gunned down in the streets because I was so fucking afraid of losing them that I pushed Titan onto a collision course with a train. I let my best friend die for my sins.
And now January knows it too.
"When I got to him, he was still breathing," I whisper. "I couldn't…I couldn't make it stop. I couldn't keep him breathing." A groan climbs up my throat. "I failed you over and over again. Both of you."
She shakes her head, not speaking.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, knowing those words won't make a damn bit of difference. They won't unwind the hands of time and bring her brother and her mom back. They won't undo the ten years of grief and pain she's endured. I say them to make myself feel better, because at the end of the day…I'm still a selfish motherfucker and I need to say them, even if they don't do a goddamn thing to ease her pain. "I'm so fucking sorry, baby girl."
"Don't," she whispers. "Don't call me that."
My heart fractures, shredding into tiny pieces. Every single one of them cuts deep, making me bleed in places that have already been hemorrhaging for years. They hurt like a motherfucker…and that's almost a relief. This is the punishment I deserve. The one I ran from back then. She thinks I stayed away to punish myself. I stayed away because I was a coward…too goddamn afraid to face this moment. So long as I didn't come back, there was always a little sliver of hope that she didn't truly hate me. That somewhere, she was lying awake at night, missing me too.
Now though? That hope is gone. I see it in her eyes.
Revulsion.
Abhorrence.
Hatred.
And this is what hell really feels like. This is what I'll remember when someone finally steps from the shadows to kill me. When my life flashes before my eyes, it'll be the expression on her face right now that chases me straight to hell.
"I need you to leave," she says, her voice shaking with emotion. She rises to her feet, all five foot, two inches of her stands up in front of me, her shoulders back and her head held high like the fucking goddess she is. She doesn't cry. She doesn't scream or yell or throw things. Those grief-stricken, horror-filled emerald eyes meet mine. She points at the door. "I need you to go right now."
I don't try to fight her. How can I? She deserves this moment and I'll be damned if I take it away from her. Instead, I jerk my head in a nod, grab my bag, and do what she says.
"I love you," I tell her as I stride across the room. I'm still selfish. I'm still greedy. "I'll always love you, January. And I'll always be waiting for you."
Until the day I die, I'll wait for her.
She doesn't say anything. Not that I expected she would. Not that I deserve it.
The door closes behind me with a quiet click. It echoes in my ears, sounding for all the world like the final nail slamming into place on my coffin.
Chapter Eighteen
Michael
Age Twenty-One
"Michael Kincaid?" an LAPD officer asks, flashing his badge as soon as I pull the front door open. He's dressed in black slacks and a blue button down, with a radio and his gun clipped to his belt. I've seen a lot of cops lately. I have no clue if he's one that I've already spoken with. I'm guessing not.
"That's me," I mutter, staring at him through bleary eyes. It's been a week since Titan and Jana were murdered. I'm exhausted. I haven't slept because January isn't sleeping. She isn't eating. Or talking. Or doing much of anything other than lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I thought maybe the double funeral two days ago would get a response out of her, but it didn't.
She sat in the first pew beside me and didn't say a word. She stared blankly into space, not even acknowledging anyone who stopped by to offer their condolences. Mandy Wright cried on her shoulder, for fuck's sake, and she didn't even move.
She's broken and I don't know how to help her. I don't even know how to help myself. I'm drowning in guilt and grief and fucking worry for my girl. I feel like I'm going to break in half under the weight of it all.
"I'm Detective Whitten," the officer—detective—says, shoving his badge back into his pocket. He gives me a smile, but it doesn't meet his brown eyes. Those are carefully blank. "Do you have a few minutes?"
I glance over my shoulder into the house, but January hasn't emerged from my bedroom. Not that I expected she would have. I think the world could end around her right now and she'd still be right there—staring at the fucking ceiling.
"I got her," Quan says from his spot on the couch.
I jerk my chin in a nod and then step outside and close the door. "How can I help you, Detective Whitten?"
"I have a couple of follow-up questions if you have a few minutes to answer them."
"Fine," I mumble and scrub a hand down my face before dropping down into Ma Rose's favorite rocking chair. I tilt my head back and close my eyes for a second, trying to get my mind in working order.
LAPD has had a million questions, but I don't know how to answer them. Telling them the truth—that Titan was dealing for Kaleo to ensure his little sister got to attend UCLA—isn't an option. She's already devastated. I don't want her blaming herself. I don't want her blaming me. And I'm fucking terrified that's exactly what's going to happen because it is my fault. There's no denying that. There's no running away from it.
"I understand you told responding officers that you noticed a Chrysler circling the block approximately ten minutes before Jana and Titan James were killed, is that correct?" Whitten studies me intently, paying close attention to every move I make.
"Yeah," I mutter, a ripple of pain radiating out from my chest. "A black Chrysler 300. It was creeping down the block. I noticed it in front my house."
"You ever see the vehicle before that night?"
I shake my head.
"Anything stand out on the vehicle? A license plate? Damage? A bumper sticker?"
"No, nothing except for the fact that it was too new to belong in this neighborhood."
"You get a look at the driver or any occupants?"
I shake my head again.
Whitten frowns, his dark brows winging together. "Were you aware that Mr. James was in a dispute with the Southside Crips?" he asks, making it sound like Titan was at war with them or some shit.
"They were targeting him," I mutter even though I'm the one who gave them that information to begin with. Every fucking thing they know about this case, I've told them.
"Right. For dealing on their turf. You were aware of this?" he asks.
"He told me they caught him dealing in their neighborhood," I say, those ripples growing bigger. I already know where he's going with this line of questioning. I've been asking myself the same question for the last week. Why didn't I put two and two together sooner? Why didn't I stop for five goddamn seconds to think about what that car was doing creeping down the street? Why didn't I do anything that would have saved him and Jana?
I don't have an answer for him. I don't have an answer for anyone.
"But you didn't think the car might have been related?" he asks, shoving the sharp blade of guilt a little bit deeper. He crosses his arms over his chest and hits me with a look of disbelief. "You're a smart kid, Kincaid. You're pulling a 4.0 at UCLA. From what I hear, you'll probably graduate with honors."
"I fucked up," I mumble, not even trying to defend myself. What's the point when he's right? I should have put the pieces together. This is my fucking fault, for more reasons than he knows. "It was January's birthday. She was cold. I was trying to get her inside. I needed to show her something…I didn't think. I should have, but I didn't." I meet his gaze, holding it. Let him see the guilt written on my face. Let him know I'm the reason my best friend and his mom are dead and my fiancée is broken. "I fucked up."
He's quiet for a minute and then shakes his head like that wasn't what he was suggesting even though we both know it was. "I'm not saying it's your fault, kid. I was just asking a question. We all fuck up sometimes, miss important shit. I'm just t
rying to gather all the pieces to make sure we don't miss anything else that could be important."
"What do you want me to say?" I ask, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice. "They caught him selling pot to a couple of kids and told him that he owed them restitution or they were going to kill him. He thought he had more time, but he was wrong. I should have put it together when I saw the car, but I didn't. As soon as I heard the fucking gunshots, I knew…but it was too late by then." I scrub my hands down my face, trying to erase the sound of gunshots and the image of Titan and Jana lying on the ground. "I was too goddamn late."
Whitten stands quietly for a minute and then changes tactics. "I understand Titan's sister, January, is your girl. Is she doing okay?"
"What do you think?" I ask, snapping my gaze up to meet his. My brows come together and I know he can see my irritation with his stupid fucking question written all over my face. I don't care though. How does he think anyone would be doing after losing their family like January just lost hers?
"I can get you in touch with a grief counselor," he offers like that's going to fix her. It won't. She just lost her entire family. And instead of beating down doors in Crip territory, he's knocking on my door, asking me the same questions I've already answered.
I'm tired of it. I don't need LAPD to remind me at every available opportunity that this is a nightmare of my own making. I'm living it…each excruciating second. I need them to do their jobs and find out who the fuck killed Titan and Jana. But they won't. And we both know that too.
"A grief counselor? Are you fucking kidding me? How about you find the motherfuckers responsible for destroying her life?" I bark, climbing to my feet. "Because that's what she needs, Detective. For someone to tell her that the people who killed her mom and the brother she idolized are locked up where they belong. But you can't tell me that, can you?"
"I promise you that we're doing everything we can," he says.
"Right," I snort, not giving a shit if I piss him off or not. Whether he wants to admit it or not, we both know LAPD isn't bending over backward to solve this murder. In neighborhoods like this, people like Titan and Jana are just another fucking statistic. A cautionary tale about what happens when you grow up poor in the hood. Titan's just another casualty in a war he never wanted to fight.
"You said yourself that I'm a smart kid, Whitten. You think I don't know you're here knocking on my door because you don't have a clue who rolled up on her house and killed her family? You think I don't know that LAPD doesn't know which gangbanger pulled the trigger and isn't bending over backwards to find out? To LAPD, Titan was just another poor mixed kid slinging dope in the hood. How many similar cases are still sitting open on your desk? Forty? Fifty?" I shake my head in disgust. "Motherfuckers like the Crips run this city and guys like you just let them do it because you're too goddamn scared to set foot in neighborhoods like this unless you're forced to do it."
He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.
"You wonder why kids like Titan die? It's because of cops like you," I snap. "I told you what I know. I've told you guys over and over and over that the Southside Crips did this. Maybe stop knocking on my door and start knocking on their doors. Maybe then you'll find out what the fuck happened to Titan and Jana. Maybe then my girl wouldn't be staring at the ceiling, too traumatized by watching her brother bleed out and die in the street to even speak."
"Michael, I'm on your side," Whitten says, holding his hands up like he's not the enemy. And maybe he's not. I don't have a problem with cops. But I do have a problem with guys like Whitten feeding me a bunch of bullshit because he doesn't have the first clue which of the Southside Crips killed my best friend…and never will.
Gang crime is LAPD's dirty little secret, the one they pretend not to see until rich white folks like my grandparents get caught in the middle. Then it's an issue to solve. Then gang crime is a priority. Until then, Titan's just another case file in a stack.
"I've got nothing else to say," I mutter with a disgusted shake of my head. "Get the fuck off my porch."
With that, I storm back inside, leaving him sputtering and stuttering through an explanation we both know is more manufactured bullshit. He doesn't have a clue who killed Titan. He'll poke around for a few days, maybe haul in a couple of the usual suspects, and then he'll toss the case aside and pick up the next.
I slam the door so hard the windowpanes rattle in the living room.
"You good?" Quan asks, looking up from the television. His eyes are just as bloodshot and bruised as mine. He's slept just as little as I have. He lost someone important to him too. And I can't even tell him that it's my goddamn fault.
"No," I tell him, fighting for control when all I want to do is put my fist through the wall. Anything to release even a fraction of the guilt and rage eating me alive. "LAPD is fucking useless."
"Truth," he says, putting a fist in the air like it's the 1968 Olympics and he's standing on the podium with Tommie Smith and John Carlos. Times haven't changed much since then. On this side of the poverty line, it doesn't matter what color your skin is. Jana was white. She's still dead and no one's doing a goddamn thing about it because she wasn't the right kind of white from the right kind of neighborhood. We're all bleeding in the hood and no one gives a flying fuck about any of us.
"They don't have a fucking clue who killed Titan and Jana. They aren't even searching. They're too busy acting like they're doing something to actually do anything." I drop my forehead to the door and then bounce it against the hard wood a couple of times like that'll calm my ass down any. "I'm done, Quan. I'm just fucking done with this shit."
"Michael, man, chill," Quan says, a warning in his tone.
But I don't listen. I'm too wound up to shut my mouth. "January's falling apart. Her grief is fucking killing me. I feel like I can't breathe here and I'm just done with all of it. I hate this city and every motherfucker in it. I want out." I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips because they aren't what I mean at all, but it's too late.
January gasps from behind me.
"Fuck." I spin around to find her standing in the hallway. Her face is pale, her eyes stricken. Her hair is a wild mess. She's wearing one of Titan's hoodies. It's so big on her that it swallows her petite body, hiding the pair of boxers I know she's wearing underneath it. Even grieving, she looks like a little porcelain doll…more fragile than I've ever seen her before. The pained look she shoots in my direction guts me.
"January–"
"I'm going home," she whispers, the first words she's spoken in two days.
"Baby girl–" I take a step toward her, but she throws a hand up in the air, halting me in my tracks.
"Don't touch me," she says. There's something wild in her voice, in her eyes…something I've never seen there before. It's as close to rage as I've ever seen her come. She shuffles across the room to the front door, her arms wrapped around her body like she's trying to hold herself together.
"January, I didn't mean–"
She pushes past me without even looking at me and then storms outside, slamming the door behind her before I can explain that I didn't mean I was done with trying to be here for her. I meant I was done with watching her break while LAPD does nothing. I'm tired of knowing the motherfuckers responsible for her pain are still out there. I'm done watching people like Titan die because people like Kaleo think they run these streets. I'm sick and fucking tired of gangs running shit while people like Titan and Jana suffer and die because of it. I want out of this fucking neighborhood, not out of our relationship.
"Fuck," I whisper, feeling like the world's biggest asshole.
"Go," Quan says.
I fling the door open before he even finishes speaking the word and jog outside after January. She's already across the yard, running up the steps to her house as fast as she can. Seeing her running from me breaks me in ways I can't even explain. She hasn't run from me since the first time she kissed me five years ago.
I
race after her, my heart pounding so fast it feels like it's trying to beat its way out of my chest.
"Go away!" she yells at me when I burst through the door behind her.
"No." I stride across the living room toward her and try to pull her into my arms but she fights me. "I'm not going anywhere, January."
"I hate you!" she screams, hitting me with those tiny fists.
Fuck, hearing that hurts like hell.
"Don't say that."
"It's true!" She pushes away from me, knocking me back a step. She glares at me, her face red and splotchy like she's been crying even though she hasn't been able to shed a single tear in a week. That same wild look is in her eyes, turning the emerald green dark and glassy. "You only care about yourself."
"January–"
"You think you're the only one who hates everyone? You're wrong! I thought I could pretend that I don't blame you, but I can't. You knew they were coming after him, but you didn't care. You didn't do anything!"
"What are you saying?" I ask, my stomach roiling as guilt crashes through me.
"I'm saying that my mom and brother are dead and you did nothing to stop it. Why did you drag me to Ma Rose's instead of letting me stay with my brother? Why didn't you do something instead of letting him walk out there to die?" She screams the words at me, each one hitting me like a bomb blast.
Guilt lashes at me, cutting deep. I stumble back a step, but that doesn't do a damn thing to stop it. I open my mouth to defend myself, but I can't because she's right and she doesn't even know the worst of it.
She thinks she hates me now because I knew he was in trouble. How's she going to feel when she finds out her brother was working with Kaleo because of me? That he started dealing because I was too goddamn scared to tell him about the money sitting in a trust fund? I was so caught up in trying to control the situation, in keeping him and January like I wanted them, that I destroyed us all.
How fucked-up is it that the first time I touched that money, it was to pay for the funerals it could have prevented?
Fight for You: A Second Chance Romance (A Warrior for Her Book 1) Page 23