25-REAGAN
Tate had found his way back onto my porch. He had taken turns with his questions. Asking if the “emo cowboy” was Masked Midnight Daddy. Forgetting about it altogether and asking to come in. Asking to go on a date at the exact moment. Asking to use the bathroom.
He would stop at his truck to quench his thirst with his friend Captain Morgan. Realizing that was the only friend he had contacted that night.
I contemplated calling the cops the next time Tate came up to the door. But as for now, he paced back and forth across my patio. Not threatening. Not trying to enter.
Finally, Vincent’s truck rolled to a stop along the yard. His headlights cut out, and Tate stood. “Shit,” I muttered and headed towards the door. The cold cut through my thin robe, and my breath fogged in front of me.
Tate’s arms stretched out wide. “Well, look who it is! The stuntman. Or cowboy. Whatever.”
Vincent steps into the yard. “You should leave.”
“Relax, man. We’re just talking. Reagan and I have history.”
“She was inside when I pulled up. So that would say otherwise. Need me to call someone?” Vincent stops on the other side of Tate.
“Can’t. Legally, I’m allowed to be here. The cops already told her that.” He glances at me behind his shoulder with a tone that says I told you so. “So unless you’re here to braid her hair or something, you can turn your ass around and leave.”
“Tate, stop,” I called out.
“Oh. I get it. You’re here to save her.” He laughs without humor. “She does this, you know. She gets scared and clings to the first guy who opens a door for her. Then opens her legs.”
Vincent marches to Tate, removing his fist from his pockets.
“What? You think you’re her fucking savior?”
Vincent stops a foot away, and I pad my slippers over the dying grass. “If I am, that makes you her problem.”
“Pfff. I’ve been with her since day one.” He sways.
“Yeah? You did a shitty job.”
Tate grinds his jaw, his eyelids remain heavy and focused on Vincent before he closes in the last of the space.
Vincent doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t move fast. He simply puts a steady palm to Tate’s chest. “Back up.”
Worry sprouts inside me, afraid that things would escalate. I needed to get them away from each other. “Tate,” I called softly.
Nothing.
“Back up.” Tate scoffs. “Look at you.”
Tate swats Vincent’s hand down with more force than needed, as he leans in again, nose nearly touching Vincent’s.
“Tate, come on!” I cry out.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do in MY house.”
Vincent just stands there, but I can see the anger rising through him as his jaw flexes.
Tate gives Vincent a two-handed shove to the shoulders—more drunk than powerful. Vincent stumbles back one step. But that was enough.
Vincent grabs Tate’s wrist to stop the next swing and drives a fist into Tate’s gut. Tate swings wild and catches Vincent’s jaw with the edge of his knuckles.
Vincent answers with another clean, instinctual punch to Tate’s ribs.
Tate sucks air through his teeth.
“Stop! Both of you, stop!”
Vincent steps back with his chest heaving. Showing restraint. He’s done.
Tate, however, wipes blood from the corner of his lip and smiles the ugliest smile I have ever seen. “What’s the matter? Done already?” He lets out a harsh laugh and continues to taunt Vincent. “Come on, cowboy. Hit me again. Show her who you REALLY are.”
Vincent shakes his head. “This is over.”
“Because you’re scared. Knew it.” Tate repeats his actions, trying to get Vincent again. “Hit me! Come on! She’ll drop you the second she sees what you really—”
Vincent is suddenly on top of Tate. The sound of a fist beating flesh sounded over and over.
“Guys, stop!” I yell out. I resist moving to them, to try and separate the two. Afraid to get caught by an elbow, boot, or fist.
Tate doesn’t try to get up. His intoxication caught up with him.
A pair of red-and-blue lights wash over the front of the house. “Vincent,” I say to warn him.
A police cruiser rolls up, blocking the driveway.
“Shit.” Tate scrambles backward as his face drains.
The same officer from earlier steps out. A hand on his duty belt, eyes sweeping the scene, and he jogs toward us.
“Alright—what the hell is going on here?”
Tate straightens instantly, switching into sweet-talk mode. “Officer—hey—look! This man attacked me!”
The officer raises a palm. “Do not start with me. I left an hour ago. Dispatch told me to come back because we had been yelling on an open line. You’re both going to tell me what happened, and you—” He shoots a finger at Tate. “—are going to stay right where I can see you.”
Vincent doesn’t say a word. He just steps closer to me, placing himself between Tate and I—instinctively.
Tate steps toward the first officer as the second one catches up. “He jumped me! He came in here ready to—”
Vincent speaks up. “That’s a lie.”
“Enough.” The officer cuts through. “If I hear either of you interrupt one more time, you’re spending the night in county. Clear?”
Tate smirks and thinks he’s whispering when he’s not. “Wouldn’t be my first time.”
The officer glances at me, standing behind Vincent with red eyes and shaking hands. “Miss, you okay?”
I nod, but my voice cracks. “They were fighting. He—Tate—shoved Vincent first.”
“Oh my God, Reagan. Really? You’re gonna take his—” Tate stepped towards me.
“Sit down.” The officer demanded.
Tate freezes, blinking, and the officer radios something under his breath, then looks back at both men.
“Here’s the deal: I was here barely an hour ago.
I gave a warning. I come back to yelling and a physical fight.
That means mandatory arrest for disorderly conduct and physical altercation. Both of you.”
My heart twists. “Wait—what? Even Vincent?”
“It’s alright.” He tries to reassure me. But it isn’t. And I already feel the guilt settling deep.
Tate throws his arms out. “You can’t arrest ME! I LIVE here!”
“Exactly why you’re going to jail instead of spending the night on her couch. Turn around.”
Tate takes a half-step back, drunk anger bubbling. “This is bullshit—Vincent is the one who—”
“Turn. Around. Final warning.” The officer steps in, grabs Tate’s wrist, and spins him around with practiced ease. Tate yelps, more dramatic than hurt.
“You’re arresting the wrong guy! He thinks he’s some kinda hero—”
“You’re done talking.” He cuffs Tate and escorts him to the police car.
The second cop steps forward. Vincent just quietly turns around and places his hands behind his back on his own. As the metal clinks around his wrist, the cop admits, “You’re making this easier than most.”
“No point in fighting it.” His voice is calm, but his jaw is tight, and his pride is burning.
My breath hitches when the metal clicks around Vincent’s second wrists. “Please—he was helping me.”
“I believe you.” He grips Vincent’s upper arm. “But the law doesn’t let me pick favorites during a physical fight. If I leave them both here, someone ends up in the ER. This is to keep everyone safe.”
Vincent turns his head toward Reagan, softening.
“Hey… It’s okay. I’ll be out shortly.”
Tate laughs, ugly and smug even while cuffed. “At least we’re going together, huh, cowboy?”
Vincent shoots him a look that could level mountains as another police officer pulls up.
The officer steps between them again. “Cut it out. Both of you.”
I stare in disbelief while they put the man that I pray every day to sign the papers in one car and the one I run to—the one who runs to me—in the other. My heart is as heavy as my jaw while red and blue lights spin across my face.
Just as the officer opens the back door for Vincent, he glances at me over his shoulder.
Even in this moment, I can’t help but lust after Vincent.
His hair was disheveled. His arms were behind his back, tied together with silver bracelets.
The look of worry mixed with anger across his face and wishing he didn’t have to leave me in this house as he dipped into the back seat lit something in me.
?
The key to my mom’s house glides in easily, worn down from years of use. Mom is sitting on the couch, and barely noticed me slip in. “Hey sweetie. What are you doing here?”
“Where’s Miles?” I question. I wasn’t ready to spill what happened to my Mom. Miles was bad enough, but I needed him right now.
“In his room. You don’t normally stop by after ten PM. Is everything okay?”
“Just fine, Mom,” I yell from down the hallway like I’m seventeen again.
I try Miles’ doorknob. It’s locked. Which makes me second-guess why I am standing outside his bedroom door right now. Gross. “Miles?” I knocked.
Miles’ muffled voice comes from inside, but I can make it out. “What the—?” The rattle from the lock comes through the door, and Miles pokes through. Eyes wide, mouth agape. “What are you doing here?”
“You busy? Can I come in?”
“Uh, yeah?” He opens the door wider. “Sure.” The room was dark with ‘Across the Universe’ playing quietly in the background, letting me know I was not disrupting his alone time.
The door latches behind me. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
I crinkle my brow, curious how he knew. “What do you mean?”
He drops his hand up and down towards me. “Look what you’re wearing. If an emergency had a uniform, it would be this.”
My sweatpants, T-shirt, half tied silk robe, and flip flops clung to me like they were traumatized by what they witnessed tonight.
“Do you want me to tell you the story or the results?”
“Don’t bore me Egg, the results.”
“Vincent is in town. But he’s in jail with Tate.”
“Reagan!” He squeals. “What happened?”
I give Miles the full story, and his face is permanently between shocked and admiring.
“Oh. My. God. Are you going to pick him up? Should we go wait outside like in Crybaby?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to go back home and pack for the weekend. I’m not staying there until I can get a restraining order against Tate.” I ignored his musical request.
“Fuck, you do need my help. Your sense of style has gone to shit.”
My phone was clutched tight in my hand when it started to ring. Masked Midnight Daddy’s name flashed on the screen, and my heart jumped.
“Put it on speakerphone!” Miles demanded.
“Fine. Don’t be weird.” I hit the answer icon. “Hello?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Hey,” he said, low and quiet. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for everything back there. For scaring you. For making this mess.”
I glanced at Miles, who was lounging across his bed with a grin that could have split the room in two. “Oh my God,” he whispered, covering his mouth. “He sounds so hot on the phone!”
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing my voice to be calm even as my pulse spiked. “Vincent… are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he exhaled, and I could almost feel him running a hand through his hair. “Just… stuck in a holding cell for a few hours. Could you pick me up?”
“Of course,” I said immediately, my stomach tightening. “Are you at the county?”
“Yes.”
Miles practically bounced in place. “Ohhh, this is perfect!”
“When?” I said into the phone.
“Just after two, if I’m good.” He whispered, with a small laugh in his tone, like the tension of cuffs and flashing lights was finally easing up. “Thanks, Reagan. I didn’t mean for you to get caught up in any of this.”
“I’m sorry about this, Vincent. I’ll be there.”
I ended the call and sank into the bed. Miles is beaming. “So it is like Crybaby.”
“Sure. Are you coming to my house with me?”
“Um, I’m not leaving your side tonight. I'm disappointed you didn't call me the second Tate showed up.” He stood, disappeared into his closet for a moment, and reappeared with the top half of his velour tracksuit.
“Fine, let’s go.” I stop before opening the door. “Oh, don’t tell Mom yet.”