Tough Love by Nancy Holder Read Free Book Online

a war that don’'t have to be,”" Mr. Briscombe protested. “"All this hate, it ain’'t right. It’'s not what your mama would want for you, boy.”"
    Jamal set his jaw. “"You stood up, Daddy D, when you were my age. At the lunch counter and shit. But you thought you got it done when black men could have the same shit jobs as white trash pigs.”" His voice dripped with contempt. “"Look how you live. Whipped. And afraid.”"
    “"Afraid of you gangbangers.”" Mr. Briscombe spit at Jamal’'s feet.
    “"You’'re just as afraid,”" Ham said to Jamal.
    “"Screw you. I am not,”" Jamal replied, sneering. “"I got backup. Lots of it.”"
    “"You’'re not my boy no more,”" Mr. Briscombe blurted out. “"You’'re dead, too.”"
    Jamal blinked. There was silence, except for the wheezing of the old man’'s increasingly labored breathing. After a few seconds, Jamal’'s lips parted and his eyes welled. “"Daddy D—--”"
    The old man turned his head. “"You don’'t have the right to call me that no more. Don’'t come back to my house. You want the streets, live on them.”"
    Jamal was crestfallen. “"It’'s for Malcolm—--”"
    “"It’'s not,”" Mr. Briscombe whispered. “"You don’'t care, you don’'t—--”"
    “"Of course I do! I’'ll get out,”" Jamal cried, his voice breaking. “"I will. After we do what we need to for Malcolm.”"
    “"How? By killing one of their little brothers?”"
    Mr. Briscombe wheeled away. Ham gently took his arm and led him toward his truck; the shuffle of the man’'s feet was like sandpaper against the blacktop.
    Grace studied Jamal’'s face as he watched his grandfather. He was torn, and that was good. Maybe that would slow him down, buy her some time. She moved in close.
    “"What if I can find the people who did this? The individuals? And I arrest their asses and get ’'em charged?”" she asked.
    Jamal snorted. “"Even with murder one, y’'all will just let them out in a year or two. They know that. Our way …... is more permanent.”"
    Shit. Shit shit shit. It was like she was back in that filthy alley, losing that other boy.
    “"What if it wasn’'t the Grandes? What if all you do is piss them off, and they retaliate? Then you’'ll take another swing at them for no good reason. And sooner or later, you’'ll die. You know that.”"
    “"Everybody dies,”" he said. It was what stupid-ass gang members always said.
    “"Okay, what if you die twenty years after you’'re confined to a wheelchair,”" she rejoined. “"Or after your face is shot off and when women look at you, they scream. It’'s not always zero to sixty, Jamal. Sometimes it’'s wearing diapers and a big, hairy guy on probation helping you out of bed.”"
    They had had this conversation before, when she flipped him. Maybe it would work again. Nothing else was working.
    “"I got to be loyal,”" he insisted.
    She jabbed her finger at him. “"Hey, I put it on the line for you, more than once. Where’'s your loyalty to me, man? What if one of your brothers takes a shot at me?”"
    At that, his hard, battered face softened. “"I-I know,”" he said. His eyes welled. “"But did you see what they did to Malcolm?”" He heaved a sob. Jesus, he was a mess. Only three years older than Clay; she had to remember that.
    “"I did,”" Grace said. “"It was horrible.”" She laid a hand on his arm.
    Somehow it was the wrong thing to do. Stiffening, he raised his chin. “"We’'re both after the same thing. You do it your way. We’'ll do it ours. Whoever gets them first, maybe after that I’'ll do what you say. You can take us someplace …...”"
    Then he lost the attitude and stared back down at the ground, and Grace knew he was still lying. He couldn’'t see himself leaving the Sixty-Sixes, ever, unless it was in a coffin. And what did she think she could do about it? Gallop into their crib, guns blazing, and sling him onto the back of her horse?
    Hell, yeah.
    Jamal jerked, and Grace heard