Chapter 3
THREE
NIGHTMARE
I’m too stunned to move. My hand slowly lowers, the gun suddenly feeling too heavy to hold up.
Squinting at the guy standing in front of me, it feels like I’ve been blindsided by a punch I didn’t see coming.
He’s shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting like he’s scanning for exits to escape.
He’s a lot thinner than I remember, cheeks caved in, skin tinted with a sick shade of yellow. Eyes glassy, and lifeless.
But underneath all that damage, I can still see him.
“Ty?”
His head snaps up like I just yanked him out of a nightmare.
“M… Malcolm?” His voice cracks halfway through my name, like it hurts to say it.
It’s him. Tyrique. My childhood best friend. My brother in every way but blood. We used to tear through the city like it owed us something. Talked about our future like we owned the world. Now he’s here looking like a shell of the person he used to be.
We just stand there, staring at each other. Him trying to hold it together, me trying not to let the past drag me under.
“I didn’t know you were…” he says, taking a step toward me. His words trail off as if he’s too exhausted to speak.
“I don’t understand. I don’t… what happ…”
Before I can finish, the door slams open behind me.
“Drop the weapon! On your knees!”
A loud female voice slices through the warehouse shouting orders.
When she steps in closer, everything in me locks up, my eyes going wide. Londyn… what the actual fuck.
Her braids are longer now, brushing down her back as she moves.
Her jeans are tight, hugging her hips like they’re poured on.
She’s curvier too, the kind of curves that make it damn hard not to look.
The shoulder holster she’s wearing pushes her breasts up just enough to make it impossible not to notice.
Then there’s her skin. Smooth, warm brown that damn near glows under the warehouse lights. The attraction is instant… hot, hard, and physical. I hate this. Hate that my body reacts before my brain gets a chance to shut it down.
Fuck me! Londyn’s the kind of beautiful that makes a man forget he’s got cuffs waiting. And right now, that pisses me off almost as much as staring down a barrel. Hard to believe she’s the same brat with braces who made it her mission to torment me and Ty.
Her lips are drawn tight, eyes hard as steel, locked on me like she’s waiting for the flinch that gives her permission to pull the trigger.
That scent, leather and vanilla, hits like a sucker punch.
Soft, dangerous, and addictive. I try to shake it, remind myself this is the worst damn time to notice anything about her.
But it’s already in me, crawling down my spine, coiling low in my gut.
The gun hits the floor with a sharp clang. My knees follow, concrete biting through my jeans. If she recognizes me, it doesn’t show. I’m halfway to saying, “It’s me, Malcolm,” when she moves fast with no hesitation.
“You so much as breathe my name,” she hisses low, interrupting me, “I'll bury you so deep you’ll forget what daylight looks like, and your brothers will forget you ever existed.”
I guess that answers my question.
Her grip locks firm around the back of my neck, forcing my head down.
The cold bite of metal snaps around my wrists.
Fast, and precise like she’s done this a hundred times.
The cuffs dig in, and I welcome the sting.
Because nothing could’ve prepared me for this night.
I don’t fight her. I don’t speak. I just let it happen.
Tyrique’s frozen, staring at me like the past just walked in and suckered punched him.
And me? I can’t tear my eyes off Londyn long enough to pretend this isn’t about to blow everything wide open.
She doesn’t say a damn thing to me. Just jerks the chain on my cuffs and drags me across the concrete like I’m nothing but a suspect. Several cops are already sweeping the warehouse, boots pounding on the concrete floor, radios crackling, and someone shouting, “All clear!” from the far corner.
Tyrique’s slumped against a stack of crates, shoulders drawn in like he’s trying to disappear.
His arms hang loose at his sides, body trembling, sweat slicking his brow.
He won’t meet my eyes, like looking at me might break him.
There’s defeat in every inch of him, and it crawls under my skin.
I hate seeing him like this, hollowed out by addiction.
Hate that I was so tangled in my own wreckage, I didn’t reach out when I got back to Atlanta. Didn’t even try.
Now that I’m closer, I can see he’s barely holding together.
His skin is stretched thin over bone, cheeks hollow, hands twitching like they’ve forgotten how to be still.
This isn’t the Tyrique I knew. This is what’s left after life stomps a man flat and doesn’t let up.
Last time I saw him, we were drunk on cheap beer, laughing at our graduation party.
He was gonna see the world before college, and I was headed for boot camp.
We had plans. Now he’s just trying to stay upright.
Seeing him like this tears me apart. It’s like staring at a ghost.
Londyn plants herself in front of her brother, shutting the rest of the world out.
“Hey. You good?” Her voice is low, steady, but I can hear every word.
Tyrique nods, but it’s a lie. He looks like he’s seconds from collapsing. Londyn leans in, cupping his chin, her voice dropping even lower.
“Listen to me. Don’t say Malcolm’s name to anyone. You keep your mouth shut and let me handle this. I’ll talk to you later, you hear me?”
His throat bobs with a swallow, shame carved into every line of his face.
For a breath, something shifts in her… the steel in her eyes softens, the tension in her shoulders loosens.
Her thumb grazes his jaw, gentle and familiar, like it’s second nature.
No words, just a touch that says: I’ve got you.
Then it’s gone.
She straightens, the mask snapping back into place. Her hand clamps onto the chain between my cuffs, and she jerks me forward hard enough to set my wrists on fire.
“Hey Sarge,” she calls out, voice cold and clipped. “I’m taking this one in myself. We finally got another Royal Bastard in custody, and I’m not handing him off.”
He gives her a long look, then nods once, tossing her a set of keys. “Fine. He’s all yours. See you back at the station.”
“Copy that.”
Once outside, she drags me to an SUV and slams me into the side panel so hard my teeth clack together. My shoulder hits first, then the back of my head clips the door frame as she shoves me inside.
“Watch it,” I growl, glaring at her.
She doesn’t even flinch. Just shoves me the rest of the way in like she’s been waiting years to do it.
The door slams, the engine roars, and then it’s just us. No radios. No noise. Just the sound of the city rushing by.
I stare at the back of her head, heat rising in my chest.
“What the hell, Malcolm?” she snaps finally. “Why are you wearing a Bastards patch? How and when the fuck did that even happen?”
I let out a rough laugh.
“You wanna talk about bad choices? Let’s talk about Tyrique. Why’s your brother out here strung out, Londyn? What the hell happened to him? Since when did you turn him into a fucking informant?”
“Don’t you dare talk about him like that.”
She keeps her eyes on the road, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump.
“He looks like shit and you’re using him,” I push, anger rising as everything hits me at once.
“Oh, so now you show up at my bust and suddenly I owe you something? Miss me with that,” she growls, eyes flicking toward me. “You don’t know shit about what’s going on here, so shut the fuck up!”
“I know he looks like he’s one hit away from a body bag,” I fire back.
That seems to take some of the wind out of her anger.
“You think this is easy for me? That I want him out here being a fucking snitch for me?”
“Then why the hell is he here and not in rehab? Shit, anywhere but in the middle of this,” I bark.
Londyn’s head jerks toward me, eyes sharp and furious. “Because if he wasn’t here, he’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. This is the only way I can keep him alive.” She flinches, barely, but I see it.
For a second, everything goes quiet except the hum of the engine. Her chest rises and falls like she’s holding the whole damn world in her lungs.
“I bet that sounds real noble when you’re trying to sleep at night,” I say, unmoved by her excuse. “Turning your own brother into bait, and labeling it as a way to save him just to ease your conscious? That’s real fucked up, Londyn.”
“Don’t,” she warns, voice shaking. “You don’t get to judge me, Malcolm. Not when you’re running with the Royal Bastards, and funneling drugs into my streets.”
Those final words hang between us, their weight hitting my chest.
And in the back seat, cuffed and burning with questions I don’t have answers to, I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to fix this.