kill. And that night. That night Tre ran...just like he ran this night.
Always running from death.
He slammed back to the present as doors to the houses around him began to open. In the clear cold, he heard the sirens.
Run, Tre. Get up and go. Pretend this night never happened, just like you pretended the other night had never happened.
In. Out. Breathe.
But Trevon was no longer an eleven-year-old boy. He was a man, and though he wanted to forget all the bad in life, he knew he couldn’t run from it.
He stood as a few other people pushed their heads out their doors into the night, like turtles finally brave enough to see what had gone down on their street.
Tre brushed himself off and walked back to the Charger. He didn’t want to go, but he did. Grady had been a banger, but he’d also been his friend. They’d thrown the ball together in the street, shot hoops, eyed pretty girls and created music together. Tre wasn’t the man Grady was; he was the man he’d promised his mama he’d be. He was the man Big Mama had raised. He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t going to turn his head the other way, not when Grady might need him.
As he approached the Charger, Tre saw his friend facedown, his gun about a foot from him, blood pooling under his chest. Grady’s face was turned away from Tre, eyes open. Tre knew he was gone. He didn’t touch anything. He caught sight of Crazy Eight lying slumped at the foot of the old house’s steps. Another man, maybe the one Crazy Eight chased, lay half in the open door, half out. Not one of them moved.
Then Tre heard a moan from inside the car.
Hoops.
He jogged to the passenger’s side as an older man crossed the street, approaching the car as if it contained a bomb. Tre looked at the man who wore a faded Hornets shirt and appeared scared stiff. “Call 911.”
“Already did,” the older man said, eyeing the car. “Someone still in there?”
“Yeah,” Tre said, opening the door. “I’m going to see if I can help.”
“You with them?” the man asked, still on guard, shifting his gaze up and down the street.
“No, sir. I’m definitely not with them.”
* * *
DEZ STIRRED as the phone rang. He didn’t want to give up the dreams, the piano beneath his hands and something to do with a recording contract and a hungry dog sitting outside the bar, but the ringing was insistent.
He shifted in the bed and felt Eleanor solid against his back.
“Phone,” he muttered, flopping an arm over, inching toward the edge of the bed.
“Mmmm?” she said, rolling onto her other side.
He pushed into a sitting position, fumbling for the wireless sitting on the mirrored bedside table. He found it, pressed a button. “Hello?”
“Hello? Mrs. Theriot?”
He passed a hand over his face and glanced at the alarm clock. 1:45 a.m. “Eleanor.”
She stirred, blinking as he flicked on the lamp. “What is it?”
“Phone,” he said, shoving it her way.
Even though sleepy, her eyes widened. Never a good call when it came in the wee hours of the morning. “Blakely?”
He shrugged.
“Hello?” she said, turning panicked eyes to him. He tried to portray calmness, but it was hard with his eyes still not adjusted to the light.
“Wait a sec. You’re talking about Tre? Trevon Jackson? A shooting?” Her eyes widened.
Dez slid out of bed and grabbed his pants from the fancy armchair, and then searched for his shirt.
“Of course. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Eleanor hung up the phone and pushed a hand through her tousled hair. “Tre’s in trouble. There was a drive-by shooting and he was involved somehow. They have him down at the station. He asked them to call me.”
Dez buttoned his shirt. “You don’t have to go. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, he’s my employee and he called me. We’ll go together,” she said, throwing back the covers, wearing nothing but the skin the good Lord gave her. A small part of him wanted to sweep her back into bed for one more round of finding the good in life in Eleanor’s arms. But the rest of him knew they had something to do—help a young man who had nowhere else to turn.
Ten minutes later they backed out of Eleanor’s drive and headed toward downtown.
“I didn’t know Tre was involved in gangs,” Eleanor muttered, her hair in a crooked ponytail, which made her look cute in a slouchy way. Street