Chapter 16
Sean
As I stand in her ever-shrinking kitchen, wondering how not to screw up worse, I rasp a palm across my stubbled chin. “Listen, I apologize. I didn’t mean to bark.”
“Sorry.” While unloading the dishwasher, her hair hides her face.
“No, babe. It’s all me.” I tilt her chin, and a tear slides down her cheek. Worse than sobbing, it breaks me. A normal man would take her in his arms, make love to her, but I can’t. I can’t even breathe.
What if she dies because I let her go off half-cocked? “Going for a walk. Gotta clear my head.”
“Sure.” Her gaze sinks to the floor. “Go.”
Wishing I could stay to fix this, I tuck her chin. “I’ll be back soon. Promise.”
The hole in my leg complains as my leather sneakers pound the wet sidewalk.
Sprinkles turn to rain, drenching my sweats.
I ignore it all. Physical pain beats the mental crap any day.
Why won’t she listen to me? She’s had two close calls.
Somebody wants her dead. Is it Jeff? If so, we can’t prove it.
Who else could it be? Why does talking about my old man turn me into a raging lunatic?
I hardly remember arriving at Talon Bar, but somehow, I sit under the string of lights where the nondenominational holiday balls used to hang.
As my chest tightens a bit more, Pierre, the tatted bartender, raises a pierced brow. “Regular?”
“Please.” IPA in hand, I head for the roofed section of the terrace, claiming an empty booth beneath the vines.
Alone.
Before long, a young blonde dressed in black plops down beside me.
Jesus. Can’t a man have a moment’s peace?
Sniffling, she digs into a purse, her blond hair cascading over her features. When the sobs grow louder, I lean over, gently tapping her on the shoulder.
“Miss, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She honks into the tissue, then finishes off some pink mixed drink.
Soon after, a second one follows. When she stumbles inside for a third, I follow so I can catch Pierre’s eye. Nodding, he slides a glass of water in front of her.
“Screw you.” Throwing crumpled bills on the polished wood, she turns too fast, and her knees buckle.
As she’s about to face-plant on the floor, I grab her by the waist, praying my damn stitches hold.
Hauling her upright, I steady her. “You got a friend I can call to help you home?”
“Get away from me!” Shrieking, the hellcat rakes her nails down my arm. “Someone call 911!”
Ah hell. Letting her go, I step back, not caring how hard her ass hits the slate tiles.
“Leave her alone.” A goth patron with black lips swings her phone toward us.
“Shit.” I lift both hands high. “Not touching her.”
“You spiked my drink!” As the nutcase continues to hurl accusation after accusation, I glance at the barkeep.
“You got cams?”
“Don’t worry, mon.” Intelligent brown eyes narrow over pursed lips. “Don’t do not’in’. We figure dis out.”
By some fucking miracle, the police arrive in less than five minutes. I’ve heard of scams like this. Never thought it would happen to me. Once lawyers agree on an amount, charges will be dropped.
My foot bounces on the stool rail while the older of the two cops, a guy named Officer Curan, questions me.
“All I did was catch her when she stumbled. Videos will prove I’m right.” When I scratch my head, Curan zeros in on my forearm’s tattoo.
The hard line of his mouth softens. “Thank you for your service. Where’d you serve?”
“Afghanistan.” Memories of that time resurface, but I swallow them back fast. That shit’s got no place in my life, now.
As if to make my point, patrons cheer as the Mets score a run. When the room quiets down, the cop studies me another second before rolling up his sleeve. “I did two tours in Iraq.”
“Semper Fi.” Some of my tension drains when he almost smiles.
“We’ll sort it out, Mr. Clark. Pictures don’t lie.”
In front of the taps, Pierre frowns at his phone. “Da fuck?”
Leaning over the bar, he swipes at the screen. “Cameras go blank, den dey workin’ now. Somet’in’ not right.”
Jesus. A setup. Could this night get any worse?
The younger officer, still questioning patrons, gestures to the glass of ice water Pierre wanted the woman to drink. “Is this your beverage, miss?”
Mascara running down her face, the grifter shakes her head and points toward the terrace.
“No. I was sitting under the vines back there with him.” Like some kind of TV courtroom drama, she points at me.
The younger cop unlocks his cell before shoving it in my face. “Remember doin’ this?”
From an impossible angle, a video shows me dropping a pill into her drink.
“What the…?” Fists clenched, I snarl, “Check the metadata.”
Quiet now, lips pursed, Curan studies me beneath the dim lights.
Uncurling my fingers, I calm the fuck down. “C’mon, now. It’s complete bullshit.”
As the cellphone-recording crowd closes in, he reaches for my bicep. “How about you come to the station so we can clear this up?”
I slip free of his grasp. “For fuck’s sake. All I did was keep her from falling. Ask anyone.”
His partner, no doubt hoping to make detective any day, twists my arm behind my back. “Sir, you’re under arrest for administering an intoxicant.”
Bastard. “Lawyer.” Facing a wall of held-out phones, my thoughts turn to Lil.
God knows what she’ll think.
Fucking excellent.
Once they’ve processed me, they stick me in a holding cell with inked ex-cons and gang members.
There, I lean against the bricks with my arms folded over my chest, drawing an invisible line on the floor.
Cross it, there will be blood.
No doubt sensing I’m in the mood for a fight, the others leave me be.
It takes a full four hours before a female deputy opens the cell door and motions to me down a hall. “Clark. Follow me.”
She walks me to an old wall phone where DTMF tones sing as I key in Dante’s number.
“Jesus, what now?” My friend’s a saint, but even he has limits.
“I’m at the 83rd. Need bail.” I don’t mention my suspicions about the grifter, not while others might be listening in.
“Can’t happen until morning.” In the background, something clatters.
As he curses, the fluorescent light above me flickers. Closing my eyes, trying not to breathe in the chemical fumes of the dying ballast, I ask, “Can you at least book me a private room?”
“Sure,” he chuckles, “get right on it. Whatever you do, don’t sleep. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Thanks.” Handset away from my ear, I hang up.
Back in holding, smelling of soot, I find my spot against the wall with too much time to think about Lil as the night drags on.
How I left her doesn’t sit right. I should’ve explained why I needed air—how my father was, and still is, a narcissistic prick, and how much I hate talking about it.