Read Online Falling for Colton (Falling #5) by Jasinda Wilder - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jasinda Wilder
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grin, sidelong glance. “Why, you nervous, white boy?”
“Hell yeah.” I say it with a laugh, but it’s true.
“I got’chu, man. You wouldn’t be in my car if I was gonna cap you.” A pause for effect. “That shit is messy.”
I glance at him, but this doesn’t seem to be a joke. “Right.”
He’s still not telling me how I’ll be making this quick hundred bucks but I don’t push it. We drive for a long time, winding through one neighborhood after another, cruising slow. He seems to know exactly where he’s going, but he isn’t in a hurry to get there. He’s always watching his surroundings, eyeing the few people on the sidewalk. He watches the intersections carefully as he cruises through them.
I’m jittery. Nervous. Scared. Knee bouncing, hands curling into fists and uncurling, palms sweaty. My stomach growls loudly.
“Hungry?” Eli asks.
“Been a few days,” I admit.
“I got’chu.” This seems to be a stock response for Eli, the meaning varying by context.
I watch the digital clock on the stereo receiver. I got in the car at 1:28 a.m.; we’ve been cruising slowly for almost an hour now. A few minutes later Eli pulls into an alley between two mammoth buildings. It’s not really an alley, I realize, so much as just a space between them. Both buildings are old warehouses made of corrugated iron walls with rust streaking down the sides. The windows up near the roof are all smashed and jagged. Glass crunches under the wheels of the Buick. Eli flicks his lights off and on twice, quickly, and then leaves them off. In the distance, the single circle of light from a flashlight winks twice in response.
We roll forward very, very slowly. Eli reaches behind his back, wiggles the handle of his pistol, but doesn’t pull it out. My heart is in my throat. The air feels thick and tense.
“Leave your bag. Nobody gonna mess with it in my ride.” Eli glances at me as he pulls to a stop, seemingly at random. “I got your back. Don’t talk to no one, and stick with me.”
“A’ight.” It comes out like he’d say it, drawled urban slang.
Eli shoots me a look, but doesn’t say anything as he climbs out of his car, tugs at the back of his shirt to keep it from tangling in the butt of his gun. He peers over the roof of his car, and I follow his gaze and see wide doors, pulled open. The doors are big enough to need two guys to open and close them. Lights glow inside, and I hear voices. Cheering, jeering. Thuds. Smacks. Ooh s and curses. Through the open doors I see a huge crowd forming a ring. I see movement through the milling bodies and a flash of skin. I hear the distinctive crunch of fist meeting meat.
This isn’t good.
Not good at all.
We’re barely through the doorway when a big Latino dude emerges from the shadows. He extends his fist, and he and Eli touch knuckles.
“’Sup, Ruiz?”
“Eli.” Ruiz glances at me. “Who’s this?”
“Colt.” Eli tilts his head at a staircase along one wall near the open doors. “Gonna head up there for a minute.”
“Two more ahead of you.” Ruiz says this as if Eli should know what it means, and Eli just nods as if he does.
It’s all very vague, meaningful glances and silences are exchanged. I don’t know what to think, but I can guess.
Two more—meaning there will be two more fights, and then I’m up, I think.
Eli leads the way up the stairs, which level off at metal grating forming a catwalk to a large platform overlooking the warehouse. Thin railings form a fence around the perimeter of the platform, and there are couches on two sides and a few tables. People mill around, most are men, and most of them are black or Latino. There are only a few women around, and those are topless and carrying trays. This is quite a setup. Eli approaches the small crowd on the platform, maybe twenty people in total. A huge beast of a man separates from the crowd, a black guy whose overall dimensions resemble an
“Hell yeah.” I say it with a laugh, but it’s true.
“I got’chu, man. You wouldn’t be in my car if I was gonna cap you.” A pause for effect. “That shit is messy.”
I glance at him, but this doesn’t seem to be a joke. “Right.”
He’s still not telling me how I’ll be making this quick hundred bucks but I don’t push it. We drive for a long time, winding through one neighborhood after another, cruising slow. He seems to know exactly where he’s going, but he isn’t in a hurry to get there. He’s always watching his surroundings, eyeing the few people on the sidewalk. He watches the intersections carefully as he cruises through them.
I’m jittery. Nervous. Scared. Knee bouncing, hands curling into fists and uncurling, palms sweaty. My stomach growls loudly.
“Hungry?” Eli asks.
“Been a few days,” I admit.
“I got’chu.” This seems to be a stock response for Eli, the meaning varying by context.
I watch the digital clock on the stereo receiver. I got in the car at 1:28 a.m.; we’ve been cruising slowly for almost an hour now. A few minutes later Eli pulls into an alley between two mammoth buildings. It’s not really an alley, I realize, so much as just a space between them. Both buildings are old warehouses made of corrugated iron walls with rust streaking down the sides. The windows up near the roof are all smashed and jagged. Glass crunches under the wheels of the Buick. Eli flicks his lights off and on twice, quickly, and then leaves them off. In the distance, the single circle of light from a flashlight winks twice in response.
We roll forward very, very slowly. Eli reaches behind his back, wiggles the handle of his pistol, but doesn’t pull it out. My heart is in my throat. The air feels thick and tense.
“Leave your bag. Nobody gonna mess with it in my ride.” Eli glances at me as he pulls to a stop, seemingly at random. “I got your back. Don’t talk to no one, and stick with me.”
“A’ight.” It comes out like he’d say it, drawled urban slang.
Eli shoots me a look, but doesn’t say anything as he climbs out of his car, tugs at the back of his shirt to keep it from tangling in the butt of his gun. He peers over the roof of his car, and I follow his gaze and see wide doors, pulled open. The doors are big enough to need two guys to open and close them. Lights glow inside, and I hear voices. Cheering, jeering. Thuds. Smacks. Ooh s and curses. Through the open doors I see a huge crowd forming a ring. I see movement through the milling bodies and a flash of skin. I hear the distinctive crunch of fist meeting meat.
This isn’t good.
Not good at all.
We’re barely through the doorway when a big Latino dude emerges from the shadows. He extends his fist, and he and Eli touch knuckles.
“’Sup, Ruiz?”
“Eli.” Ruiz glances at me. “Who’s this?”
“Colt.” Eli tilts his head at a staircase along one wall near the open doors. “Gonna head up there for a minute.”
“Two more ahead of you.” Ruiz says this as if Eli should know what it means, and Eli just nods as if he does.
It’s all very vague, meaningful glances and silences are exchanged. I don’t know what to think, but I can guess.
Two more—meaning there will be two more fights, and then I’m up, I think.
Eli leads the way up the stairs, which level off at metal grating forming a catwalk to a large platform overlooking the warehouse. Thin railings form a fence around the perimeter of the platform, and there are couches on two sides and a few tables. People mill around, most are men, and most of them are black or Latino. There are only a few women around, and those are topless and carrying trays. This is quite a setup. Eli approaches the small crowd on the platform, maybe twenty people in total. A huge beast of a man separates from the crowd, a black guy whose overall dimensions resemble an
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