Page 25 of More Than a Hero (Baytown Heroes #12)

ROBERT

Robert’s hands trembled as he picked up the old-fashioned phone receiver, his grip unsteady.

He hadn’t called anyone when they’d first booked him…

hadn’t wanted to. He’d tried to act tough by wearing the kind of expression that said he didn’t give a damn.

Maybe if he looked mean enough, they’d leave him alone.

That was what he’d told himself. But the reality of sitting in a drab cell, the weight of his choices pressing against his chest, had him feeling anything but tough.

All those rumors about jail that made grown men piss themselves had been swirling in his mind ever since they’d locked the door behind him.

He thought he could fake his way through it, but after the detectives finished questioning him, it hit him like a freight train.

He wasn’t just going to walk out of here.

Not when he’d been in a car packed with things he didn’t even know were there.

Not when he was tied to a guy like that.

He closed his eyes, but the memories played in his mind like a horror movie on repeat. He shook his head. The name had sounded slick like something out of a movie. But now, it felt cheap. Fake. The detective had said his real name was Lashawn. And just like that, the illusion cracked wide open.

It had all seemed so easy at the time. Like playing pretend when he was a kid.

A tough guy rolled up in a nice car, the kind that turned heads.

Robert had rarely seen anything that flashy near their apartment complex.

So when Lashawn stepped out, Robert couldn’t look away.

The dude wasn’t even that scary, not really.

Yeah, he had tattoos, but nothing crazy.

It was the way he carried himself. The way he moved, like he had the whole world in his back pocket.

Like he didn’t give a shit about anyone’s rules.

That was what Robert wanted—to be the kind of guy people noticed, the kind they respected.

And the best part? Lashawn actually talked to him. Treated him like he was someone. Didn’t brush him off like some annoying kid. He asked questions and listened. Made Robert feel important. And when he came around again, he acted like he was happy to see him. Like Robert mattered.

God, I wanted that so bad.

Lashawn had fed him stories about moving and starting fresh. That kind of freedom sounded impossible. People in Robert’s town didn’t leave. They were born on the Shore, lived on the Shore, and died on the Shore. The idea of getting in a car and just going? That was the dream.

Then Lashawn talked about his people, his family, his friends.

He never said the word Bloods, but Robert wasn’t stupid.

The red and black clothes and the inked letters across his knuckles made it obvious.

But instead of scaring him, it made Lashawn look even cooler.

Even tougher. A whole lot more than the nobodies Robert was surrounded by every day.

So when Lashawn asked him to go for a drive and grab something to eat, Robert didn’t hesitate. He wanted that moment of rolling up to a diner, stepping out of a car like that, feeling like he belonged to something bigger. More than just another kid going nowhere fast.

But reality had a way of slamming back hard.

His stomach twisted as the memory crashed over him. The way the air had been sucked out of his lungs when he barely had time to buckle before Lashawn floored it. The tires shrieked against the pavement as they fishtailed out of the parking lot.

"You gotta take it easy, man," Robert had warned, his voice uneven. "Cops patrol here all the time."

Lashawn had just laughed, leaning back in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the wheel.

Then he pressed the gas harder. Robert’s pulse had spiked with fear and then something dangerously close to exhilaration.

This. This was what being cool felt like.

Untouchable. Unbothered by society’s bullshit rules.

But the thrill didn’t last. A few minutes later, the sharp wail of sirens cut through the air. The moment Robert saw the flashing red and blue lights in the mirror, a new kind of fear hit him. Not the adrenaline rush of speeding. Not the shallow worry of getting caught doing something dumb.

This was different. This was the kind of fear that settled deep in his bones. The kind that whispered, “Oh shit, we’re in real trouble.”

And no matter how much he told himself he hadn’t been the one driving, that he hadn’t known what was in the car, none of it mattered.

Because after sitting in this cell, and now, gripping a phone with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, he knew one thing for sure…

he wasn’t walking away from this. Not without a fight.

Lashawn hadn’t stopped. If anything, he slammed his foot harder against the gas pedal. Robert’s fingers had dug into the armrest, his knuckles going white, stomach twisting into knots.

“Slow down, man!” he’d begged, his voice barely holding steady.

Lashawn had turned to him, eyes gleaming with something dark and manic, lips curling into a sneer. “Shut the fuck up, kid.”

And that was when Robert knew—this wasn’t a joyride. This wasn’t some harmless stunt. Every nerve in his body was screaming as adrenaline coursed through his veins like fire.

More sirens joined the first, their shrieks slicing through the air.

Lashawn didn’t even flinch. Instead, he jerked the wheel, swerving off the main road.

Robert’s gut clenched. He knew these roads.

God knows he’d spent years bouncing along them on the school bus.

The dips and bumps weren’t made for high-speed chases.

But Lashawn only laughed, gripping the wheel tighter as the car went airborne, tires slamming back down with brutal force.

With every jarring thump, Robert felt his stomach lurch, his heart hammering so hard it hurt. Another sharp turn. Then another. The realization dawned, cold and brutal. They were heading straight into Baytown. A town. A place with people. Families. Kids.

Robert’s breath hitched. His mind flashed with images of a speeding car barreling through crosswalks, slamming into bikes, and tearing through lives like it was nothing. “Stop! You gotta stop! This isn’t the right way!” he screamed.

Lashawn had both hands on the wheel now, but with a snarl, he lashed out, slamming his fist into Robert’s chest. “I said shut the fuck up.”

Ahead, the flash of police lights illuminated a line of officers throwing something onto the road.

“Fuck!” Lashawn roared, jerking the wheel hard. But he miscalculated. The car veered toward the ditch, hit the culvert, and flipped onto Robert’s side.

Robert’s head bounced back as the airbag detonated, slamming into his face and chest. He gasped, then coughed, sputtering and clawing at the bag. His hands shook as he fumbled for the seat belt.

Lashawn was already moving. Unbuckling, then climbing onto the console, he pushed open the driver’s door that was now above them.

“Help me!” Robert cried, his voice breaking.

Lashawn didn’t even glance back. He just launched himself off the wrecked car and ran, leaving Robert trapped.

Deputies swarmed, weapons drawn, shouting commands that Robert barely processed. “ Hands up. Stay still.” And at that moment, lying in the wreckage, guns pointed at him, the weight of everything came crashing down.

He wasn’t a badass. He was just a scared kid in a ditch, caught in something way bigger than himself.

They pulled him out of the wreckage and placed him on the ground. The harsh glare of a flashlight cut through the terror, blinding him as a rescue worker leaned in close, checking his eyes.

“You hurt anywhere?” the man asked, his voice steady but sharp.

Robert shook his head. His body ached, but nothing felt broken. His head throbbed, but when the medic checked his pupils, his brain wasn’t rattling too badly. No concussion. Just a lucky idiot sitting in the dirt, hands shaking, trying to catch his breath.

But luck only stretched so far. Because a second later, cold metal cuffs snapped around his wrists, and a deputy hauled him to his feet.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even ask questions.

He just let them shove him into the back of the police car, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his skull.

He’d stared out the window as the cruiser pulled away, the flashing lights reflecting against the glass.

He thought about his family. His mom was at work.

His grandpa was probably waiting for the kids to get off the bus, unaware that his grandson was now locked in the back of a cop car, heading straight for a cell.

But what about later? Would his mom come home to find a message from the police? Would his grandpa answer the phone and hear that Robert had officially thrown his life into the gutter?

Would they still look at him the same? The thought made his stomach twist so hard he thought he might throw up.

By the time they booked him and took him to a lone cell, the fake toughness he’d been clinging to had shattered into a million pieces. The reality was cold, brutal, and staring him right in the face. He’d tried to act tough when the detectives interviewed him, but that act quickly fell apart.

“Make your fuckin’ call, asshole!”

The shout from behind jolted him, snapping him back to the present. Robert swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. His hands were still shaking. He forced himself to punch in the number, his fingers trembling over the keys.

It rang once. Twice. Then his grandfather’s voice, gruff and sharp, came through the line. “Hello?”

“Grandpa?”

“Where are you, boy? I almost didn’t pick up, then saw the sheriff’s department on the ID.”

Robert’s throat tightened. He forced the words out. “Grandpa, it’s Robert—I messed up. I messed up real bad.”