Bullet (Running Duke, #1)
© Arissa Alexston Copyright 2017
Edited by Victoria Miller
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the author/publisher.
Book Blurb
After jail, Rysten Duke spends most of his time running from Trisha Duncan, the woman who brings up the horrors of his past. Her whip-fire words and sexy curves only make pushing her away harder each time she finds him. Confronting Trisha means acknowledging the one big issue he would like to keep avoiding.
However, their night of restitution turns into the best and worst mistake he'd ever make. In order to keep Trisha in his life, he'll have to face the hardships of his past, keep the promises of his future, and remember the meaning of true brotherhood.
Chapter One
Six Years Ago
The smells of asphalt and marijuana clung heavy in my nostrils as I drifted deeper into bliss. The numbing high of the calming plant took away my ability to give a fuck about my personal issues. It also helped curb the savage desire to mug any wandering pedestrians milling about. I sank deeper in my Camaro's bucket seat and caught sight of myself in the side mirror. My gray eyes shined like platinum in the reflection of light, but I imagine my outward appearance resembled tarnished silver. I needed to shave in the worse way and my hair was starting to scruff around my ears. I hadn't eaten a decent meal in almost a week, and my sleep deprived body had been running on energy drinks and cannabis.
We'd been hustling in the last few weeks due to our demand growing, and it left little time for self-grooming. Feeling the reefer relax my tense muscles, I took one more hit before passing it to my left. Jamal reached over and took the pinched bud from my fingers and hit the last of it. No matter where I went, Jamal was never too far behind; ever since the fight at the middle school playground where we broke each other's noses. We called a truce when no winner could be determined, and we had been inseparable ever since. Our racial differences meant shit after all these years. He was my brother.
This Sunday night, we had a reason to kick back and chill; we sold almost all our supply. We only had a few pounds of drugs in our possession, and we'd need more to fit the demands of our growing customers. Like our weekly routine, we needed to hand the collected cash off to our handler and get the next case of dope. I was ready to get this shit done. I had a cold beer and a recorded NFL game waiting for me at home. As soon as Titus showed up for the exchange, I'd cash in on taking a night off for once.
We sat behind our usual corner store, dead center in the bad part of town. The rickety building shielded us from the eyes of the main street. It also provided an easy escape onto the highway's entrance ramp. Not that we had too much to worry about, nobody wanted to mess with two loitering dealers, especially those under Titus's thumb.
"My sister straight up hates you, fool," Jamal muttered out of the blue before tossing the finished blunt out the window. We'd somehow gotten back on the subject of Trisha as we passed the time. Trisha didn't approve of our current lifestyles, especially being lackeys under Titus's control. She blamed me for tainting Jamal and dragging him deeper into the game. Trisha knew, as long as I was in the drug world, Jamal would have my back. Still, no matter how much she disliked me and what I represented, she was drawn to me and I her. Jamal was fishing for info on what type of relationship I had with his sister.
Our relationship wasn't anything to boast about. Trisha barely acknowledged me openly, but she stole glances when she thought she could get away with it. I've caught her eyeing me in ways that made every ounce of blood in my body rush straight to my dick. Jamal must've picked up on our eye-fucking exchanges too. He needed reassurance though; Trisha was untouched by our world, and he wanted her to remain so. Fucking around with a dealer, even one as sensible as me, could tempt her over to the dark side, and she was too good for that. Jamal worried his life choices would bleed over into Trisha's life no matter how hard he tried to keep the distance. But I was cool with talking about Trisha, as long as we didn't discuss my own feelings.
"I'm starting to think you want your sister to be the main chick in my life as often as you bring her up." I flashed him a smile, hoping my bullshit was irritating him.
"Shut the fuck up, Rysten." Jamal smirked and shook his head before focusing at the dash clock. "Where the fuck is Titus? Dat motherfucker been running late every damn time this month."
I stretched and eyed the semi-automatic on my dash. Matte black plastic gleamed under the fading parking lot light. Hopefully I wouldn't have to use it, but Jamal had a point. Titus had been acting sketchy lately and whispers have been circling the neighborhood. Shit that made any supplier uneasy.
"Hell if I know where he is, but I'm ready to get this shit done with."
"Right."
I picked up my cell phone and scrolled through the contacts to find Titus's number. I was nearly to the Ts when Jamal's arm bumped my elbow.
"There's that bitch-ass fool now." Jamal exited before I could get a good look at the car pulling in vertically to my Camaro. The headlights flicked on their brights, and I winced as I watched the silhouette of Jamal sauntering toward the vehicle. Looking closely at the sporty headlights, it only took a split second for my gut feeling to kick into high alert. This wasn't right; the unfamiliar shape of the lights weren't from Titus's sedan. I didn't know who the fuck sat behind the wheel, but I had an idea. I'd heard the rumors of a new drug lord and his cronies coming through Atlanta, and the new blood had been targeting Titus's crew.
Meaning, us…
"Jamal! Get back in the fucking car!"
My warning came out too late. In the blaze of light, Jamal looked back at me. With my next breath and Jamal's step to turn around, rapid shots rang out. I ducked across the front seats as the sound of bullets pierced the metal of my car. I curled into a tight ball, trying to protect my head and heart as best as I could in the small space. I somehow ended up in an odd angle. The windshield shattered, raining sharp diamonds on my body. I inhaled and felt something slam heavy against the back of my shoulder, followed by an agonizing burn.
I'd been shot plenty of times before, and I doubted it would be the last. It felt like someone prodded me with a branding iron just under my rotator cuff. I shifted back to a slouching position in my seat, keeping my head down and lowering my seat back as far as it would go. If they pierced anything vital, I'd be dead in a few breaths. Goddamn, Jamal was out there, getting lit up. I had to do something. I used my right leg to scoot my gun off the dashboard. The scorching sensation of a bullet hit my leg as it was clearly in their line of fire. My gun clattered on the shifting console, and I held my breath in hopes I didn't awkwardly shoot myself.
I grabbed the cold handle and aimed blindly out the window in the direction of the car. I kept my head down and my arm up as my gunfire bled into theirs. By now, I was positive Jamal was bleeding out and dead on the cold pavement. My gun clicked empty, though I couldn't hear it, I felt its failure as I depleted all my bullets. My rage-filled scream was barely audible to my ears over the roaring squeal of tires and the final pops of our attackers' guns. The silence that soon followed was like the heavy weight of the grim reaper standing by.
I opened the door and immediately realized my leg wasn't working the way I wanted it to. I planted face first into the concrete and hissed in pain as the zing of agony vibrated from my neck down to my
knees. Christ, I'd been fucking shot multiple times. The real question had been how bad, I could only recall my shoulder and leg. I sluggishly propped myself against the side of the car and took a minute to mentally assess my injuries in the overhead street light. Shock wanted to worm its way through my brain, but I had to fight off the paralyzing fear to just stay where I was. The pain was nearly enough to cause me to blackout with each breath.
My right thigh pumped dark blood and stained my blue jeans black. The hole in my pants showed a gaping wound that thankfully wasn't near my artery. From what I could tell, I'd been shot in the calf and in the back. The scorching pain under my shoulder became increasingly worse with each shift. I ran a hand against my collarbone, expecting to find blood from an exit wound. My palm came away clear, which meant the bullet was still inside me. Fuck. I wasn't sure how many wounds there were. All of that didn't mean shit when, on the other side of the car, Jamal laid there on the pavement. Someone I considered a brother had stood in front of an execution-style shooting.
Fuck, if he died, I'd never be able to live with myself.
As I dragged myself around the back of my car, the flowing blood from my back caused my clothes to stick to my skin. The copper-ish scent of blood wafted up to my nose along with the tangy scent of gunpowder. My gut wrenched as I felt myself about to vomit from the agony. None of the hesitant people standing in the distance helped either. Getting lit up in this part of the city usually left any thug out of luck of a savior. My body ached and shook with each pull across the gritty ground, my palms were scratched up and burning with each haul. I feared that, in any moment, one of the bullets would shift and I'd lose all mobility in my body. My breath was labored, and I had to take breaks to collect myself and keep from passing out. I couldn't give up, not until I got to my best friend. I drew close to Jamal's oddly askew form and panicked when I couldn't tell if his chest rose and fell. I used the last reserves of my strength to reach him before the distant sirens became more than a whisper on the wind.
Chapter Two
Present Day
My past had been a lot of fucked up shit that always peppered my future. It used to be so damn easy to hurt people to get what I wanted. The daily hustle ended with me making cash any dishonest way I could. Unfortunately, my wild days came to an end on the tidal wave of fury and blood. Like any lawbreaking citizen, my rude awakening came with a court hearing and legal fees. The court appointed lawyer was a pompous shithead and disinterested in the particulars of my trial. Still, the jackass in a suit made a half-ass attempt at lifting the sentence.
Didn't do a bit of good. I got five years.
As much as I thought I'd flown under the radar, they'd had my name on watch. The night Jamal and I got taken out by the rival crew had given the cops everything they needed to incarcerate us. With the large amount of cash and last bit of drugs in my possession had been incriminating, I was shipped off to the penitentiary without a second thought. I felt as though I'd rot in that fucking place. I sat staring at prison walls in my cell for five years on distribution charges. Day in and day out, I waded in the politics of prison and the racial wars within. As a newcomer trying to find my balance in the pecking order, I learned to bite my tongue.
Biding my time, I nodded respectively to the correctional officers and ignored the Mexicans jonesing for a reason to beat my ass in a dark corner. The black prisoners, well, that was complicated. I knew someone important on the outside and I called in a favor, which saved my ass a time or two. The Aryans couldn't understand why I had so much leverage over the place. I had street cred and a whole lot of freedom to walk without joining a fraction for protection. Loners didn't last long in jail, but I managed on my own, undisturbed. The Aryans didn't like it, but they respected it because to provoke the situation would mean breaking the unsteady peace between the groups. And, to them, I wasn't worth it. Being in the pen had been a struggle daily, and I was a paradox no one wanted to explore further.
However, shit always ran downhill. Always. Moving to Savannah, my old life of Atlanta gang-banging ceased to exist nowadays, but it didn't stop the wraiths of my past from haunting. I couldn't remember the last time a fucking gun sat in my hand. Truth be told, I didn't miss hearing the cries of people when a barrel rested against their temple or the sight of blood after I pulled the trigger.
She marched through the oil change bay doors, her hips swayed in a saucy way that let any male know she was bringing a reckoning. Fuck, she was good at sniffing me out, and deep down I loved the fact that she was determined not to let anything stand in her way. For once, a female chasing me was a stroke to my ego. However, the means of her visit were less desirable. The sight of Trisha was somewhat intoxicating. As a teenager, my dick would get hard every time I saw her. Her presence back then was like warm honey; nowadays, it brought the sting of a bee. My dick still twitched at seeing her.
Just like old times.
Of course, with an all-male crew at Dusty's Automotive, a fine-as-fuck woman halted all work production and drew everyone's gaze. She hadn't seen me yet, so it left a moment to observe her. Trisha wore a white blouse and a sexy little blue skirt, which hiked up her thick, dark thighs as she walked. She tried for business casual, but on her body it looked closer to cock-teasing dirty lawyer in those high heels. Her hair was still those highlighted bronze spirals that framed her face. I always envisioned my fingers tangled in them. Pulling and twisting as I wrenched her neck back to expose the skin I wanted to nip at as I moved deep inside her.
The woman was classy and would probably dodge any advance on me attempting to touch her. She'd never taken on the role of a hood rat or slut like most of the women I fucked with, but it didn't mean I didn't want to taste something a little more…refined on my palate. Trisha always tried to find ways of bettering herself; leaving every bit of the ghetto in her rearview mirror. She never stopped to notice all the history and negative shit she left behind. To her, I was her brother's trouble-starting white friend. When she went off to law school and I went to jail, she became even more unattainable. As if the criminal and lawyer issue wasn't an elephant in the room already. When she came to me, it hadn't been to fulfill my fantasies. No, she came for blood.
Her gaze roamed over every grease monkey in the place until it landed on me. Her plump upper lip twitched in a silent snarl and she moved closer, with more determination. High heels clacked heavily on the ground, and the clenched fists at her sides meant she was about to verbally rip my fucking head off in front of everyone. I decided the best tactic would be nonchalance, but I didn't want my coworkers knowing too much shit about my past. Taking her into the office would be a better solution, but she'd probably tell me to go to hell. Out of spite, just like in the past, she'd make it a point to embarrass me because she knew privacy was an issue. Trisha was long past pleasantries and warm welcomes. Our meetings of late were laced with venom and animosity.
"Thought you could hide from me again, huh? You're not that good, Rysten Duke." She crossed her arms under her breasts. Her blouse gave a gap, and I caught a peek at the black lace bra. Trisha gave her best lawyer stance, and I almost smiled because it brought back so many fucking recollections of her being a pouty teen when I teased her. She flicked her manicured hand in my face, waving me off as if I was insignificant. "All I have to do is look in the dirtiest hellhole and I'll always find you."
Whatever sweet reminiscence I felt about our youth was washed away by her callous remark. I tried not to let it faze me, but the burn of her words brought me back to reality. Ever since she learned I tried for the straight road, she had been more aggressive with hunting me down. It had only been three weeks since our last encounter.
Now would've been an ideal time for me to pull a magical gun out the back of my oil-stained coveralls. Due to the uneasy emotions I felt seeing Trisha Duncan, a bullet to my fucking brain would dull me to the impending shitstorm coming my way.
"Jesus, you're fucking worse than my parole officer." I glanced around the shop an
d saw the guys pretending to work. There wasn't an air drill or wrench turning in the place; far too silent for an automotive repair shop. The hellcat in front of me demanded attention, and I'd be foolish to ignore her, lest she slap the shit out of me.
"Look, Rysten, I'm tired of chasing you around Savannah. You gonna keep your promise or keep backing out like a coward?"
Feeling the sensitive cords she pricked deep inside, I wiped my stained hands on the towel and calmly draped it across the car's open hood. Fuck my promise and the past, and fuck Trisha for picking at unhealed scabs. "As I said before, you're wasting your time." I stepped up and towered over her short frame. This was the first time I ever crowded her space, and I caught a flicker of unease across her face as she focused on me. She quickly replaced it with a stiffly raised chin, ready to meet me head on. Admirable but still not worth the trouble. "Trish, get the fuck out of here. I don't care to stir up old demons."
"So you're saying he's a demon now?"
Goddamn it, I could shake her senseless for how she carried my words too far. "You know what I mean."
She scoffed. "You used to care, Rysten. You promised."
The knife in my gut twisted a little deeper, nothing even close to the knife I embedded in Jamal's back. The one I'd put there years ago when I knew shit would never be the same. "I made a lot of promises back then. Things fucking change."
"He hasn't changed!" She rose up, closer to my face; her eyes gathered tears, and I could see her fight not to let a single drop fall. I couldn't promise I wouldn't wipe one off her cheek if it escaped. She had to bring this shit public and stir up not just bad memories, but feelings I didn't know enough about. Time to burn the fucking bridge. My ego was taking a bruising since she showed up and caused a scene. Since my release, she followed me all around Savannah, demanding me to do something I couldn't. It ends today.
Bullet (Running Duke Book 1) Page 1