Chapter 12 Legally Blonde–ing All the Way to Jail
Legally Blonde –ing All the Way to Jail
Sunday, Now
The banging on the rear window wakes me up.
“Police!” the voice calls out.
“Huh?” I murmur, my mind peeling away from the edges of sleep.
It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am and that I’m completely cocooned in Ethan.
His nose is on my neck. His hand is resting on my stomach.
His knee is on my thigh like I’m his Charley-sized body pillow.
I really try not to dwell on how good it feels.
“Ethan,” I whisper-shout. “Ethan.” I shove his muscled thigh, and that seems to do the trick. His groan is cut short by the fuzz pounding on the side of his house.
There’s another bang at the window, and Ethan’s eyes finally pinch open. “Shit. Can you pull up the window shade and check who it is?”
“He said he was the police.” My brain, struggling to come online, finally registers that Ethan’s shirtless.
Ethan is shirtless in bed with me, toned and tanned, casually rubbing a knot out of his opposite shoulder as if this isn’t the strangest wake-up call he’s ever had.
The banging gets louder somehow. He hangs his torso off the bed and reaches for the floor.
“Just make sure he is who he says he is before we open the door.” The prospect that the man outside may not be a cop at all but, rather, a man impersonating a cop for reasons I now have no choice but to internally list (in a Keith Morrison voice) in order of gruesomeness sends shock waves up my spine.
Another knock jostles the mattress. “What exactly is your plan if he’s not who he says he is?” My tone is both groggy and razor-sharp.
He sits back up and shrugs on a T-shirt. “I’ll handle it.”
I pause to assess whether his easy posture is comforting or if he’s one of the delusional 50 percent of men who believe they could land a plane. For reasons I cannot explain, I arrive at the former and rip the magnetic blackout curtain from the back window.
The morning light is blinding. By the time my eyes adjust, three men are staring back at me: an elderly Black man, a young white man in a Minnesota Wild muscle tee, and a very real police officer.
Ethan shoots out of bed, knocking a worn leather notebook to the floor in the process.
“So he is who he says he is,” he observes, murmuring out the side of his friendliest, most puppy-eyed smile.
He gives our audience a head tilt of acknowledgment and makes his way to the side door. “Just let me do the talking, ’kay?”
“Seriously, what was your plan?”
“Bear spray,” he tells me before sliding open the door with a hard yank.
“You can’t park here.” The man’s bellow reverberates through all one hundred square feet of the van.
I watch Ethan’s profile squint into the sun from my spot on the mattress. “So sorry, Officer. We had car trouble.”
Despite his request that I let him do the talking, my insides itch to get in the middle of this altercation.
I don’t know if it’s the single semester of crim law I took or my inability to leave anyone to fend for themselves, but my legs cross the van on their own.
Based on Ethan’s lack of reaction, he seems to have expected as much.
“I can see that,” the officer responds. His eyes flick over to me, sizing me up.
I fix my bedhead ponytail and size him up right back, but I’m at a disadvantage considering I’m somewhat exposed in Ethan’s holey concert tee and cotton boxer shorts.
Officer Surly’s ruddy complexion is mostly obscured by red facial hair and a pair of wraparound Oakleys that I’m guessing he’ll also wear come wintertime on his multiple snowmobiles.
I can’t explain how, but I know with unwavering certainty that this man has uttered the words My snowmobile—well, one of my snowmobiles , whilst entering a meat raffle.
“Car trouble or not,” the officer continues, “you’re in the middle of a biking trail.”
The older man huffs from over his shoulder, a bull pawing the ground to go toe to toe over municipal park regulations. “We have the trail marathon coming through here in two hours! Unbelievable.”
The officer raises his hand. “Alf, I’m handling this.”
“I said they can’t be here, Billy. Randall and I can take it from here.” The older man, who’s wearing the shiniest silver polo Fleet Farm has on offer, gestures over at Mr. Exposed Armpits.
“Officer Louderman,” the cop says, correcting the older man.
“Did you say Alf?” Ethan asks.
Alf? Alf!
My sleep-sluggish brain is ready to burst. “Wait. Are you Alf Knudsen?”
The man lifts his chin. “Yes.”
“ The Alf Knudsen?” Ethan repeats.
The man clears his throat, seemingly caught off guard by the degree to which his reputation precedes him. “Yes. Why are you asking?” The man’s eyes dart between Officer Louderman and Randall for backup.
“And you’re Randy from Randy’s Towing?” I ask, grateful, astonished, and a little giddy, as if he’s a long-lost family member, known to be as generous as he is exceedingly wealthy.
Randy doesn’t flinch. Perhaps in Rockland Bay, this man is used to being received in the same manner as a celebrity crush. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Charlotte Beekman. I talked to you last night and begged you to tow us out of here. I offered to pay double.”
“We were very concerned about preserving the integrity of the marathon,” Ethan adds. He’s laying his Good Midwestern Boy shtick on thick.
The older man wheels around to face his former ally. “Is this true, Randall?”
Randy sucks his teeth. “It was after seven.”
“Pull them out of here!”
“The rims are all bent up. There’s practically a tree in one of ’em,” he whines back at the man.
Alf throws up his hands. “Then take the van to your brother’s shop in Lutsen. I swear, Randall, you’re even lazier than that father of yours.”
Randy meanders back to his tow truck in no hurry, even at the direction of Alf Knudsen, a man who previously inspired a Jimmy Hoffa level of obedience in local tow truck drivers.
I clasp my hands together. “Perfect. Everyone’s happy.”
Officer Billy frowns. “I’m not happy. You’re fifty feet down a bike trail in the middle of a protected coastline. Whose van is this?”
“Mine,” Ethan answers.
“Name, son?”
I position myself between Ethan and the police officer. “Is that information relevant to the matter at hand?”
“No,” Alf responds at the exact moment the cop rips off his sunglasses and demands, “Now, who are you ?”
“Charlotte Beekman,” Randy offers up from the back of his rig.
I pull my shoulders back and harness the energy of Lawyer Charley when she’s in her burgundy pantsuit that’s tailored to perfection. “That’s right. Charlotte Beekman with Anderson & Gottlieb. I’m this man’s attorney.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ethan mutters under his breath. He grabs my arm with a grip that’s begging me not to Legally Blonde him all the way to jail.
I change tactics. “Look. You want us off the marathon route, and we’re on our way to a wedding—”
“Our wedding,” Ethan ad-libs.
I swivel my head toward his. Apparently we’re going for broke, the fake-engagement kind of broke. My eyes wander all around the freckles on his face and then skitter back to the men in front of us.
“Mm-hm.” I inhale through my nose. “We’re eloping in the Boundary Waters this weekend, but we’ve run into a little bad luck.”
He pulls me against his side and I dutifully lean into him like a woman desperately in love with Ethan Powell would. His morning scruff scratches against my cheek, and for a millisecond, I forget myself and enjoy the crackle that travels across my skin at the memory of our kiss.
I clear my throat and make myself stand a bit straighter. “Officer, if you could give me and my, um, husband-to-be a little help, it would mean the world to us.”
“A wedding present,” Ethan adds, his eyes twinkling.
I direct all my energy to keeping my lip twitch under control.
Officer Louderman places his Oakleys on his forehead and tilts his head toward the van’s sad front wheels. “Fine. But Randy’s brother is an idiot. I’ll have Randy take you to my guy a bit farther north. Tell him Billy sent you and you might get a deal on those tires.”
Ethan’s shoulders relax. “Thank you, Officer.”
He nods back at us.
“Congratulations,” Alf tells us once we’re hooked to the wrecker. “It’s a beautiful day for a wedding.”
···
Randy hauls the three of us and the van to a shop forty-five minutes north.
Eventually, the road narrows through towering pine trees on either side as we enter the harbor village of Grand Marais, a vacation destination with a thriving art scene, bustling small businesses, and a coastal breeze that is as pleasant as it is hypnotic.
It’s the kind of place you visit and make genuine plans to stay.
You ask yourself whether you truly need to be within an hour’s drive of a Target or a Menards or even a supermarket.
Maybe you could become the kind of person who values experiences over things .
I bet Ethan would thrive here.
When we pull in front of a darkened Brother’s and Son’s Tires and Auto Body, we’re greeted by a Be Back Later sign that hangs below an intricate stained-glass window. Randy swipes Ethan’s credit card through a chunky POS machine and unhooks the van.
“Kyle comes in around eight,” Randy calls out through the window as his tires crunch over the pebbled drive. Then the tow truck disappears into the distance, leaving us alone.
“Do you think Kyle is the brother or the son?” I ask Ethan.
We hop onto the hood of the van so our bodies face the shoreline, but both of our necks are craned in the direction of the empty building.
“Aren’t all brothers necessarily sons?” Ethan posits.
I peer at him in my peripheral vision, but his eyes are pinched shut. “What do you think happened to the father/brother who connects the two?”
“I’m not awake enough for your word problems, Beekman. We still have an hour before this place opens. Should we explore a little?” Ethan tilts his head toward the town.