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)
But I'm bigger, harder, comprised of muscle and aggression. I'm also covered in tattoos that hurt to look at more than my scars do. With small gauges in my ears, a piercing in my nose, and a decade of ruthless decisions weighing on me, I look a hell of a lot like the gang member I so often portray.
She seems to like what she sees now as much as she did back then. She pushes her long blonde hair away from her heart-shaped face and licks her lips. Her nipples get harder. The pulse in her throat flutters.
I take a step toward her, unable to stop myself from moving in her direction. She's like gravity…a natural phenomenon I'm not strong enough to withstand. I never have been. My every instinct clamors for attention, screaming at me that I need her to survive.
She throws up a hand and takes a step back.
My heart cracks, but I stop moving toward her. Of course I do. My body is hers to command as much now as it ever has been.
"Don't," she says. Her gaze flickers past me to the squad cars and ambulance parked on the curb. Fear slides through her expression, tearing at my insides. I know what she's thinking about, what she's remembering. It fucking kills me to know she's still bleeding over it too.
"It's okay, baby girl," I whisper, willing to say or do anything to ease the haunted look on her face. "Everything is okay."
"It's not," she snaps, glowering at me. And there it is. The look that annihilates me. The one that haunts every goddamn nightmare I have.
Hate.
I'd sell my soul to take back what I did to earn her hatred, but I can't. I did the crime. I'll do the time. Every excruciating second of it until someone puts me out of my misery.
Even then, it won't be enough to redeem me.
Some souls are so dirty, so black, there is no redemption. No salvation. There's nothing but blood and pain.
Mine is covered in so much of it I'll never wash clean.
"What happened?" she asks, glancing from me to the roadway.
"Caught a kid trying to break into your place." I shove my hands into my pockets to hide the way they shake. "I took care of it."
"How? By beating him up?"
I hate that that's what she thinks of me…and I hate that she's right. I don't even try to defend myself. What's the point?
Once upon a time, I was her hero. And then the blinders came off. She saw me for the monster I really was. Nothing I say will change her opinion now.
"What are you doing here, Michael?" she asks, weary and wary and so fucking sad, it kills me.
It kills me even more that she's calling me Michael like she doesn't know me at all. Like she doesn't own me. I've been Cade to her since she was four years old. I've belonged to her for just about as long. She's always been my world, but I'm not her world anymore. That ship sailed right into an abyss a long fucking time ago.
"Taking care of a few things." I don't elaborate any further. If I tell her the ATF's Gang Unit asked me to convince her to let Kaleo have this block before she gets herself killed, she'll fight me. I don't have it in me to fight her right now. I need to get the hell out of here. Now. Because the longer I stand here not touching her, the more it hurts.
"Agent Kincaid," the LAPD officer calls from behind me.
January gasps.
Yeah, baby girl, I'm a cop. Too damned bad it doesn't change a fucking thing. I'm still the monster at the end of this book. Only this one doesn't end happily like the storybook I used to read you, sweetheart. Not for me and not for you either.
"Go inside, January," I mutter over my shoulder, walking away.
I leave my heart on the sidewalk in the same place it's always been—at her feet.
Chapter Two
January
"Iheard a rumor." Mariah Dupree plops her curvy ass down on the corner of my desk.
I peer up at her through bleary eyes and wait for her to fill me in. Mariah's a bit of a drama queen when it comes to gossip, but I love her anyway. She's the only thing that keeps me sane most days. She's been my best friend since the sixth grade. We went to the same college. We teach at the same elementary school, and do everything together.
"Michael Kincaid is back in town," she says, watching my face like a hawk. With her black hair up in a demure bun and her glasses perched on her nose, she looks more like a naughty librarian than a kindergarten teacher. Her ebony skin is flawless.
"Oh, that." I slide out of my chair and squeeze past her, busying myself with collecting the worksheets my students left on their desks at the end of the day. Most of them are illegible, but that's okay. School's been in session for two weeks. I don't expect perfection, especially not from a bunch of five-year-olds, most of whom have never even tried to hold a pencil before. Just knowing that they’re trying makes me happy.