Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
I’ll burn his world to the ground before I let him take another goddamn thing from her.
"I'll deal with it," I growl.
“You sure?”
“I said I’d deal with it.”
Roman jerks his chin in a nod, letting the subject drop.
"Why the hell is she fighting so fucking hard to keep this place?" I mutter two days later, staring at January’s house, genuinely mystified.
The once vibrant yellow paint is chipped and faded, revealing the worn wood underneath. Pits and cracks in the driveway stand in testament to the years of abuse and neglect it's endured. The street out front is even worse.
Except for Ma Lucia's place—the neat white bungalow next door where I grew up—every other house on the block is in an appalling state of disrepair. Frankly, the entire neighborhood is a shithole that should have been razed long ago. Only a few of the homes are still occupied.
Why the fuck hasn’t January left yet?
Goddamn, January.
I place my hand over my chest, trying to rub away the pain just thinking about her brings, but it doesn't do any good. It hasn't in seven damn years, but I keep trying anyway.
The thought of seeing her after all these years has me rattled.
Hell, just being back in LA again has me so amped up that I'm ready to explode. After spending the last two days dragging my ass all over the city, tying up loose ends on Tristan’s case, my entire body aches. I desperately need a shower and about fifteen hours of sleep, but I'm not holding my breath on getting the last.
I barely sleep as it is, managing to snatch a few hours here and there. Since touching down in this city, I've slept even less than that.
Every memory I have of this place is so tied up in her that I can't think straight. I’m still so fucking in love with her it's pathetic. I never got over her. I never even tried. Just like I’m sure she never stopped hating me.
Not that I blame her or anything.
Sometimes, I'm pretty sure I hate myself enough for the both of us, but she's earned the right to hate me, too, so I'm not taking it from her. I'm the one who destroyed her life. Me and my goddamn need to control everything.
"Fuck," I groan, dropping my head back to stare up at the sky. My fingers graze the patch in my pocket. I clutch it as if it'll grant me peace. It certainly didn't seven years ago.
Nothing does anymore, not since she kicked my ass to the curb. But that life is over for me. It was over seven fucking years ago. I'm just here to find Curtis Kaleo, remind him who owns this block, and then dip the hell out.
January won't even know I'm here.
Easy peasy, right?
Right.
I climb off my bike and grab my shit from my saddlepack.
Halfway up the sidewalk leading to Ma Lucia's front door, a shadow in my peripheral shifts, drawing my attention. My gaze travels along the side of January's house, trying to identify it.
I quickly home in on the motherfucker creeping through the bushes dressed in all black. His head whips from side to side, the jerky, nervous movement making it obvious he's trying not to get caught. Classic sign that he's up to some bullshit that's going to get him killed.
As if on cue, he goes for a bedroom window, trying to pry off the screen.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," I growl and set my bag in the grass. Pulling my phone out, I shoot a quick text to Roman, telling him to send a squad car over here, and then I pull my gun.
At six-five and two hundred and eighty pounds, I'm a big son of a bitch, but the would-be burglar never sees me coming.
Before he even knows what hit him, I kick him in the back of the knee, sending him plummeting to the ground. Within seconds, he's on his back with me straddling his hips, both of his hands caught between our bodies.
"Surprise, motherfucker," I growl and snap my arm back, ignoring the way the stitches in my forearm pull taut from where a cartel member sliced it open a few days ago.
The burglar's nose breaks with a crunch, blood splattering all over me.
"Fuck!" he cries out, his voice a nasally whine.
I haven't even gotten a good look at him, but I already think he's a little bitch. He doesn't try to fight back. He lies beneath me, whimpering and crying. My hands move over him as I quickly pat him down, yanking a buck knife and a baggie of crack from his pocket.
"Well, well, well," I mutter, yanking him to his feet. "Looks like you're going to be catching all kinds of charges tonight, you dumb son of a bitch."