Chapter 27
I’m more comfortable in a police station than the average person.
But it’s still daunting, sitting in an interrogation room, waiting to be questioned.
My knee bounces nervously beneath the table, and I hope the cameras in here can’t pick that angle up.
It’d probably be interpreted as an admission of guilt.
And I am guilty, technically, but I only hit him once.
Didn’t break his nose. Nichols was back on his feet a few seconds later, spewing threats.
Despite what my dad did, I’m more popular around here than Brett or the former chief is.
But my father sure didn’t do himself any favors with the local police force.
The door opens.
I glance up, knee stilling.
“You grew up, kid.”
I exhale, recognizing the officer. Mason Howard is who I would have requested, if I’d been given a choice of interrogator. He’d always hand me lollipops when I visited my dad at work. More importantly, he’s a decent guy. Fair. The type of cop I thought my father was.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Good to see you.”
“You too. Wish it were at a game.”
I nod once. Mason has a kid a couple of years younger than me. We played together on a few teams over the years. I think Max Howard used to look up to me the same way Mason Howard used to look up to my dad.
I wonder if Mason knows I quit baseball. Probably.
“All right,” Mason says, settling across from me and flipping open a folder. “You know why you’re here?”
“I think so,” I reply, unsure if that’s the proper response.
Wondering if I should request a lawyer. I’ve never been to a police station for any reason unrelated to my father’s job.
I’ve been disciplined at school for skipping or for not turning in assignments on time.
My dad doled out his version of punishments at home.
But I’ve never actually been arrested or had any interaction with a cop who wasn’t a coworker of my dad’s.
“A Mr. Brett Nichols alleges an altercation took place between you and him on July 19, around 11 p.m., at Lucky’s Bar. Were you there that evening?”
“Yes.”
“Were you drinking?”
“No.”
Mason nods. “The bartender, Owen Powell, confirmed you weren’t served.” He flips to a new page. “Was Mr. Nichols drinking?”
“I think so. I’m not certain. He walked by our table after we arrived, and he was holding a beer then. I never actually saw him drinking.”
Another nod. “Now, for the altercation itself. Mr. Nichols alleges you approached him?”
I swallow. “That’s true.”
“Why did you approach him?”
“It looked like—he seemed to be bothering a friend of mine.”
“And that friend is?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Mason flips through more papers. “According to witness reports, it was Wren Kensington.”
I nod once.
“I need a verbal confirmation for the record, Sawyer.”
“That’s correct.”
“All right. So, you believed Mr. Nichols was harassing Ms. Kensington. Then what happened?”
“I went over there to tell him to leave her alone.”
“Did Ms. Kensington ask for your assistance?”
“I could tell he was making her uncomfortable. But, no, she didn’t explicitly ask me to get involved. We were across the room from each other.”
“What happened once you went over there?”
“I asked him to move away. Brett wasn’t listening. He got aggressive, was in my face. So … I hit him.” I shift in my chair, quickly adding, “Only once.”
“Reports stated Mr. Nichols fell to the floor. You only hit him once?”
I’m probably imagining it, but there’s a glimmer of what looks like amusement, maybe even pride, in his eyes. I wonder what my dad would think if he still worked here and quickly banish the thought.
“Correct.” I clear my throat. “I wasn’t trying to injure him. Just get through to him that I wasn’t fuc—I mean, kidding around.”
Mason closes the folder. “Thanks for coming down, Sawyer.”
I glance around the bare room. “That’s … it?”
“That’s it. Your statement was corroborated by other witness statements.
Mr. Nichols was described as aggressive and volatile by multiple patrons.
They also saw him drinking. That does not mean your response was warranted, but it doesn’t make him a credible witness either.
After he was informed of that, Mr. Nichols opted to drop all charges.
Lucky’s Bar also chose not to pursue the matter.
I just needed to take your statement as part of the procedure before we officially closed the matter. ”
Mason stands, holding a hand out to me. I stand, too, shaking it.
He doesn’t let go right away. “Off the record, you got lucky, Sawyer. If fewer people had seen him drinking or if you’d broken his nose … we’d be having a very different conversation. I know you’ve had a rough go of it lately, but that’s no excuse to be getting in bar fights.”
“I understand. It won’t happen again.”
“Good. Also, your father was wrong about a lot of things. But he was right about one: plenty of people in this town play by their own rules. Powerful friends can become enemies. Be careful.”
I frown. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mason sighs. “Someone hired a real pit bull of a lawyer on your behalf. She had a case prepped against Lucky’s for serving minors and dug up a lot on Mr. Nichols that discredited him even more than being intoxicated at the time of the incident.
Someone was looking out for you because I know you didn’t hire her yourself.
Those types of people work for who is paying them.
They can make problems disappear … or appear.
It worked out for you, this time, but don’t assume it always will. ”
I nod as our hands drop. “Thanks.”
Mason ushers me out of the room and past the reception desk. “I’m rooting for you, Sawyer,” he says, shaking my hand one final time before heading toward the bullpen.
I call a, “Thanks,” after him, then head outside and climb into my truck.
I told Dusty I had a doctor’s appointment this morning to explain my tardy arrival at work.
He’s standing in the lot when I arrive, talking to one of the valets, giving me a scrutinizing look as I approach. “Everything okay, Bennett?”
“Great,” I say, not lying this time.
I had no real idea how that meeting was going to play out, and it couldn’t have gone much better. I’m still bothered by Mason’s warning and the niggling realization that I only know one person who would have hired a fancy lawyer on my behalf.
I pay attention as Dusty gives me a list of tasks to prioritize, then step over the rope fence and head for the yacht club’s main building as soon as Dusty heads to his office. Technically, we’re allowed to stop in the kitchen to grab water, coffee, whatever.
I do grab some coffee, and then I go looking for Wren.
She’s out on the patio, cleaning menus with a couple of the other waitresses. It’s too early for lunch, so the tables are all deserted.
I nod greetings to Macie and Abby, then focus on Wren. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Mmhmm.” She tosses the wipe aside and stands, walking over to me.
The sun is bright and brilliant today, turning her hair golden. She’s wearing the standard uniform, but I scan it like I’ve never seen the polo and skirt before. I focus on her mouth last, watching it curve up as she notices me look at her.
Some of my annoyance fades. We haven’t really spoken since Saturday night, and I missed her. When I'm around Wren, it’s too easy to forget about other important things, which is how I ended up at the police station this morning.
The reminder counteracts a little of the lust heating my bloodstream. That’s another problem of mine—no matter how many times we have sex, I still wind up wanting more.
“This way,” I say, walking down the ramp to one of the private docks.
The restaurant isn’t open yet, but the marina is. I don’t want anyone overhearing us.
“Did you hire me a lawyer?” I ask, turning to face Wren as soon as we’ve reached an empty slip with no one nearby.
“No.”
I cross my arms. “Someone hired a fancy lawyer who dug up dirt on Nichols and helped get the charges dropped. That wasn’t you?”
“They dropped the charges?” Wren asks, her attempt at sounding surprised pretty underwhelming.
“Don’t lie to me, Wren. You’re the only person who knew what happened with the money to hire someone like that. Admit it.”
“I didn’t hire anyone.” This time, she emphasizes the pronoun.
I scowl, unamused by the technicalities. “Who did, then?”
“I asked my sister for a favor. She’s starting at Harvard Law in the fall, and she spent all of college doing internships at top firms. I explained the basics. Rory knew who to call.”
One phone call. That’s all it takes to fix a mistake in Wren’s world.
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
She scoffs. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”
“They were going to drop the charges anyway!”
“That wasn’t a guarantee.”
“It was my mess to handle, Wren.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You hit him because of me.”
I sigh. “I told you, there’s bad blood there. And I’m the one who chose to swing. None of it was your fault.”
She holds my gaze. “Then why is everyone talking about how shocking it was? How that guy goads you every chance he gets, and you never ever take the bait?”
“They’re exaggerating,” I say, although … not really. “You know how gossip is.”
Wren looks down. Low enough that her ponytail spills over one shoulder, helping to hide her expression.
“You knew him crowding me like that and not listening would remind me of what had happened with Third. And you only knew that because I had told you what happened with him. So, it was my fault, and I—”
“You’re wrong.” I touch her chin, lifting it until her face is visible.
“I meant what I said—that punch had been a long time coming between us. Yeah, I got mad he was all over you. But I would have been pissed about it, no matter what you’d shared—or not shared—with me before.
For the record, I’m glad you told me. I was the one who hit him, and I was the one who should have handled the consequences. I’ll pay you back the legal fees.”
Wren shakes her head. “I’m not taking your money.”
“I’m not taking your charity. I wasn’t asking, Wren. Like you didn’t ask before getting involved.”
We stare at each other, both too stubborn to back down.
Until she asks abruptly, “What are we?”
Probably the one question that could catch me off guard right now.
Because there’s never been an obvious answer to it, not since the night we met and I jumped off that cliff after her for some idiotic reason, and it’s only grown more complicated over time.
It feels especially complex right now because everyone is right—I don’t get in fights.
It’s always been a hard limit for me, ever since the truth about my dad came out.
We look alike. I spent most of my childhood trying to impress and please him.
The comparisons were there, but one thing I could control was my temper.
Until Wren was involved.
We haven’t felt like strangers since the first time we had sex.
We rarely seem like friends—the footing between us is too rocky compared to the smooth ease of spending time with Gus or Wade or anyone else I place in that category.
Our chemistry is flammable—and not only in person.
She’s the only person I can picture to get off solo anymore.
The scene with Brett took place because I was trying to protect her. And this is another attempt—to protect her from me. Because I’ll let her down, over and over again, and she should have learned that lesson by now.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
The silence drags on until she takes a step back, putting more distance between us. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. Good talk, Cap.”
I swear under my breath as she spins and walks away, blonde ponytail swishing as she heads for the ramp.
“How much was the lawyer?” I call after her.
“Nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents,” she says, passing a sign that advertises the lunch special as … nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents.
I groan, drag my palms down my face, and then head over to the marina to do something productive.