Read Online Falling for Colton (Falling #5) by Jasinda Wilder - Free Book Online
Authors: Jasinda Wilder
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fast, but something keeps me awake. I hear a footstep.
Goddamn it. I just want to sleep.
“Hell of a fight, man.” The voice is deep and slow, a ways off.
I sit up. Peer blearily into the shadows. “Yeah.”
“Ol’ Bruce has been in that spot for years. Seen him wreck some folks to keep ’em off.” Flame spurts, an orange glow appears. Smoke wreathes upward; the glowing cherry illuminates a round, black face, white teeth.
“I just needed somewhere to sleep. He kicked me while I was laying here.”
“I ain’t said nothin’. Bruce is a miserable old fucker. Hates everybody.” The glow brightens, tobacco crackles.
I light my own smoke, stay where I am. Fought for this spot, not giving it up easily. I feel an urge to defend myself, to fill the silence. But I don’t.
Eventually the other guy tosses his cigarette away and I sense he is considering something. “Wanna make a hundred bucks right quick?”
“Doing what?” I ask.
“I’ll show you.”
I know better. I’m cursing myself for an idiot even as I stand up and follow the guy. I’m gonna get shot. Rolled. Something. I mean, this is really stupid.
But it’s a hundred bucks. With a hundred bucks I could get a motel room and sleep in a bed.
Not much I won’t do for a hundred bucks, at this point.
So I shoulder my bag and follow the guy, leaving the spot I just fought somebody for. He leads me out from under the bridge, and an orange streetlight reveals him to be a black guy about five years older than me, wearing baggy black jeans, Timberland boots, a black T-shirt, black Yankees ball cap turned on an angle, tilted, over a stretchy headband. He walks with a confident swagger. Doesn’t look back to see if I’m following—he knows I am. He’s muscular, heavy-set, but deceptively light on his feet. And as I’m following him, I notice the way the back of his T-shirt hangs over his jeans, revealing the handle of a pistol in his waistband.
What am I getting myself into?
Shit.
He leads me off the main road and down an alley. Shit, shit, shit. I’m for sure about to get killed. I slow down, putting space between me and the other guy.
He notices. “Hey, man. Keep up. I ain’t gonna do nothin’.”
“Like you would tell me if you were?”
He laughs. “Got that right.” He gestures at an old Buick. “Get in. We goin’ for a drive.”
I slide into the passenger seat. The car smells like old car, cigarettes, pot, something harder, crack maybe. He starts the car, and the engine turns over immediately. He revs the engine, and it responds with the deep bass snarl of an engine definitely not original to the Buick.
“What you got under the hood?” I ask.
He glances at me, shrugs. “350. I had my boy hook me up.”
Meaning, he don’t know much about the engine but what his friend told him. There are all kinds of “350” engine blocks, varying by year, original manufacturer, bore, stroke, a whole bunch of shit. Saying it’s a 350 is like saying it’s a V-8—a little vague.
The outside of the car doesn’t look like much, a little beat up, rust on the edges. The inside is comfy, that old velvety material on the seats. Custom stereo receiver and speakers, probably some big-ass woofers in back. It’s not the prettiest car on the block, but that engine snarl has the sound of some beefy power, so I’m guessing this old babe can move.
He pulls his car down the alley, navigating without headlights until he hits the main road. The radio is silent. When we’re moving down the road, he flips on his lights, twists on the stereo. Rap thuds low, bass vibrating heavily.
A glance at me. “I’m Eli.”
“Colt.” I watch the buildings pass by, and we drive through the occasional intersection. It’s late, the middle of the night. I could be anywhere in New York City right now, and he could be taking me God knows where. I’m such a dumbass. “Where are we going, Eli?”
A white-teeth
Goddamn it. I just want to sleep.
“Hell of a fight, man.” The voice is deep and slow, a ways off.
I sit up. Peer blearily into the shadows. “Yeah.”
“Ol’ Bruce has been in that spot for years. Seen him wreck some folks to keep ’em off.” Flame spurts, an orange glow appears. Smoke wreathes upward; the glowing cherry illuminates a round, black face, white teeth.
“I just needed somewhere to sleep. He kicked me while I was laying here.”
“I ain’t said nothin’. Bruce is a miserable old fucker. Hates everybody.” The glow brightens, tobacco crackles.
I light my own smoke, stay where I am. Fought for this spot, not giving it up easily. I feel an urge to defend myself, to fill the silence. But I don’t.
Eventually the other guy tosses his cigarette away and I sense he is considering something. “Wanna make a hundred bucks right quick?”
“Doing what?” I ask.
“I’ll show you.”
I know better. I’m cursing myself for an idiot even as I stand up and follow the guy. I’m gonna get shot. Rolled. Something. I mean, this is really stupid.
But it’s a hundred bucks. With a hundred bucks I could get a motel room and sleep in a bed.
Not much I won’t do for a hundred bucks, at this point.
So I shoulder my bag and follow the guy, leaving the spot I just fought somebody for. He leads me out from under the bridge, and an orange streetlight reveals him to be a black guy about five years older than me, wearing baggy black jeans, Timberland boots, a black T-shirt, black Yankees ball cap turned on an angle, tilted, over a stretchy headband. He walks with a confident swagger. Doesn’t look back to see if I’m following—he knows I am. He’s muscular, heavy-set, but deceptively light on his feet. And as I’m following him, I notice the way the back of his T-shirt hangs over his jeans, revealing the handle of a pistol in his waistband.
What am I getting myself into?
Shit.
He leads me off the main road and down an alley. Shit, shit, shit. I’m for sure about to get killed. I slow down, putting space between me and the other guy.
He notices. “Hey, man. Keep up. I ain’t gonna do nothin’.”
“Like you would tell me if you were?”
He laughs. “Got that right.” He gestures at an old Buick. “Get in. We goin’ for a drive.”
I slide into the passenger seat. The car smells like old car, cigarettes, pot, something harder, crack maybe. He starts the car, and the engine turns over immediately. He revs the engine, and it responds with the deep bass snarl of an engine definitely not original to the Buick.
“What you got under the hood?” I ask.
He glances at me, shrugs. “350. I had my boy hook me up.”
Meaning, he don’t know much about the engine but what his friend told him. There are all kinds of “350” engine blocks, varying by year, original manufacturer, bore, stroke, a whole bunch of shit. Saying it’s a 350 is like saying it’s a V-8—a little vague.
The outside of the car doesn’t look like much, a little beat up, rust on the edges. The inside is comfy, that old velvety material on the seats. Custom stereo receiver and speakers, probably some big-ass woofers in back. It’s not the prettiest car on the block, but that engine snarl has the sound of some beefy power, so I’m guessing this old babe can move.
He pulls his car down the alley, navigating without headlights until he hits the main road. The radio is silent. When we’re moving down the road, he flips on his lights, twists on the stereo. Rap thuds low, bass vibrating heavily.
A glance at me. “I’m Eli.”
“Colt.” I watch the buildings pass by, and we drive through the occasional intersection. It’s late, the middle of the night. I could be anywhere in New York City right now, and he could be taking me God knows where. I’m such a dumbass. “Where are we going, Eli?”
A white-teeth
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