by Laura Drake
* * *
THE HOLDING CELL was cold. Or maybe it was shock that made her teeth chatter in spite of her clamped jaws. Her head throbbed with the bongo beat of her heart, and she raised a hand again to touch the goose egg at her temple. She’d only been out for a minute so the EMT had cleared her to the cop’s custody.
The booking was as efficient as a meat-packing plant and she was spit out at the end feeling as processed as a cellophane package of hamburger.
Why do they have to crank the air conditioning so hard?
She shivered in vain. The six-by-ten cell contained only the cement bench on which she sat, a metal seatless toilet and metal bars. No cot, no blanket. She hugged herself and sat straight, having learned that leaning on the cinder-block wall leeched what little heat she had.
The cop may not have been gentle but she could hardly blame him. She hadn’t recognized that wild woman at the stadium this morning.
Assault and battery on Sandy Otto. Resisting arrest. Assault on a police officer.
Holy shit, how had she let things get so out of control?
Just forget what can’t be fixed. The important question is what are you going to do now?
Since she had no record, they were only going for misdemeanors. But since she didn’t live here, she was considered a flight risk. Bail was not only more than she had on her, it was more than she had in the bank.
And Adam and Nacho thought she was on a plane right about now. She glanced around, but there was no clock on the wall outside the bars. After all, why taunt prisoners with passing time? She didn’t need it anyway because she heard the minutes ticking away in her head.
How long before Adam started worrying?
If she were on her own, she’d work it out somehow even if it meant sitting her time out in jail. But because of Nacho, she didn’t have a choice. She slumped on the bench, elbows on her knees, fingers dangling. She had to figure out how to best deal with this and get back to Nacho as soon as possible.
You’re a great role model. She’d tried to convince Nacho to be an upstanding citizen and here she sat, in jail.
And how could she possibly ask Adam’s help again? He’d been above and beyond wonderful up to now, but calling from jail for bail money? She imagined the disapproval in Adam’s voice if and when she got the guts to call. Pictured him looking down his nose at her, the way he had Nacho that day he was caught stealing.
Shame coated the inside of her chest in a thick, caustic paste, burning through her illusions. She could go to community college. She could work in an office. She could act like she belonged in a book club. But at the bottom of it, Priss Hart was a still a mutt. Always a mutt.
Widow’s Grove and the people in it had somehow gotten inside her, stripping her of her walls and weapons. She felt naked, bared to the skin and vulnerable to the braided leather whip of judgment.
But how could judgment hurt a woman who prided herself on not caring what others thought? She shifted her weight to the other deadened cheek.
It couldn’t. Unless she was no longer that woman.
But if she wasn’t, then who was she?
The clang of metal brought her head up. At the sound of footsteps on tile, she stood.
A police officer walked up to the bars, his hand around the upper arm of a woman. While he unlocked the door, Priss looked past the curtain of long black hair and heavy makeup.
She’s so young!
“In you go.”
The girl walked past the police officer, stilettos clicking, her bare shapely legs shown to best advantage in a tight butt-skimming skirt. Her lace spandex top left little to the imagination.
Overwhelmed by a miasma of cheap perfume, Priss stepped back as the girl plopped onto the cement bench and crossed her legs.
The cop locked the door and walked away.
The girl’s eyes challenged, as if daring Priss to start something. “What’d you do?”
“Assault.”
“What, did you get into it with another soccer mom?”
“Huh?”
“No, wait. There was a really good sale at Nordie’s and you fought it out over last year’s designer blouse.”
Priss ran a hand down her faded Hurley T-shirt and holey-kneed skinny jeans. “Are you kidding me?”
“Dress down all you want.” She tossed a hank of hair over her shoulder with a flick of her long fake nails. “I know middle class when I see it.”
Priss snorted. “You don’t know how wrong you are.”
“Whatever.” The girl turned to look out the bars, the clearest dismissal possible, given the tight quarters.
No longer able to even pace the three steps to the bars and back, Priss leaned against the wall. Hadn’t this young woman only confirmed what she’d known since she walked into that dumpy hotel room?
You don’t belong in this world anymore.
But she’d just admitted that she’d only been posing in her Widow’s Grove world.
So where did that leave her? She felt like someone standing with one foot on a dock, the other on an unmoored boat, and if she didn’t make a decision fast, her ass was sure as hell going to get wet.
But Nacho would get a dunking right along with her.
Oh, that’s bullshit. You’ve been using Nacho as an excuse for too long. You’re the one who always insists on the truth. So why don’t you just face it?
Where she came from wasn’t as important as where she wanted to be. Wasn’t that why she’d flown from place to place since she left Vegas? She may not have known it at the time, but looking back she could see she’d been looking for a place to settle.
And these past months, she’d found it.
But it was more than that.
Her short fingernails bit into her palms.
If she really looked past that blind spot...
She wanted it all. The small-town life. The brick house with the rounded wooden door that looked like a Hobbit lived there. The small-town pharmacist who mistakenly believed she was all that.
The cold that chilled her blood wasn’t due to the air-conditioning.
If something matters, you start to count on it. When it’s taken away it leaves a hole in you.
But the old words that used to chew through her no longer had teeth. She wanted to grab at the chance the universe had mistakenly thrown her way.
The question was, did she have the guts to grab it?
“What have I got to lose?” A flash of heat bloomed in her chest.
She realized she’d said it out loud when the prostitute looked up.
Priss just smiled.
She already had way more than she’d flown into town with. She had Nacho. His behavior was improving. He was reading, and his grades were coming up. He’d found Bear, and maybe someday that relationship would lead Nacho to a career.
She’d stumbled onto a home and a family. No way she was leaving.
But what if Adam does finally see through the middle-class disguise to the mutt underneath?
Still pictures of Adam flashed through her mind. Him wearing that silly double-breasted white pharmacist jacket, smiling across the table at her. His hand, warm over hers, in the darkened car the night they searched for Nacho. The soft look in his eyes when he held her after sex.
Could he love her? Was that what was at stake here?
Yeah. I think it is.
He was the only man who saw past her bullshit and for whatever misguided reason, seemed to care about the woman underneath it. He was kind and giving, and she had done nothing but bring chaos to his orderly life.
And if she got up the guts, she was about to do it again.
She crossed her arms over her midsection to ease the burn. Bullets fired from her own gun always did the most damage.
&nbs
p; Well, screw that.
She pushed away from the wall. She wasn’t going groveling, looking for a handout. She was going to call the man she loved and ask him for help. She was who she was—rough edges and all. If Adam decided after this momentous disaster that he didn’t want her, she’d survive that somehow. Avoiding pain by flying from it didn’t leave it behind. Hadn’t she found that out with her mother? Hadn’t that been what she’d been trying to tell Sandy Otto?
Surety mingled with the heat in her chest, spreading outward, warming her.
Priss Hart had been many things, but never a coward.
She stepped around her celmate’s stilettos. “Hey!” She yelled through the bars. “Don’t I get a phone call?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“YOU’RE WHERE?” When several shoppers looked up from the aisles, Adam walked into the drug room and closed the door.
Priss’s voice sounded continents away. “Are you and Nacho okay?”
“You’re in jail and you’re asking if we’re okay? Are you drunk?”
“You know I don’t drink. And you need to calm down.”
He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Just tell me what happened.”
“Sandy Otto wouldn’t listen. I got mad, and things got a little out of control.”
“What are they holding you for?” His brain cranked in the background, working through how one went about wiring bail money.
“A couple of things. But the one I probably won’t be able to plead out is the assault on a police officer.”
“Jesus, Priss. When I get out of control, I disagree strenuously with an umpire. This is all new to me. Let me think. Will they let you out on bail?”
“Yeah, but—” she hesitated a heartbeat “—it’s a lot.”
“That’s okay, hang on...” He reached for a scratch pad and pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Tell me how much and where I wire it.”
She told him.
“It’s going to be okay. Now, you hang loose. Help is on the way.”
“Adam, I want you to know, I’m going to pay you back. Every penny.”
“We’ll worry about that later, Hart. Are you safe where they’re keeping you?”
“Yes. But—no, dammit. That’s not what I want you to know.”
When he heard her sniff, his heart thumped, hard. He wanted to crawl through the phone and break her out of that damned jail. Why couldn’t the Tigers have been playing in Phoenix?
“I want you to know. No matter what happens after this, I love you.”
Click.
He stood staring at the display on his phone. “Did you just say what I think you said?” His voice came out all wavery, his throat clogged with emotions too big to get through.
He knew the guts it had taken for her to pick up the phone and call him for help.
He couldn’t imagine the courage it took for her to admit, at what he was sure she considered her weakest moment, that she loved him.
She loves me.
Joy threaded up through his chest like bubbles from the bottom of a champagne flute.
If his little scrapper had the guts to do that, what excuse did he have not to face what he feared most?
“Oh, hell, no. You’re not telling me you love me and then hanging up.” He dropped the phone in his pocket and fired up the computer to check flights to Tampa.
It was time to ring that damned bell.
* * *
“WHAT’S WRONG?” Nacho stood frowning in the doorway of the school office.
“Everything’s fine. We almost forgot your dentist appointment today.” The last thing he wanted was to explain within earshot of the secretary that Nacho’s guardian was in jail.
Nacho scanned Adam’s face. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.” He put a hand on Nacho’s shoulder and steered him out of the office.
When they pushed out the glass door into the sunshine, Nacho shook off his hand. “What happened?”
“I’ve got to fly to Tampa. My mom has agreed to watch you until—”
“What’s wrong with Priss?”
He glanced at the tats on the backs of the kid’s fingers, imagining the life he’d lived so far. He could handle the truth. “Come on. I’ll tell you on the way.”
Nacho planted his feet. “Tell me now.”
“I do not have time for this. I need to be at LAX in two hours.” Adam glanced around the thankfully empty lot.
Nacho crossed his arms. “She’s my sister.”
“Okay. She got arrested, trying to talk to that ball player. I’m going to bail her out and bring her home.”
A smile spread over Nacho’s face. “Wow. Go, Priss.”
“Now can we go? I’ve got to drop you off and get to the airport.”
“I’m going, too.”
“No.” Adam strode for Mona, lounging topless beside the SUVs like a bad girl at a football camp.
Nacho followed, sliding over the door and plopping into the seat. “Seriously. Can I go?”
“No.”
“Come on, Adam. I won’t be any trouble, promise. I’ve never been on a plane before.”
“Kid, this is not a vacation. It’s not a joy ride. Your sister is in trouble.”
“I know.”
Adam turned when Nacho touched his arm.
The tough mask was gone. The kid looked scared. “Please let me go. She’s all I’ve got.”
He squinted at the kid. “Are you working me?”
Nacho held his gaze, tracing a cross over his heart. “Swear.”
If the county got wind of her arrest, Priss would lose custody of Nacho in a heartbeat. He’d be sent back to the group home. Adam’s chest tightened. God, he’d hate to see that happen.
The kid’s got at least as much at stake as you do.
“Okay. If you promise not to be a problem.” He clicked his seat belt. “And providing I can get you a seat.”
“Yay!” Nacho held up a fist to bump. “We’re gonna rescue Priss from The Man.”
“You’ve been reading too much fantasy, kid.” He bumped, hoping he wouldn’t live to regret this.
Thanks to the gods of old cars, once they stopped in for a change of clothes and to tell Adam’s mother the latest development, Mona started right up. The ride down to LAX was uneventful. That is, except for the fear that built in Adam like an approaching storm. It gathered in his muscles, slowly tightening them as if in preparation to withstand a gale force wind.
And when they walked into the terminal, it began to blow.
Beside him, Nacho looked everywhere at once, chittering like an agitated squirrel.
Adam tried to block it out, listening instead to the thunder rolling through his mind.
Nacho stopped at a huge floor-to-ceiling window. “How cool is that?”
A 747 lifted off the runway a few hundred feet away. Though the noise was dampened by the thick glass, the air vibrated with the power. Fear shot along Adam’s nerves, and when it hit the ends, they cracked and sizzled like cut live wires.
Like the ones their plane had snagged on, all those years ago.
They found their gate and sat. Well, he sat. Nacho stood at the window watching the busy ground crews.
Shit. Who am I kidding? I can’t do this. Hell, I can’t even stand to look at the brochures I bring home; I just go get more. I’ve never gotten higher than twelve feet up the rock wall at the gym.
You are going to do this.
Walk down that tube? Into that aluminium casket? Then sit there for hours and act normal while you wait for it to go down?
You need to get to Priss.
You know you were meant to die in that crash.
If you c
an’t do this, you’re not man enough for a strong woman like Priss Hart. She’ll eventually figure out that you’re a coward and you’ll lose the only thing that—
“Tower to Adam.” Nacho stood front and center, waving a hand in Adam’s face.
He swiped his fingers through the sweat at his hairline. “What?”
“If it’ll take your mind off it, I could go steal something from the newsstand.” Nacho plopped into the next plastic chair in line.
Adam shot a look around, thankful that not many people flew on Sunday. “Did your sister tell you?”
“Come on.” Nacho did his whole-body sigh thing. “Like anybody can’t tell you’re scared. Kids are small, not stupid.” He pointed. “You’re shredding your luggage tag.”
He looked down at the backpack he’d thrown their change of clothes into, just in case this took longer than he hoped. “Can you go up to the counter and get another one for me?”
Great. He pulled a pen from the pocket of the backpack. Now he was going to have the little hard-ass on his butt, cataloging his every move.
Nacho returned. “Here, give me the pen. You’re not gonna be able to write so anyone can read it.”
Adam handed over the pen.
Head down, writing, Nacho asked, “So what happened?”
Adam’s hands twitched. He tightened his grip on his thighs. “You don’t want to know. It’ll make you nervous on the flight.”
“Dude. This is your issue, not mine.” He looked up, straight into Adam’s eyes. “Not to sound like Oprah, but it helps to say it out loud sometimes.”
“How do you know?”
Nacho just shrugged and went back to writing.
So he told him. The sanitized SparkNotes version.
Nacho listened, rapt. “Damn. You’re brave to do this.”
One bubble of fear escaped with his snort. “I’m not on the thing, yet.”
A woman’s voice announced, “Delta flight 255 to Tampa, leaving out of terminal eight, Gate 22.”
Nacho stood.
Heart hammering, Adam didn’t. There was something wrong with his knees.
I can’t do this.
“Hey, Adam.”
“What?” He ground the words from between locked jaws.
