Chapter 16 Miles #3
She hums. “Don’t make it too long this time.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I turn before she can ask where I’m going.
Outside, the air is colder than I expect, sharp enough to sting. The streetlamps throw pale rings on the pavement, and for the first time in a while, I feel almost sober.
Until I check my phone.
Five missed calls. Three from Rico. Two from an unlisted number I don’t recognize.
“Shit.”
I call him back, pacing toward the car. He answers on the first ring.
“Where the hell have you been?” Rico’s voice is low, sharp, all business.
“Had some things to handle,” I say.
“Well, handle them faster next time. Drop time got moved up two hours. You were supposed to be there twenty minutes ago.”
My stomach drops.
“Rico—”
“Don’t even start,” he snaps. “You think your uncle’s gonna care why you were late? You think he forgot what happened last time?”
I do. I remember it too clearly—the crack of a ringed hand across my face, the taste of blood, his voice calm and cold when he said, you make me look like a fool again, and you’ll wish I’d killed you instead.
A shudder runs through me before I can stop it.
“I’m on my way,” I say, already sliding into the car.
“You better be.”
He hangs up.
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat, jam the key into the ignition, and floor it.
The stolen Lexus purrs to life, smooth and silent. My reflection in the rearview looks like a ghost—hollow-eyed, jaw tight.
As the city blurs by, I replay everything in my head, trying to focus on the road and not the weight sitting in my chest.
That’s when it hits me.
The one detail my stupid, sex-drunk brain didn’t process until now.
No condom.
I blink. Once. Twice. The feel of her, the heat, the way everything blurred and cracked open.
“Oh, fuck.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening.
Of all the reckless things I’ve done tonight—stealing a car, breaking into a dorm, sleeping with her—that’s the one that might ruin everything.
I curse under my breath, slamming my palm against the steering wheel.
The light ahead turns red. I stop, chest heaving. My pulse won’t settle.
Sirens flash in my rearview mirror.
Red and blue.
“Fuck.”
I pull over, trying to look calm. The cop car eases up behind me. Two officers step out—one older, one fresh-faced, both wearing mirrored sunglasses even though it’s pitch dark. That’s never a good sign.
One taps on my window. I roll it down.
“Evening,” he says. “License and registration?”
“Yeah, sure.” I hand over my fake ID and the papers that were in the glove box. My voice sounds steady, but my palms are sweating.
He takes them, walks back to his car. The younger one stays by my door, flashlight flicking over the interior.
“You live around here?” he asks.
“Campus,” I say. “Student.”
He hums, noncommittal. His light pauses on the edge of the seat. The corner of a bag that isn’t mine.
“Mind popping the trunk?”
“Is that necessary?” I ask carefully.
He tilts his head. “Just routine.”
I reach for the latch, but the older one’s voice cuts through the night before I can.
“Step out of the vehicle, sir.”
My gut sinks.
“What’s the problem?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“This car was reported stolen about an hour ago.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “You sure?”
He doesn’t blink. “Positive. Step out, hands where I can see them.”
I obey. My pulse drums against my throat.
The younger one pats me down, pulls my wallet from my pocket. The older cop reads my fake name, glances at me, and then at the car. “You want to tell us how you ended up driving this?”
I don’t.
So I say nothing.
Which is how I end up in cuffs, wrists digging into steel, sitting in the back of a cruiser that smells like sweat.
They don’t say much after that. Just the occasional radio crackle, the click of the partition window sliding shut.
At the station, it’s the usual routine of questions I don’t answer, a mugshot I try not to look at, and a holding cell that smells like bleach and stale fries.
After what feels like an hour, someone finally says, “You get one call.”
I stare at the phone on the wall. One call.
Calling Rico would be suicide. He’d tell my uncle before sunrise. My uncle would do worse than hit me.
I lean my head against the wall, close my eyes. The cold metal bites into my skin. My mind spins, rifling through names.
No one fits.
Except one.
The last person I should call. The one person who’d never let me live this down.
Jamie.
I exhale, long and slow, then dial.
It rings once. Twice.
He answers on the third, groggy and irritated. “Who is this?”
“Jamie.” My voice comes out low, rough.
There’s a pause. “Miles? You drunk?”
I almost laugh. “Not this time.”
“What do you want?”
“I, uh… need a favor.”
He sighs. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“Let me guess––you need cash, or you need me to cover your ass with the coach again? Because if this is about practice—”
“It’s not about practice.”
“Then what—”
“I’m in jail,” I say flatly.
Silence.
Then a sharp exhale that sounds halfway between disbelief and fury. “You’re what?”
“Long story.”
“Jesus, Miles. What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing too bad. Just… stole a car.”
“You—” He cuts himself off, mutters something I can’t make out. “You stole a car?”
“Borrowed it,” I correct automatically. “Temporarily.”
He laughs. “And you called me? You realize how insane that is, right? You punched me last week.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Sorry? That’s your play?”
I close my eyes. “Jamie, listen. I can’t call Rico. I can’t call my uncle. You’re the only one who—”
“You’re out of your damn mind.”
“You’re the only person I trust right now.”
He doesn’t answer. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head.
I take a shaky breath. “Please, man. Just come. I’ll explain everything later. Just—please.”
Nothing.
He’s about to hang up. I can feel it. The silence stretches too long.
So I say the one word I know will stop him cold.
“Avalon.”
Silence again.
I can almost hear him stop breathing.
“I’m late for a family meeting,” I say quietly. “I can’t be late again.”
His voice, when it comes, is low and dangerous. “What did you do?”
“Just come here,” I whisper. “And I’ll tell you everything.”