by Shelly Ellis
Also by Shelly Ellis
Chesterton Scandal series
Best Kept Secrets
Bed of Lies
Lust & Loyalty
To Love & Betray
Gibbons Gold Digger series
Can’t Stand the Heat
The Player & the Game
Another Woman’s Man
The Best She Ever Had
Published by Dafina Books
IN THESE STREETS
SHELLY ELLIS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1 - Derrick
Chapter 2 - Ricky
Chapter 3 - Jamal
Chapter 4 - Derrick
Chapter 5 - Ricky
Chapter 6 - Jamal
Chapter 7 - Derrick
Chapter 8 - Ricky
Chapter 9 - Jamal
Chapter 10 - Derrick
Chapter 11 - Ricky
Chapter 12 - Jamal
Chapter 13 - Derrick
Chapter 14 - Ricky
Chapter 15 - Jamal
Chapter 16 - Ricky
Chapter 17 - Derrick
Chapter 18 - Jamal
Chapter 19 - Derrick
Chapter 20 - Ricky
Chapter 21 - Jamal
Chapter 22 - Derrick
Chapter 23 - Ricky
Chapter 24 - Jamal
Chapter 25 - Derrick
Chapter 26 - Ricky
Chapter 27 - Ricky
Chapter 28 - Jamal
Chapter 29 - Derrick
Chapter 30 - Ricky
Chapter 31 - Jamal
Chapter 32 - Derrick
Teaser chapter
IN THESE STREETS
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Shelly Ellis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1895-2
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1896-9
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1896-8
To Andrew and Chloe, you make it all worth it.
Acknowledgments
If you’ve read my previous books—both the Gibbons Gold Digger series and Chesterton Scandal series—you know that I like to write about the world of the rich and privileged. Both series were set in the affluent, fictional town of Chesterton, Virginia. I wrote about rich black folks not just because it’s fun to talk about people who have servants, drive expensive cars, and own yachts. It’s also the type of life for African Americans that isn’t usually shown in books nowadays. (Hey, we need escape fiction, too!) But the truth is the glamorous life is far, far removed from my own life. (Surprise! I know you’re so shocked. LOL)
I was born in Washington, D.C., before it went through gentrification and renewal, back when it was still called “Chocolate City” and also called, unfortunately, the “Murder Capital of the World.” I lived there when Marion Barry was the infamous mayor who was busted by the FBI and caught on tape smoking crack cocaine. From the seventh floor of my family’s apartment building in Southeast, D. C., I remember seeing search helicopters at night and hearing the occasional boom that you weren’t sure was a car backfiring or gunshots.
But the D.C. of my childhood wasn’t all crime and chaos. I remember a lot of joy, fun, and laughter, too. I remember go-go music playing loudly on car stereos and blasting from boom boxes during family cookouts. I remember going to the corner store with my grandmother who went to “play her numbers” and how she would buy me and my cousins scratch-off tickets and maybe a honey bun, if we were good. I remember trips uptown to see the Smithsonian museums and the Capitol building and feeling so special because so much history and knowledge was only a train ride away from my home.
The Branch Avenue Boys series (and its precursor, the MacLaine Girls series) are my special ode to my hometown and my youth. It’s my special thanks to Washington, D.C., for the memories. I hope I did it justice.
I also want to say thanks to my parents who made my childhood seem ideal even if the world in which it took place wasn’t perfect.
I want to thank my husband, Andrew, and my daughter, Chloe, for making my adulthood such an interesting and enlightening adventure. I hope I reciprocate by being the best partner and mommy I can be.
I want to thank my editor, Esi Sogah, and my agent, Barbara Poelle, for their continual feedback and support.
Also, I want to thank my street team members and my Facebook page coordinator, Shawnda, as well as all my Facebook page members. You guys have pretty lively conversations, and I’m fascinated by your takes on my characters and their stories.
Thanks to my fellow authors for commiserating. You guys share freely—expressing your fears, hopes, and self-doubt—and I appreciate your vulnerability and honesty.
And thanks to all my readers. Without you guys, I’d still be typing this stuff on my laptop—and it would stay there. You make this journey come full circle.
Chapter 1
Derrick
Derrick was throwing his satchel over his shoulder and slamming shut one of his file cabinet drawers when he heard the thump. He paused and squinted at his office wall where a white board, family photos, and his framed college degrees hung.
“What the hell,” he murmured.
Thump! Thump!
This time the picture frames clacked and rattled against the drywall, like they had received a seismic jolt from the ground two stories below.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Derrick then heard a muffled chorus of male shouts. They sounded like they were coming from farther down the hall.
“Whup that nigga’s ass!” someone shouted.
“Get ’em Nico! Get ’em!” another boy yelled.
Derrick closed his eyes. “Damn,” he muttered, finally realizing exactly what he was hearing.
It sounded like a fight had just erupted at the Branch Avenue Boys’ Youth Institute—a big one. And as the Institute’s director it was his job to help break it up, which meant he wouldn’t be heading home yet despite the long ass day he’d had.
“Shit,” he murmured as he yanked his satchel off his shoulder and tossed the leather bag into his rolling chair.
Derrick had sat through a half dozen meetings today. One had been with a carpentry instructor who’d announced he would be leaving the Institute at the end of the month for a better, well-paid job, leaving Derrick in a lurch to find his replacement. Another meeting had been with a mother who had begged Derrick to let her sixteen-year-old son, Cole, into the Institute’s rehabilitation program because she was terrified of what would happen to the teen if the city sent him to the local detention center for his drug charge. When she started crying and literally dropped to her knees on the linoleum floor, Derrick finally caved. He’d told her yes; he’d find a spot for her son—even though the Institute already had a waitlist twenty deep. He didn’t know where he would find space for the boy, but he would make it work, somehow—like he always did.
But once the clock on his w
all struck five, Derrick had felt his shoulders sink with the weight of exhaustion. He’d just wanted to go home, have dinner with his fiancée, Melissa, and meet up with his boys, Ricky and Jamal, for drinks later. It was a monthly ritual they’d had for nearly a decade and he had never skipped out on them before.
But it looked like he wouldn’t be able to do any of that anytime soon thanks to the brawl in the office hall.
Derrick grabbed his walkie-talkie and jogged around his desk, grumbling to himself as he whipped opened his office door.
“Otis! Otis!” he called into the walkie-talkie. “Otis, we need help on the second floor! Can you send someone up?”
He got only static in response.
Guess I’ll have to do this all by myself then, he thought with exasperation.
Derrick clipped his walkie-talkie onto his belt and quickly undid the cuffs of his shirt. He rolled his sleeves up to his forearms, revealing a series of tattoos and a few brands from his younger days.
He ran into the corridor, and the muffled shouts became a full roar. It was hard to see exactly who was fighting because nearly a dozen boys were huddled in a tight circle, not far from the door leading to the stairwell. They jumped and shoved to get a better view. As he ran toward them, he noticed the bedraggled-looking counselor standing in one of the classroom doorways. Her pale, wrinkled face was crumpled like she was about to burst into tears.
“I tried calling Otis!” she shouted to Derrick. “I really did, but he’s not answering.”
“I did too,” he said.
Otis was the head security guard on staff at the Institute. He’d been a burly, intimidating corrections officer back in the day, but now he was just fat and lazy. Even the boys liked to call him Officer Twinkie behind his back. Otis was content to hide in the rec room, stuffing his face full of donuts while he watched talk shows on the staff flat screen. He would increasingly turn down the volume of his walkie-talkie so the static wouldn’t interfere with his TV watching during the day, which would explain why he hadn’t responded to the emergency call about the fight in the hallway. But considering that Otis was responsible for supervising all security, this was unacceptable.
Guess it’s time to finally replace Otis, too.
It was yet another task he’d have to add to the growing list for the week.
Derrick nodded at the counselor. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it! Just stand back, okay?”
She didn’t look convinced, but shrank back into the classroom anyway when another thud ricocheted down the hall.
Derrick had a better view now. He could see that only two boys were tussling while the rest were cheering them on. Their T-shirts were ripped. One had the other in a headlock. The shorter of the two, who was in the headlock, was punching the other in the gut. Blood poured from the corner of the taller boy’s mouth. They slammed against the drywall again, knocking down one of the Institute’s plaques and sending it crashing to the floor.
Derrick took a deep breath and plunged forward like a man diving into an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
He yanked one boy back, a fat one who was nearly his size. The boy turned with his fist raised and then lowered it when he realized who was standing beside him.
“Oh, hey, Mr. Derrick!” he shouted as Derrick shoved another boy aside, then another. Finally, he was in the center of the circle.
“Stop this shit, right now!” he shouted, reaching for the two boys.
The shorter one was no longer in a headlock. His fists were up. He looked prepared to take a swing.
“I mean it! Don’t make me have to—”
Derrick’s words were stopped short by a punch to the face.
* * *
“Hey, baby!” Melissa called out as Derrick opened the apartment door. “You got home just in time! Dinner’s almost done.”
Their Calico cat, Brownie, greeted him as he closed the door behind him. The chubby cat rubbed its head and body against Derrick’s pant leg and he leaned down to rub her back in return, then dropped his satchel to the floor. Despite the tissue stuffed up his nose, Derrick caught a whiff of the stir fry his fiancée was cooking. He could hear it sizzling in the kitchen too.
“How was your day?” she shouted to him as he walked down the short hall leading to their eat-in kitchen.
He passed their hallway mirror and winced.
Even though some of his shoulder-length dreads were hanging in his face, he could still see bruises blooming on his nose and his left cheek just a few shades darker than his mahogany skin. They would probably be purple by tomorrow. Blood was on his shirt, near the breast pocket.
“It was a little rough,” he mumbled to Melissa as he tugged the bloody tissues from his nostrils, sighing at his reflection. “Just glad it’s over.”
He then rounded the corner and saw Melissa standing at their stove, wearing a tank top, yoga pants, and no shoes, slaving over dinner and looking as beautiful as ever. Her long, elegant neck and smooth, brown shoulders were on full display thanks to her braids being piled atop her head in a colorful kente wrap. She hummed absently to Jill Scott on their stereo as she cooked, tossing a cup of snow peas into the stir fry.
She had been humming when he first met her almost twenty years ago at the Boys’ Institute. That day he’d been sweeping the foyer—one of his daily chores during the two years he’d served at the Institute for his assault charge. Melissa had been on her way to visit her father, the Institute’s then director, Theo Stone or Mr. Theo. She had been humming a tune by Aaliyah and bobbing her head to the music. Her eyes had been closed. She’d stopped short when she bumped into Derrick.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she’d said, pulling her headphones from her ears and smiling bashfully up at him. “I didn’t see you there.”
But he had seen her. He had been staring at her as she unknowingly walked straight into him and he hadn’t moved an inch to stop the collision, too amazed by the lovely creature in front of him.
“I-I’m D-D-Derrick,” he’d blurted out in response, making her smile widen. “You can call m-me Dee, though. E-e-everyone here c-c-calls me Dee. B-but my name is r-really Derrick.”
“Hey, Dee! I’m Melissa,” she’d replied—and he had been in love with her ever since.
Today, she was smiling again as he leaned down and kissed her bare shoulder, making her giggle. She turned away from the stove to face him and pointed toward the refrigerator with her wooden spatula. “Can you grab the wine I have chilling in the . . .”
Her words drifted off. Her smile instantly disappeared.
“What the hell happened to you?” she screeched, dropping the spatula to the granite counter and turning off the oven burners. She reached up for his face and gently touched the bruise on his cheek, grimacing. “Who did this, Dee? Did you get mugged or somethin’?”
He shook his head and exhaled. He then turned slightly to toss his bloody tissues into the kitchen waste bin. “No, I broke up a fight between a couple of the boys today. That’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s all?” She slowly shook her head. “If you were breaking up the fight then how the hell did you end up being the one who got stomped?”
“I didn’t ‘get stomped.’” He tugged her hand from his face. “The boys were swinging and accidentally hit me a few times. It happens. Neither of them meant to do it. They apologized when they settled down.”
“Oh, they apologized! Well, I guess that makes it okay then!” she exclaimed sarcastically before crossing her arms over her chest.
“Look, I took care of it. That’s all that matters.” He grabbed one of the ceramic plates on the counter and peered down into the wok on the stove. “You didn’t put too much sriracha in here, did you? You know I don’t like it too hot, baby.”
He raised his gaze when she stomped her bare foot.
“Derrick Miller, are you really asking me about some damn chili pepper sauce when you walked through the front door with a bloody nose, a ripped shirt”—she said, fingering his torn shirt colla
r—“and a busted face like you just stumbled out of a boxing ring? This is not cool! It’s not right! You shouldn’t have to—”
“And what exactly do you want me to do about it? Huh?” he asked, not having the energy or patience to mask his irritation. “It’s part of the damn job. You of all people should know that!”
She fell silent and pursed her lips.
He hadn’t meant to lash out at her, but he didn’t come home to start an argument. He just wanted to eat dinner and spend some coveted alone time with his girl. Was that too much to ask? Besides, Melissa had grown up knowing how the Boys’ Institute operated. Her father had been at the helm of the place for more than thirty years before he retired four years ago, and Derrick had taken over as director. She’d had a front row seat to the horror stories that came with running a place like the Institute, but she also knew the highs and the joys you experienced seeing children that society had basically thrown away get a second chance.
“Look, baby, it was a bad day.” He sat down his plate, reached out, and wrapped his arms around her. “But I handled it.” He forced a smile. “Trust me, the bruises look worse than they feel.”
But his soothing words weren’t working their magic. She still stubbornly shook her head. “Enough is enough, Dee. I’m a teacher who loves my kids too, but there is no way—no way I’d put up with half the shit that you do. They accidentally hit you today. What if they accidentally stab you or shoot you tomorrow?”
He sucked his teeth in exasperation.
“I mean some of those boys are hard-core criminals. Some of them—”
“—are just like who I was twenty years ago,” he finished for her, dropping his arms from around her waist. “Come on, Lissa. You want me to be a hypocrite?”
“They are nothing like how you were. Don’t give me that shit! You guys were in there for petty crimes—getting into school fights and shoplifting from corner stores. Some of these boys are facing first-degree-assault and drug smuggling charges, Dee. The city is making that place the dumping ground for kids everyone else is too terrified keep in their classrooms!”