Chasing Red (Beautiful Delusions Duet #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Blue Ivanov

Stale coffee and vinyl flare around me. Every turn throws my shoulder into the police car door, and the cuffs bite deeper.

The divider rattles when the officer accelerates.

Codes crackle through the radio, meaning nothing to me and everything to them.

Sunlight streaks across the back window, hitting my head while my breath comes in short bursts I can't quite tame.

Why did they arrest Red?

Tears won't stop falling. The question piles up behind my teeth, heavy and loud, but I swallow them because anything I say becomes another line in a report that already decided who I am.

The car jerks as we turn. My shoulder slams into the door hard enough to rattle my teeth. I stare at the scratched window, at the warped reflection of my own face, and try to anchor myself to something solid.

Red's voice keeps cutting through my thoughts, sharp and commanding, telling me to go home and to get out of the way. The memory twists tight in my chest.

The car slows and turns into a narrow drive behind a building with peeling paint and concrete that looks tired of holding secrets. A side door opens, and light spills out in a flat white sheet that makes my eyes sting.

My door gets yanked open. The officer I hit snarls, "Turn your body toward me. Feet out first."

I obey.

He grabs my cuffed wrists.

"Don't touch me!" I warn and try to shrug out of his grasp.

"You're not in a position to give orders," he retorts, gripping tighter.

"Ouch! You're hurting me."

"Then stop fighting, or it's going to be worse," he threatens.

My lips tremble. I force myself to let him guide me.

He pushes me through the door, and bleach and damp paper hit my nose.

My stomach flips while my shoes squeak on tile.

We pass a row of doors that buzz and click shut behind us.

Each sound lands heavy, stacking on my ribs, and the air thickens in each new room.

I assess each one, hoping to see Red, but he's nowhere. My insides quiver harder.

What if I never see him again?

A woman with her hair pulled into a tight knot takes over. Her uniform is crisp, her expression sharper. I barely register what she says while she directs me to stand with my arms and legs apart.

She pats me down with quick, efficient hands, fingers sliding over my sides, my waistband, my pockets. Nothing slows her or softens.

"Forward," she says.

The cuffs come off. Relief rushes through my wrists, hot and dangerous, then vanishes when she points at a metal plate embedded in the counter.

"Hands."

The plate is cold enough to burn. She inks my fingers, one finger at a time, rolled and stamped onto a card.

The desk sergeant doesn't look up. "Name."

I lift my chin and square my shoulders, narrowing my eyes. "Blue Ivanov."

He peers closer. "Related to Maksim?"

"Yes. He's my uncle, and he's not going to be happy about this," I warn.

"You're being booked for assaulting an officer," he deadpans, pen scratching steadily.

"He grabbed me. He put his hands on me for no reason!" I argue.

The pen doesn't pause. "You struck him."

"I was trying to get to—"

"Stop," the woman snaps. "You can explain it later."

Another cop walks past and glances at me, mouth curling. "This is the one from the therapist's building?"

"That's her," the sergeant replies.

He studies me. "Wild. You don't look like trouble."

Heat flashes up my neck. My fingers curl against the counter, ink smearing across steel. "Well, when your colleagues put their hands on me, an innocent woman, what do you expect me to do?"

"Tell it to the judge," he mutters and disappears.

The woman points to a yellow strip on the floor. "Stand there. Chin up."

I follow orders.

She slides a placard into my hands. Numbers glare back at me. The camera clicks, and the flash feels too bright.

She grabs the cuffs and demands, "Hands out front."

I wince. "Please don't put them back on me."

"Hands out front," she firmly repeats.

I move my shaking arms forward.

She cuffs me and points to a bench bolted to the floor with plastic molded into shallow seats. "Sit."

A man snores two chairs down, mouth hanging open. A woman rocks slightly, whispering to herself. The fluorescent light above flickers, stuttering in time with my pulse.

I glance at her.

"Sit."

I drop down on the hard seat and close my eyes. My thoughts won't stay still. Red's on the pavement. Red's knees buckle. The officer's hand is on my throat. The paper bag tears, and cookies scatter across the concrete like a stupid, cruel joke.

Where is he?

"Why did you arrest my boyfriend?" I question.

No one answers.

"Hello!" I say louder.

"Sit there quietly," the woman instructs, giving me a hard warning with her eyes.

I look away, trying not to let any more tears fall, but I fail. I tug at my fingers.

"Blue Ivanov," the sergeant calls.

I rise.

"You get one call." He points to a phone hanging on the wall behind a half divider, cord stretched thin from years of yanking.

"Who's your phone call to?" he asks.

Maybe I should call Uncle Maksim.

No. I don't want my parents to know.

"Demi Ivanov," I reply.

He nods and gestures. "Two minutes."

The sticky receiver makes my skin crawl. I dial without thinking. It rings once, twice.

"You have a call from the Chicago Police Department. To accept, press one," a woman's voice rings through the phone.

A beep follows.

"Demi?" I burst out.

"Blue? Why are you calling me from the police department? Is this a joke?" she frets.

"No. I'm in jail. They arrested me."

She gasps. "What station are you at?"

"Downtown. Booking. They fingerprinted me. They...they arrested Red, and I don't know where he is!"

Her breath sharpens. "Oh God!"

"You're my only call."

"I'm coming," she says immediately.

Panic edges my voice. "Don't tell my parents."

A pause.

"Please," I beg, ready to cry again.

"Okay. I won't. Don't talk to anyone."

"I won't."

The sergeant clears his throat loudly. "Time."

"I have to go."

"I've got you," Demi says, steady and certain.

The line clicks, and I hang up.

The female officer directs me to move down a hallway.

I pass several corridors, go through another buzzing door, and jail cells fill the hallway.

I turn toward her. "Please take me back to wait for my friend in the booking area."

"Doesn't work like that." She unlocks and opens a heavy, metal door. "In you go."

My legs wobble. The moment I step inside, she shuts the door. The sound reverberates through my chest. I spin and grip the bars, my knuckles whitening. I demand, "What's happening with Dr. Mercer?"

"Not your concern." She walks away.

"It is," I argue. It is the reason my hands won't steady, and my breathing keeps stuttering. I pace the length of the cell, four steps forward, four back, trying to keep the images of Red on the ground from swallowing me whole.

I glance around the cell, feeling sicker. A metal bench hugs one wall. A toilet squats in the corner, seatless and unapologetic. A thin mattress lies folded, its surface cracked and shiny.

From the corner, a woman with smeared eyeliner watches me with open curiosity. "You cryin' over a man?"

"Mind your business," I snap.

She laughs softly. "Everything's everybody's business in here."

I turn away, focusing on the wall and the scratches carved into the paint by people who needed to leave proof they were here. The light flickers several times, then stays steady. Somewhere nearby, a door slams.

I slide down the wall and onto the metal bench, staring at my stained fingertips. Then I curl my fingers into my palms, ignore the girl whenever she talks, and stare at the bars until the vertical lines blur together.

Where is Red?

My name echoes down the corridor, sharp and clipped.

"Blue Ivanov."

I lift my head slowly, pulse thudding hard enough to bruise. The guard snarls. "On your feet."

I stand.

The woman with the smeared eyeliner snorts softly from her bench. "Good luck, sweetheart."

I ignore her and step into the hall. The guard's grip lands between my shoulder blades, not hard, just firm enough to remind me where I am in the hierarchy. We walk past a row of closed doors, each one humming with whatever or whoever's trapped behind it.

He stops at a small room with a bolted table, two chairs, and a glass window. On the other side, it's mirrored. A camera's in the corner, and a man in a wrinkled suit leans back in his chair like he owns the air.

"Sit," the guard says.

I obey.

The man in the suit smiles, all teeth and patience. He doesn't introduce himself. He flips open a thin file, as if he's already bored. He grunts, "Looks like you've had a rough morning."

I stare at the tabletop. The scratched surface has the same initials that were in the cell carved deep enough to last longer than apologies.

I wish I had a knife to carve into me right now.

I dig my fingernails into my thigh, wishing I could give myself more pain.

He asks, "You want to tell me what happened out there?"

Silence stretches.

He sighs, then leans forward. "You understand the charge, right? Assaulting an officer isn't a misunderstanding. It's serious."

I keep my mouth shut. My jaw aches from the pressure.

He studies me, eyes flicking over my face and posture. Then he adds, "You don't strike me as someone who ends up in here. Good family. Good education. No record. Adrian isn't going to like you're in here."

My throat tightens. Of course, he knows my father.

He lowers his voice. "People make bad decisions when emotions get involved. Especially when men are involved."

My nails dig deeper, but I barely feel the pain. I need more, so I twist my wrists under the cuffs, just to feel the sting.

He casually states, "You were upset about Dr. Mercer. That's understandable."

I don't look up. I stare at the scratches, not giving him anything.

He taps the file. "He called us, you know."

The words hit low and sharp. My breath stutters once before I clamp it down.