Shallow

by Cora Kenborn

  “Barry Broderick.”

  “I need you to pull another Hail Mary out of your ass.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Beyoncé,” I growl. “Who the hell do you think?”

  “You’re not a caller, Shiloh,” he says, slightly amused with himself. “You’re a texter. What’s up?”

  I curl the phone cord around my finger. “Nothing much. Made up with Bianca. Got locked in a closet. Oh, and I just got arrested for felony possession with intent to distribute.”

  “What the hell?”

  I wince at his tone. “It wasn’t mine. There’s been a mistake, and you need to get me out of here. Now.”

  “Shiloh,” he groans, and I can imagine him searching his desk for the cigarettes he gave up months ago. “I don’t have jurisdiction outside of California. My hands are tied.”

  “Well, untie them. I can’t do this again. I swear to God, Barry, I’ll lose my shit!”

  I’ve held it together until now. Barry is supposed to be the glue that keeps my cracks from breaking wide open. If his hands are tied, mine are cuffed.

  “Okay, calm down. A buddy of mine from law school has a practice in South Carolina. Let me make a few calls and see what I can do.”

  Deep breathing doesn’t help, but I do it anyway. “Yeah, you do that.”

  “Shiloh?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re telling me the truth, right?”

  I’m tired of answering this question. Besides, my words will never be enough. Hanging up the phone, I nod to the waiting officer and let him lead me away.

  I’m so exhausted. I just want to collapse on my piece of shit cot and close my eyes. Unfortunately, that’s not what happens. After ending my call with Barry, I’m taken down two winding hallways to a tiny room that houses a skinny rectangular wooden table, two metal chairs, and one very pissed off probation officer.

  Will looks like he’s been sucking on lemons for the last few hours while having thumb tacks shoved between his fingernails. His blond hair is a mess, and his tie has been pulled loose with three buttons opened on his shirt.

  Flashing him a smile, I slide into the only empty chair and fold my hands on the table. “Bad day?”

  “Oh, no, it’s been fabulous,” he says, giving me a smirk that has kiss my ass written all over it. “I love getting a call from the police that one of my probationers has been arrested for felony possession. I live for this crap.”

  “Can you please calm down?”

  Jumping out of his seat, he kicks the chair out from underneath him and paces the room. “This is calm, Shiloh. You should’ve seen me an hour ago.” He pauses, pressing his fists to his temples. “What the hell were you thinking? All the progress you’ve made? Gone. All of it. And for what?”

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not. You’ve been booked for felony possession with intent to distribute. This isn’t getting caught smoking a joint in the backseat of your boyfriend’s car. Besides the sentence it carries, you’ve broken the rules of your probation.”

  Shit. I didn’t even think about that.

  “Can’t you stick up for me or something? Maybe call Judge Oliver and tell him it’s just a one-time thing?”

  Slumping back down into his chair, Will jerks off his tie. “Don’t you get it, Shiloh? When everything processes, you’ll be extradited back to a California state prison to serve your original sentence plus this one. Your life is over.”

  Thirty-Two

  Cary

  I’ve broken every traffic law known to man, so by the time Frankie gets into the car, I’m one raw, exposed nerve.

  “Drive,” he says, collapsing against the seat.

  He can suck my dick. I’m not moving until I get answers. I stare through the windshield and take my hands off the wheel. “Tell me what happened and don’t leave anything out.”

  He shakes his head and sighs. “Drive and I’ll tell you.”

  For the next half hour, Frankie recounts the story of Shiloh walking out of the meeting with his backpack, and how the police targeted her right away. I almost ran off the road when he described the huge bag of weed they found and how she refused to let him admit to the backpack being his.

  I have to ask, although I already know the answer. “Frankie…”

  “It’s not mine,” he snaps, his fingers digging into his seat. “I don’t do that shit anymore.”

  I nod, letting the conversation die. His word is good enough for me. That’s how we play it in my neighborhood. A man’s word is worth more than any proof. He’ll sacrifice his freedom for his honor.

  I should know.

  As I weave in and out of traffic, I consider the timing. The odds of a felony amount of drugs being found in a bag Shiloh was carrying is close to impossible. With the exception of one weak moment in a hallway bathroom, she’s kept her image pristine since coming back to town.

  We had plans to talk tonight and start fresh.

  Clean slate.

  “There has to be some mistake,” I insist. “I grew up with her, Frankie. I’ve seen her so high she couldn’t walk a straight line.” I grip the wheel and press harder on the gas. “Those drugs aren’t hers.”

  “Boss, you don’t gotta convince me. I know what was in my bag, and it wasn’t a Ziploc of weed. I was there the whole time. No way did she put that shit in there. Even if she did, why would she bring it inside? Makes no sense.”

  “Someone else had to have put it in the bag,” I say, turning off Highway 17 toward the station. “It’s the only explanation.

  It should’ve been the first thing that crossed my mind, but I was too busy being worried about Shiloh to think straight. However, now that I have the whole story, everything falls into place.

  Surprise crosses Frankie’s face, followed by irritation. “If you’re sayin’ one of the members would fuck with us, you’re wrong. It’s not like that in there.”

  “Not a member, junior. A vindictive bitch.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s my problem, not yours.”

  He either doesn’t catch onto how cryptic I’m being or chooses to ignore it, because he just shrugs and continues ranting about Shiloh’s bizarre behavior.

  “I just don’t get why she let them haul her off,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “I tried to tell them it was my bag, but any time I said anything, she cut me off. Just kept runnin’ her mouth about ‘payin’ for her sins.’ It was like she was darin’ them to bust her or somethin’.” Dropping his hand, he shifts his thumb toward his chest. “Where I come from, you don’t fuck with the police like that.”

  As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I realize what she’s done.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I make a sharp turn onto Oak Street, causing Frankie to grab the handle above the passenger’s side door and call out to Jesús for his life. Once the car rights itself, I step on the gas again, determined to get to the station and stop Shiloh from causing any more damage than she already has.

  If that’s even possible.

  “She was protecting you,” I tell him, pulling up in front of the station and cutting the engine. “She knew if you told them the bag was yours, they’d pull up your priors.”

  His jaw is tight, but I can see his fingers wobble as he reaches for the door handle. “No way, she’s got just as many priors as I do.”

  “Yeah, but she also has ghosts she’s trying get rid of, and sometimes they come back to haunt you way more than a record.”

  Frankie just slams the door and walks ahead of me, leaving my own words to choke me. Not only for what they mean for Shiloh, but for their truth in my own life.

  * * *

  “I’m here to see Shiloh West.”

  An officer looks up from his phone and arcs a bushy black eyebrow. “Are you her attorney?”

  “No, I’m her…” I cut myself off mid-sentence an
d glance at Frankie out of the corner of my eye. The asshole is smirking. “I’m her friend.”

  He snorts, obviously unimpressed with my answer. “No friends allowed.”

  I place my hands on the desk and give the officer my most serious stare. “I meant to say yes. Yes, I’m her attorney.”

  The officer scans my piercings and full body tattoos and rolls his eyes. “Nice try. You can see her if, and when, the judge sets bail.”

  Hell no. Bail will be too late.

  The bones in my hand crack as I pound my fist on the desk so hard he drops his phone. “I need to see her. Now.”

  “Boss, come on,” Frankie urges, yanking me away by my other arm. “Nothing we can do right now.”

  I pull away, never taking my eyes off the man in front of me. The only way I’m leaving is in handcuffs. “The hell there’s not. Just because this asshole won’t let us in doesn’t mean that—”

  “Now you just hold on a minute there, buddy,” the officer interrupts, wagging his finger in my face.

  “Oh great,” a tired voice calls out from behind us. “A past-parolee surprise party.”

  Frankie and I turn around and stare at the back of a familiar blond head as he turns to close the door on the other side of the room. His shoulders are hunched over as if the weight of the world is on them. If he’s coming from where I suspect he’s been, it’s not far from the truth.

  “Will!” Before he can fully turn around, I’m across the room with his wrinkled white shirt fisted in both hands. “You gotta get me back there to see her.”

  His face sags and he lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  I’ve only seen that look once before. Ironically, it was in this same damn station. My dickhead attorney sat me down in the room Shiloh’s probably in right now and sighed just like Will did before telling me I was screwed.

  Case closed. Game over.

  “Why the hell not?” I yell, tightening my grip.

  “Exactly how much power do you people think I have around here?” Letting out a frustrated grunt, Will shoves both hands against my chest until I stumble backward. “For fuck’s sake, Shiloh thinks I can call up a California judge, explain this all away, and they’ll give her a pass because I’m so goddamn charming.”

  This is bad. I’ve never known Will to be anything but even keeled. If he’s this rattled, things are worse than I thought.

  I take a step back and run my palm over my mouth. “You saw Shiloh? Is she okay?” When he doesn’t answer, I raise my voice. “Will, is she okay?”

  “All things considered, yeah, she’s doing all right. Better than I’d be doing in her position.” He lets out a dull laugh and scratches the back of his neck. “That woman has nerves of steel.”

  That’s my Shiloh. Masked and camera ready until the bitter end.

  “How does it look?”

  “With the evidence and her confession? Not good.”

  “Why doesn’t she just fucking tell them the shit isn’t hers?” I growl, pacing a line in front of him.

  “She’s protecting someone.”

  I stop mid-pace and stare at him. He stares back, and the look that passes between us needs no further discussion. We both know that someone is Frankie, and by not implicating him, she’s sealed her fate. She’ll be convicted, sent back to California, and sentenced for her original crime, breaking the terms of her probation, and now a possession charge. I’ll lose her for good this time.

  I won’t let that happen. We both know who she’s protecting, but I know who set her up.

  And I’ll sit beside Shiloh in jail before I let that bitch get away with it.

  Thirty-Three

  Shiloh

  The next morning, Rory Mercer rakes his hands through what once was neatly combed reddish-brown hair and groans. With the ginger mop on his head and splattering of huge freckles along his cheeks, he reminds me of that California district attorney who tried to give me in the chair.

  What was her name?

  Ah, yes, Little Bitchy Annie.

  I wonder if they’re related. Son of a bitch, if Barry sent Little Bitchy Andy to defend me, I’m going to rip off his balls and wear them as earrings.

  “So, the judge has issued an order to keep you in jail until the decision is made whether or not to revoke your probation,” he says.

  “And this surprises you?” I laugh. “I’m their ticket to being on an episode of Celebrities at Home: Prison Edition.”

  “Shiloh, for Christ’s sake, it’ll be at least two weeks before the case goes before the probation board. Also, I talked to your probation officer. For some reason, you’re protecting someone by confessing to something you didn’t do. It’s goddamn suicide.”

  He looks like shit. When I say shit, I mean his charcoal gray suit looks like he pulled it out of the bottom of the laundry basket after a cheap tequila bender. The thing is, he’s only been here for two hours. Rory arrived bright and early at eight o’clock in the morning with hot coffee and a smile. Now he looks like this. Sullen, pissed, and ready to suck on that Pepe Lopez bottle like a drunk sorority girl.

  “You just don’t understand.”

  “You’re damn right I don’t understand,” he yells, slapping his palms on the table. “What you’re pleading to violates your probation.”

  “Shit happens.” I shrug and examine my nails. God, they look horrible. I’m going to need a manicure soon.

  “Shit happens? Shiloh, Will Emerson says you’ve been required to submit to random drug testing since you arrived in South Carolina.”

  “So?”

  “So, he says you’ve passed all of them, yet you’ve refused to give one since they brought you in.”

  I roll my eyes. “Is there a point in here somewhere? The girl in the cell next to me was just about to show me how to make homemade nunchucks out of bedsheets and a chair when you showed up. When else in my life am I going to learn these things, Rory?”

  He cocks his head and gives me a hard smile. “Aren’t you just a regular sociopathic MacGyver? My point is that clean tests prove you haven’t taken drugs, Shiloh. Giving them a sample won’t clear you, but it sure as hell can’t hurt.”

  “And then what?” I huff, leaning back in my chair. “Will they throw me a Clean Pee Parade? Look, you seem like a decent guy, but I’m not going to recant my story. Someone I care about was set up. I can’t prove it, but I can save his future from being ruined.

  He rubs his eyes and sighs. “What about yours?

  “Tell me something, Rory. Have you ever done something so horrible to someone that you wish you had a time machine so you could go back and undo it?”

  “Yeah. I guess I have.”

  “This is my time machine, and I’m not getting out of it.”

  “This will end you, Shiloh,” he says matter of factly.

  He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but the crazy thing is, I don’t regret it. In fact, besides Kirkland, my regrets are now down to one.

  What Cary and I had for a few moments will have to last me a lifetime. Now that I think about it, maybe prison isn’t my actual sentence. Maybe my true punishment is getting a taste of what might have been and then having it all taken away.

  For the first time since being arrested, my mask cracks as a tear slips down my left cheek. “I ended seven years ago.”

  * * *

  The world is full of quirky little sayings that people love to quote when they hear gossip.

  What goes around comes around.

  Those who don’t learn from history are bound to repeat it.

  If justice is denied, let fate take the ride.

  Karma is like 69; you get what you give.

  That last one is my favorite.

  Know what’s worse than a mob of people crowded outside the police station, chiming in on your fate? Your mother spouting the same shit while sitting in front of you in sunglasses and a yellow scarf wrapped around her head like she’s the reincarnation of Jackie O.<
br />
  Adjusting her enormous sunglasses, she pats my hand like I’m five years old. “Darling, sometimes you just have to walk away and let destiny take over.”

  “Do you seriously have to wear those indoors? You look like a bee.”

  She takes them off and tucks them inside her Fendi purse. “Shiloh, please, I’m begging you. Save yourself.”

  Here we go.

  I steeple my fingers and glance down at them. “Don’t you mean save the West name?”

  I expect an overly-dramatic protest. Maybe a speech about the responsibility that comes with bearing a name known around the world. Nope. What I get is a middle-aged spitfire jumping out of her chair like a spider monkey with a firework shoved up her ass.

  “I don’t give a shit about the West name,” she hisses. She leans over the table, placing our faces inches apart. “You’re my daughter, and I just got you back. I can’t lose you again. Not now.”

  “What do you mean not now?” I ask, her words striking me as odd. “What’s happened?”

  “Now’s not the time.”

  “Really?” I laugh, nodding around the tiny, bland room. “Time’s all I’ve got. Tell me.”

  The fire fades from her face as she sinks slowly back into her chair. “Your father has filed for divorce.”

  The words hit me hard, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s for the embarrassment I know she feels, because my father has always been a shit husband who has never been worth more than a paycheck and a last name.

  I reach across the table and grip her hand. “Oh, Mother…”

  “It’s fine,” she offers, attempting somewhat of a smile. “I’m really all right. This isn’t exactly a shock, you know. For God’s sake, Alistair lives in Europe ten months out of the year.”

  “I’m so sorry. I wish I could do something to help.”

  She tightens her grip on my hand. “You can. Don’t be me. I haven’t been the best role model for you, Shiloh. Up until now, I’ve watched you follow in my footsteps and make the same mistakes I’ve made. The booze and pills helped me to pretend it wasn’t my fault, but we both know that’s not true.”