Lighter Shade of Brown (Urban Fiction) BWHM

Chapter 28

A hollow point blew a chunk out of Estevan's left shoulder, before his bitch ass dived from the back door, and struck out down the street. Snatching the keys off the floor, C's replaced them in the ignition, started the car, and floored the gas. Cleo stirred next him, and he said a silent prayer to himself. Thank god Estevan's little timid ass didn't have more heart. If anyone else had pulled the move, his girl's brains would've been stuck to his windshield. Because he'd spared her, he'd make E's death swift.

Moaning, Cleo sat up in her seat holding the back of her head. "C's?" She whispered, carefully turning around to look in the back seat. "Did he shoot me?"

A frown creased her features as she noticed the crimson stains on her clothing. The blood that dripped from the back of her head saturated her curls and pasted them in clumps to her scalp. Cursing under his breath, he yanked his shirt over his head, and then held it out to her.

"Here," He said, swerving into the other lane to avoid hitting another car that had slammed on brakes in front of him. "Hold this on the back of your head until we get to the house. Hopefully ma hasn't left for work, yet. You might need some more stitches."

The expression on her face changed, and she panicked. "He shot me...he shot me in the head didn't he?"

"Man chill your ass out," he said, trying to remain calm until he touched down in the hood, but the shit was easier thought than done. Cleo's esclating panic, was feeding his inner beast, amping him and provoking him to break the chain and set him free. "He didn't shoot you. Bastardo bust you in the back of the head with the gun. You wasn't even out that long."

"Who was, he?" She asked, attempting to force peace in her tone. She would've been successful too if C's hadn't heard the waver in her voice. It was the--for sure tell--that she was only moments away from flipping her shit. "Do you know him?"

"Yeah, I know his lil' punk ass," he answered through clenched teeth. "He owes me about six g's. Should've took him off his feet a couple months back, but I went against my first mind. Gave his hoe ass a chance and told him to bring me back my money in a few days. That was three months ago. This is the first time I've seen him since then. The next time I lay eyes on his ass will be the last. Put that on you!"

A few minutes later, C's yoked the car into his driveway and slammed the gear shift into park. Jumping out the car, he crossed the street with tunnel vision. There was only one target he wanted to tag, and the bullseye was twenty-five feet away and motherfucking closing. Before Taz could react, he snatched him from the crap circle by his neck and slammed him down on the hood of Putt's El Camino. When he bucked, C's jammed the barrel of his glock under his chin.

"Where the fuck is your boy, hombre?" C's snarled. When he took too long to answer, he scratched the itch on his index finger by stroking the sharp edge of the trigger. "Won't ask you again, bitch."

"Ay, C's, man...folk," Putt stammered holding his hands up in front of him, palms out. "What the hell is goin' on? The fuck you do, Primo?" He asked, swinging his gaze from C's to Taz. "Did you fuck-,"

Taz shook his head once at Putt, while drilling him with a unit for emphasis. After their silent communication his glare found C's, and he all but dared him with his eyes to pull the trigger. The hood movie—close-up—expression was unnecessary. He planned to make the bitch eat a bullet minus all the theatrics anyway, if he didn't open his dick sucker and tell him where to find E.

Cleo rushed across the street. She pushed her way through the vatos who stood on the opposite side of the El Camino until the only distance between them was the car hood. Her gaze pleaded with him, but he ignored her wordless pleas. Instead, his gaze consumed every visible inch of her. The sight of her covered in blood incited his homicidal tendencies. It begged the cold-blooded killer in him to spark now and sort out the rest of the bullshit later. Red rage slid over his field of vision, while the steady stillness of his gun hand gave way to a tremble.