Christmas with My Enemy (Feuding Hearts Christmas)

Chapter 1

one

JAMAL “BEAST” MORGAN

Detroit bleeds Christmas spirit, but all I see is red—the kind that stains concrete and doesn't wash away.

Holiday lights twinkle against fresh snow outside Metro Flex, my newest legitimate business, while I try to forget the blood I spilled defending ESB territory last night.

Another body, another step away from the clean break I'm fighting for.

For most, this is a time for love and connection, but with Pops behind bars and Elijah six feet under, my life revolves around my plan to get out of the fuckin’ game. But I’m holding down Eastside Steel Brothers until my father, Luther “Steel” Morgan, is free, even if every move takes me deeper into a game I'm learning to hate.

But the streets don't care about your plans for tomorrow when they're calling in debts today.

The weight room's familiar sounds of clanking metal and grunted breaths grounds me, drowning out memories of Elijah's voice.

"We gotta find a way out, Beast. There's more to life than this street shit."

Three years since I lost him, and his words still haunt me. Now I'm watching his son, my nephew Pop, follow the same dangerous path, despite my efforts to push him toward something better.

Pain flows through my upper arms as I push the barbell with all my strength.

Sweat beads run down my forehead, stinging my eyes as it trails down. Each drop reminds me of the price I pay for keeping fit in a world where it’s easy to lose discipline.

My bulk is part of what separates me from the rest of niggas around here. Standing at six-four and over two hundred pounds of muscle, bitch-ass niggas think twice before crossing me. But bulk can't protect against the politics of Detroit's underground, where respect is currency and betrayal comes gift-wrapped in family ties.

“Yo, ass must be eating too many damn Christmas cookies.” Bones folds over, talking shit as usual.

Quentin “Bones” Tate is known for his attention to detail and quiet strength and serves as my second-in-command and a friend. He’s discreet, loyal, and knows how to read a room. Except when we're in the gym. Here he's a pain in my ass.

“Nigga, fuck you.”

“Nah, nigga, don’t fuck me, fuck ya girl, bro. Now make that set your bitch so we can get outta here.”

My arm muscles strain against the weight, every fiber protesting under the pressure, but I push through it. I’m determined not to scratch until my set is complete. The ache in my arms is the only thing grounding me to this moment.

A grunt escapes my lips as I push for the twentieth time. I can almost hear the distant laughter and celebration of the season tugging at my conscience, but those joys are eclipsed by the callouses on my hands and the roar of the weights.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Bones grips my hand and pulls me forward.

“Damn, do you have to be so loud?” I tease, knowing the answer.

“Yes, what they gonna do? Throw me out. You own the spot.”

I shake my head, reaching for the dark green towel to wipe my face, and the faint scent of mint and sweat fills my nose. I’ll finally be done with today’s workout.

As I glance around the gym, my eyes dart over the faces of the members, each one absorbed in their own struggles, pumping iron and grinding toward their own goals.

The gym is full today. And then I see her.

Bones shifts the conversation to god only knows because I can't hear him. I watch the woman rush in, her dark locs swinging behind her as she comes to an abrupt stop just inside the door.

She's wearing tight yoga pants and a pink sweatshirt, both drenched in sweat. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath.

Something about her pulls at me in a way I can't place, familiar yet dangerous. I know she's not a regular here at Metro Flex. I'd never forget a face like that.

The woman's eyes dart around nervously before she moves closer to the large storefront window. She peers out into the parking lot, her body tense. Whatever she's looking for, it's got her on edge.

I make my way over. As I get closer, I see the worry etched on her face. She's beautiful, even with fear in her eyes. Whatever's got her spooked has my protective instincts firing. Five years running ESB has taught me to read danger. And it's rolling off her in waves.

"You good?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

She jumps slightly at the sound of my voice, turning to face me.

"I'm fine," she says, forcing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Just... catching my breath."

I nod, not buying it for a second. "You sure? Looks like you're running from something."

Her eyes widen for a split second before she schools her expression. "No, nothing like that. I just... needed a moment of peace."

"Enjoy your workout."

I return to my crew, unable to take my eyes off her. This girl has me looking over my shoulder again and again.

Her bad posture when she gets into the plank position alarms me. Without thinking, I walk back over.

"This nigga tryin' holla at the gym," Bones teases, and I don't stop until I reach her.

"Hey, ma. Your form is wrong."

"Excuse me?" Her brows lift, and a frown comes over her pretty face.

"You're gonna gain those muscles in the wrong places if you keep doing it like that. Let me. . ."

"No, thank you." Her voice draws a couple of heads in our direction.

"I'm just trying to help," I chuckle, giving her space.

"Mansplaining…," she stands, sighing like she's frustrated. "If I need help, I’ll ask. You don't have to come here and tell me what to do like you own the damn gym."

I can't help smirking as she says that because I own the gym. The fact that she doesn't know convinces me she's new around.

"My apologies, enjoy your workout." I return to my area to help Bones finish his reps.

I look in the girl's direction, and she's also looking at me. Her ass is up in the air, butt bridge. But when I catch myself staring, I look away before she yells at me for staring.

Women like her are trouble, and I like my peace.

"Hey, Beast." Pop's deep voice slices into my thoughts.

Gerald “Pop” Morgan is my nephew, my late brother’s only kid. He’s book smart, clean cut, and in his early twenties. He dropped out of college to learn the business, and I question whether he’s built for this street shit.

I glance over at Pop. He looks troubled as he stands next to the bench. We started calling him Pop as a kid, thanks to his old-man disposition. The nickname still applies.

"What's up? You know I hate being interrupted during my workout."

"There's a body outside the Metro Mirage," his voice trembles as he fiddles with the brim of his cap.

I stop. "What? When?"

"Just now. I asked the boys to hold on before they clear it off, in case you have something in mind."

"Call them and take care of it." I expect him to know how to handle these things.

"Right, I'll do that. But if it’s a setup. . ."

“Get rid of the fucking body, Pop!”

“Right.” He hurries off, getting on a call as he walks away.

The drive to continue working out is gone. I hiss and dash to the changing room. In a blink, I swap my drenched workout gear for a hoodie and sweats.

"You, ready to roll, boss," Bones asks with the keys in hand.

"Yeah, I'll meet you there." I glance around, looking for the beauty from earlier, but she's no longer here, as far as I can see. A tiny sense of loss runs through me, then I remember her sharp tongue and fight off the feeling.

That's not my kind of woman. I prefer intelligent and humorous women like Beauti, my ChatterSpot friend. Okay, this isn’t the time to think about Beauti!

Snowflakes cling to my sweatshirt as I hurry to the parking lot, jump into my black Cadillac Escalade, and steer onto the street. The club is ten minutes away. That's ten long minutes of anxiety. Pop should be able to handle this, but it’s never a bad idea to follow up on the situation.

Metro Mirage marries high-end luxury with the gritty essence of Detroit. Nestled in a bustling area, it is a go-to spot for the city's elite. And it's the cornerstone of my exit strategy—the club and my chain of gyms. But all of it could go to shit if ESB bullshit fucks it up.

I approach the building and see three patrol cars outside. That's not good for business. Looking at the flashing blue and red lights through the light snowfall makes me pissed.

We could have avoided this situation if Pop had told the crew to dispose of the body.

My mind races with frustration at the thought of the mess we are now embroiled in, a stain on the reputation I've fought so hard to build.

I maneuver the Escalade into a tight spot, a few spaces down from my usual spot since it’s blocked by the cops, carefully avoiding the growing crowd of onlookers that even the snowy weather can’t deter.

The yellow barricade tapes dance in the gentle breeze. My eyes dart to the ambulance and the small crowd standing around.

Safe to say, they didn’t get here in time. With my jaws clenched, and my nose flared, I push through the small crowd and get to the Do Not Cross sign.

"No, you can't be here," a cop yells at me.

"This is my club!"

The cop purses his lips. “Okay, we’ve got some questions for you.”

He lets me through and places a firm hand on my shoulder, pointing to the only man at the scene in a suit. He turns, and I recognize homicide Detective Wesley Edwards. He’s put on weight since the last time I saw him.

"He says he owns the place." The cop stops in front of Edwards.

“Yeah, I know Jamal Morgan quite well.” Detective Edwards walks over. “Beast, mind explaining what the hell happened here?”

"No idea."

Detective Edwards follows up with a barrage of questions. What do you know about the dead man? Did you or any of your boys do it? Why is there a body outside your club? I answer with as much calmness as I can muster.

"Are you sure you know nothing about this?" Edwards's brows hitch.

"I'll be super dumb to shoot someone and leave the body behind my business. So, how about you find who did this shit?"

Detective Edwards halts and shoots me a knowing look.

"I will, and I'm sure we'll have to revisit this conversation. Because the body didn't just fall from the sky."

There's a hint of threat, but I don't give a fuck. I've had occasional brushes with the law, but this won't be one of those situations.

The Detroit Kingz, long-time rivals to my crew, are trying to set us up. Every since Kingz son died, our fucked up situation got worse.

"Who is it?"

"Just a second." Edwards walks over to the body and talks to the cops standing around.

Let me find out it's those niggas dumping bodies in my backyard. I wait, scanning the crowd for my crew. Then I see Bones approaching.

I lean in close for only him to hear. "I want to know who, what, when, where, and why. Now ."

"Yes, sir." Bones slips back into the crowd and disappears before Detective Edwards flags me over.

Just like I have nothing with this dead body has nothing to do with any of my boys.

"Come," Edwards says, leading the way to the body in the black bag. With his gloved hand, he pulls down the bag's zipper.

The kid has cornrows, and his lips have dried blood on them. My eyes land on the large hole in his chest. He was stabbed, not shot.

"Do you have any idea who he was?" Edwards asks. His eyes are fixed on me as I peer at the dead guy.

I don’t know if he’s searching my face for signs of guilt. Whatever he’s doing, he’s looking at the wrong guy.

"Nah. I've never seen this dude before."

Edwards's lips tighten, and his face tells me he doesn't think I'm telling the truth. "We'll investigate," he murmurs again.

I don't care what the cops think about me. My crew has nothing to do with this body, but I'll find out who does.

Detective Edwards zips the bag and walks away, leaving me rooted to the spot. The snowfall intensifies. I pull the club door open and step inside. The blast of warm air hits me, carrying the lingering scent of top-shelf liquor and designer perfume. But the usual buzz of laughter and music is replaced by an eerie silence.

I round the corner and see Pop and a couple of guys waiting for me at the blackjack table.

"The cops won't give us trouble, right?" Pop inquires, walking over to my side. If he weren't my nephew, I would have punched him in his fucking face.

"Why didn't you get rid of it?"

"The cops were here before I got back."

"I mean the moment the boys told you about it. You could have given an instant order to do something about it. You know the rules. Don’t slack or you’ll be a dead man."

Pop goes with me to the center of the room where the other boys are gathered. I stand at the head of the table, surveying the room. Every face turned towards me belongs to Eastside Steel Brothers.

My father's legacy. My responsibility.

"Listen up," I say, my voice cutting through the tension. "We got a situation. Someone's trying to fuck with us."

Murmurs ripple through the crew. I raise a hand, silencing them.

I think of my father locked up but still casting a long shadow. He entrusted me with ESB, and I'll be damned if I let him down.

"Fifty bands to the nigga that tells me who's stupid enough to dump bodies at our door."

Bones steps up. "I put out the word. It won't take long to shake something loose."

I nod, appreciating his loyalty. "Good. I want names. I want reasons. And I want it yesterday."

The crew starts to disperse, each member knowing their role. This is how we operate–efficient, ruthless when necessary, always united.

Before heading home, I grab a glass of rum and coke to lift my mood. As soon as I step out, the cops rush in.

"What the fuck is going on?" I yell. In a blink, my boys are all forced out of the building.

Detective Edwards is getting on my nerves. But apparently, he's gone and left this shifty-eyed pig to close down my spot.

"What's going on here, Officer?' I ask.

"Sealing the place up."

"Why?"

"We need to investigate properly. Don't worry we're not arresting anyone. At least not yet."

So much for the fucking holiday spirit. I watch the cops seal up Metro Mirage, my dream of legitimacy crumbling like the snowflakes melting on my hoodie.

Christmas spirit be damned—someone's trying to fuck with me. Whether it's Detroit Kingz or someone else, they're about to learn why they call me Beast.