Fight for You: A Second Chance Romance (A Warrior for Her Book 1)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  "Why didn't you try to save me?" he asks me. "Why didn't you care?"

  Half of my mom's face is gone as tears of blood drip down her ruined cheek. She repeatedly screams the word selfish. The disappointment in her eyes—the betrayal—breaks me. Looking at her is like looking at a version of myself…one so much more selfless than I've ever been. She sacrificed so much for me and Titan, working sixty and seventy hour weeks just so we would never go without.

  Cade stares at me, those beautiful eyes of his a haunting blue that tears at my soul. He doesn't say anything, but he's bleeding too…from all those wounds he received trying to outrun my selfish words. All those attacks he endured trying to redeem himself for crimes that were never his fault.

  Every single second hurts worse than the last.

  I stumble to my feet and the room sways around me. Their accusatory stares are burned into my irises. I can't see through them. Everything but them is blurry and I just want it to stop. All of it.

  I stumble and trip, banging my hip into the edge of the counter. Bottles of makeup and hair products careen to the floor as I grasp around, feeling blindly for a bottle of pain medication that's been in the cabinet over the sink for the last year, untouched.

  Twenty pills. That's all it'll take to make it stop. I know because I've thought about it before.

  As soon as my hand closes around the prescription bottle, I cry out in relief…and then fight to open it. My hands shake so hard that I can't get the lid off.

  I just want to make it stop—make it all stop—but I can't.

  I can't.

  I can't.

  I can't.

  "Dammit!" I scream and throw the bottle across the room before falling to the floor.

  I scream and cry until my voice fades, my throat feels like it's bleeding, and I'm choking on my own spit. Ten years of grief and self-hatred pour out of me, purging itself in a flood I'm not sure I'm strong enough to withstand.

  I don't try.

  Instead, I let it take me.

  "January? Oh, Jesus. January!" Mariah falls to her knees beside me. "Please be breathing," she begs me. "Please be breathing."

  "I'm breathing," I try to tell her, but all that comes out is a garbled groan.

  She sobs in relief anyway.

  I don't know how long I've been on the floor. I think I've passed out a couple of times, but I don't really remember.

  Mariah's hands flutter around my face, making me moan. Something is wrong with my head. It hurts like hell. Just the touch of her fingers to my forehead makes it feel like my brain is trying to rip its way through my skull.

  I peel my eyes open to find her with her hair up in a silk net, wearing pajamas with little cupcakes on them and no makeup. Tears drip down her face, landing against my skin with wet plops.

  "I thought you were dead!" she cries, pulling herself to her feet long enough to grab a towel before she drops down beside me again. "There's blood all over the place."

  I roll my head to the side to see what she's talking about, but wince as another wave of pain slams into me. She presses the damp towel to my head a second later and I realize I must have busted it open. It hurts like hell, but I don't remember when I hit it or even how.

  "How-?"

  "Michael," she whispers, guessing what I'm trying to ask her. "He showed up at my door. Said you needed me."

  "He told me…" I squeeze my eyes closed and fight back a whimper as all those wounds we ripped wide open pulse and throb. It's odd. I can't remember what happened to my head, but I remember every word Cade said to me. I remember the torment on his face when he said them, the guilt and pain burning in his eyes. I remember what it feels like to burn alive without ever touching a flame. "Titan and my mom…. Titan was dealing for Kaleo for two years. He was trying to help pay for me to go to college."

  "I'm so sorry," Mariah whispers.

  "Is…is he okay?"

  "I don't…" She shakes her head, not finishing whatever she was going to say because we both know it'd be a lie. Cade isn't okay. He hasn't been okay in a long time. Neither of us has been. We've just been trying like hell to hang on and pretend we didn't lose ourselves when Titan and my mom were murdered.

  But we did. Something inside both of us broke that night. It's been broken ever since.

  "I need a doctor," I mumble.

  "That's probably a good idea," she agrees. "I don't think you need stitches, but you might have a concussion."

  "Not…" I stop and swallow. "Not that kind of doctor. I…I thought about killing myself," I whisper, my throat burning. "I tried to take a bottle of pills, but I couldn't…I couldn't do it."

  "Oh, January," she gasps. Her hands tremble against my skin where she's holding the towel to the cut on my forehead. She doesn't sound disappointed, just…sad.

  "I've thought about dying for a long time," I admit. Saying it out loud hurts like hell. Tears burn up my throat and pool in my eyes, but it's the truth.

  For years, I've wondered what it would feel like to just close my eyes and never have to open them again. I used to hold my breath and wonder what it would feel like if I never took another one. I thought death would be so much easier than facing a life without my family and Cade, but I don't want to feel like that anymore.

  "I don't want to die, Mariah. I don't…I can't…I need help."

  I have to get help and face what happened. I have to find a way to live with the guilt and the pain and the shame because I don't want to die.

  I want to live.

  For myself. For Mariah. For my mom and Titan. For Cade. Because when I thought about taking those pills? I didn't stop because I couldn't get the lid off. He's the reason I didn't go through with it.

  He's always been my reason.

  I have to face this, because I can't let him carry it alone anymore.

  Chapter Twenty

  Michael

  Present day

  "Michael Kincaid?"

  I glance up from the gun safe I'm trying to wrestle out Kaleo's front door to see an LAPD detective standing at the bottom of the steps with the same beat cop from the night of the break-in…the one who looks like he's twelve.

  The detective standing next to the patrol officer with his hands on his hips makes the kid's inexperience glaringly obvious. The kid is baby-faced and full of hope. The detective is hard and unyielding, years of doing this job hanging in the air around him. He's got hard-ass stamped all over his face. He's maybe thirty-five, with dark hair and piercing eyes that blaze with intelligence. He's familiar, but I'm too fucking tired to place him.

  "Standing right here," I mutter and finish shoving the safe out the door. "But you already knew that because I definitely know you somehow, so how about you stop wasting my time and tell me why the fuck you're asking?"

  Like I said, I'm fucking tired. It's been over a week since January kicked my ass out and I'm not in the mood for bullshit. My girl is hiding out with Mariah. I don't know if she's okay or not. All Mariah will tell me is that she's in good hands…whatever that means. Kaleo's gone MIA and I'm fed up with picking off the low hanging fruit he left behind.

  Two days after January kicked me out, Jaylon came through with the names of the girls Kaleo's been pimping out. The youngest is fourteen fucking years old. It didn't take me long to convince her to tell me what I needed to know to have a search warrant signed. We raided his house at dawn.

  He's done. His reign as king of these particular streets is over.

  Burning his shit to the ground would be a lot more enjoyable if he was around to watch it happen.

  The fact that he thinks he can hide from me would be laughable if I was in a better mood. This city isn't fucking big enough to keep me from finding him. But I'm not in the mood to have to hunt his sorry ass down. I just want to deal with him so I can get back to more important things. Like figuring out how I'm going to spend the rest of my life taking care of January when she won't even come home.

  "I need you to come with me, Agent Kincaid," t
he detective says. His deep voice is soft, almost as if he's trying to keep it from carrying to the ATF and DEA agents currently crawling all over Kaleo's property.

  As soon as he speaks, I know why he's here. My crimes have finally caught up with me.

  Before I can respond, Luke Santiago and Roman Gregory step out onto the porch behind me.

  Fuck. I'd rather not do this in front of them, but it doesn't look like LAPD is going to give me that option. I'm guessing whoever is in charge of this particular case started flipping shit when he found out I was here, taking Kaleo's house apart. They don't want me anywhere near his shit right now.

  "What are you doing here, Octavio?" Roman barks at the detective, looking equal parts confused as hell and suspicious as shit. He's not the kind of man who enjoys being in the dark.

  "Octavio Hernandez!" I say, snapping my fingers. "Fucking knew we were acquainted." Hernandez helped bring Little Mama home. No wonder he looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here right now.

  "Not something I want to be doing," he mutters to Roman, rubbing his palm over his dark crewcut hair and glancing at the guys casting furtive looks in our direction as they bag and tag all of Kaleo's property. He actually looks like he regrets what he's about to do.

  I take pity on him and step away from the safe. Last thing I need on my conscience is for Roman and Hernandez to come to blows over my stupid ass, and the ATF agent does not seem happy right now. I'm pretty sure he and Hernandez are friends, but Hernandez wouldn't be here to do this now if he didn't have to do it. It is what it is.

  My gaze shifts to the kid at his side who looks like he's ready to shit himself.

  "Roman, I need you to take my badge and my gun," I mutter to him and hold my hands up in the air.

  "What the fuck?" he grits out.

  "What the fuck?" Santiago says at the same time.

  "Your boy is here to take me in for questioning," I say and glance at Hernandez who nods regretfully.

  "For fucking what?" Santiago asks, confused as hell.

  Not Roman though. He looks pissed…and resigned, both emotions roiling in his blue eyes. Seeing that expression on his face makes me wonder how much he knows about me and the shit I did way back when. Enough to not be surprised about what's going down now, by the looks of it.

  "For the murders of Omar Adams, Jermaine Adcock, and Deshawn Cortez," Hernandez says.

  "Yeah, for that shit," I agree and take a step toward Roman. "You going to take this? I'd surrender it myself, but I don't want to chance Carrot Top there pissing himself or fucking shooting me if I reach for my gun."

  Santiago snorts, shooting the kid a derisive glare that probably has his balls climbing toward his throat. Fact is, out of everyone standing here, the kid is the one who looks least like he belongs, yet most like a cop. Roman is massive, and Santiago and Hernandez are as big as I am. They all appear about as likely to play by the rules.

  Roman shakes his dark head like he doesn't want anything to do with this, but he unlatches the holster at my hip before taking my gun out and handing it over to Santiago. Once the gun is out of play and the kid has no reason to get excited and shoot me, I tug the chain from around my neck, surrendering my shield too.

  "Tear this shithole apart and take everything," I tell Roman and Santiago before turning back to Hernandez. I ain't even mad at him. He's doing what he's got to do. The timing sucks, but it's not like I didn't know this was coming. I honestly expected it a few days ago.

  "Let's get this shit show on the road," I mutter and jog down the steps, ignoring the curious stares of Roman's team, and then head for the LAPD squad car parked behind the SWAT van we used to roll up on Kaleo's crib.

  The kid follows behind me, reaching for his handcuffs.

  "If you think you're putting those on me, you're going to be sorely disappointed," I tell him before popping open the door to his patrol unit and climbing into the backseat. "I'm into the kinky shit, but not with you, dude. My girl is the only one who gets to tie my sexy ass up."

  Laughter ripples around the yard. Carrot Top's face turns red. He mutters something under his breath, but drops his hand from his duty belt, leaving the handcuffs where they're at.

  "I'll call Ames," Roman calls out to me before Carrot Top slams the door closed.

  "You know," I muse, looking around once he climbs in the driver's side, "I figured I'd see the cage from this side of the zoo long before now." I've seen more than my fair share of squad cars, but somehow, I've never actually had the displeasure of riding in the back.

  "Maybe you shouldn't talk," he says, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

  "Settle down. I'm not saying I did it," I mutter, even though I did actually do the shit I'm being hauled in to discuss. "I'm just saying, I grew up poor in the hood. I expected to see the back of a police car a long time ago."

  Had it not been for January, I'm sure I probably would have, but I kept my nose as clean as possible so I wouldn't disappoint her or have to leave her. Not that it mattered much in the long run since I'm pretty sure I managed to destroy us both, but I tried like hell to make her proud of me.

  "You from around here?" I ask the kid. "Shit. I don't even know your name."

  "Alex Stanton. Officer Stanton."

  "Officer Stanton, you from around here?" I tip my head back against the seat and close my eyes as we make our way through the neighborhood, headed toward the local precinct with Hernandez following behind in an unmarked Tahoe. It's barely after nine in the morning, but it feels later. We've been sifting through Kaleo's house for hours. He's no cleaner now than he was back then. The fucker still lives like a pig. No pun intended.

  "I grew up in West Hills."

  "Damn," I chuckle, not surprised Stanton grew up where boys like him are the right kind of white…the kind that has money in the bank and parents with connections. "How'd you get assigned to this beat?"

  He shrugs instead of answering.

  "No offense, but this neighborhood is going to eat you alive," I mutter, shaking my head.

  "Like it did you?" he asks.

  Is that what happened to me? Maybe. Maybe that's what always happens to kids in places like Compton. Even though our little neighborhood is right on the edge of the larger infamous community—too far to be of much value to most of the gangbangers in the area, but too close to be considered separate—we weren't any better off than the rest of 'em. We're all paddling the same goddamn boat around here.

  "Nah," I decide, kicking my feet up on the bench seat and getting comfortable. I'm too tired to function, but I don't think sleep is in my immediate future. Call me crazy, but I don't think LAPD would be cool with me asking for a nap break like this is kindergarten and I'm tired of playing with the other kids. "This neighborhood didn't chew me up and spit me out. It's still choking on my fucking bones."

  The kid snorts like he thinks I'm being funny, but I'm not. I may have fled ten years ago, but I never really left. Mentally and emotionally, I've been here the whole damn time, trapped like every other motherfucker inside the invisible lines that make up Compton. It just took me a little longer than most to figure that shit out. It took me a little bit longer to come to terms with it. Funny thing though…I don't regret being stuck here. So long as January is here, I'll never regret it.

  By the time we get to the station fifteen minutes later, I've decided the kid isn't half bad. He's still too fucking green to be working this neighborhood, but he has a good head on his shoulders. The hood will probably grind that ambition and positive attitude right out of him, but in another life, I could have been just like the poor son of a bitch. If, you know, I wasn't a murderer and worse.

  "Kincaid," Hernandez says once they've got me settled in an interview room. Like most interview rooms, this one is complete shit. The floors are scraped to hell, it's stuffy, and the table is about two good pushes from collapsing. The room is clean though, almost like the guys who call this station home actually give enough of a shit to slap some Pines
ol on the floor and run a mop through it every few days.

  "Hernandez."

  He drops a case file onto the table in front of him and then straddles a chair. He eyes me for a minute like he's trying to get a read on me. Octavio Hernandez isn't sure what to make of me. I don't think he likes that much.

  Sucks for him though because I'm not even sure what to make of myself most days, and I've lived with my sexy ass for thirty-one years. If I haven't figured me out by now, I don't think an hour or two in this room will do it for him either.

  It frustrates me that he's trying. Most people don't bother. They see what I want them to see and move along. Not Hernandez though. He's peeling back layers with those eyes like I'm Shrek and he's Donkey.

  "Let's get this over with," I mutter and kick back in my chair, taking a power position. Nobody does chill like a teenage gangbanger. They perfected that shit decades ago, and I was a quick study.

  "We received a tip that you were involved in the murders of three Southside Crips ten years ago," he says, cutting to the chase.

  "Good ole' Curtis Kaleo," I say with a chuckle, giving nothing away. "That motherfucker never did know when he was beaten. I'm guessing since I'm here, you actually believe his bullshit."

  Hernandez cocks a brow but doesn't acknowledge that Kaleo's the one who passed along their tip or that he believes him. I know the drill though. You don't pull cops into interview rooms without a damn good reason…and Curtis Kaleo isn't exactly a reliable witness. Hernandez has something else on me.

  "Where were you the night of February 3rd, 2009?"

  "No clue," I admit, leaning my forearms on the table. "My girl kicked me to the curb at some point that week. I spent a few days stumbling around this fine city like a lost puppy. Don't know where the fuck I was or what day it was until about three days after that."

  "Can anyone confirm that?"

  "Nah, but Nazario Leyva didn't know what to make of my stupid ass when he had to tell me the date on February 7th," I say. That was fun times. I was just trying to get out of California and ended up staggering right into the middle of an assassination attempt. I saved his life. He got me the fuck out of the state. It wasn't exactly a defining moment in my life. But I don't actually know what day I killed those motherfuckers. I never cared enough to find out.