by Shandi Boyes
While they continue arguing on what makes a date a date, I tug Savannah to the side of the parking lot for a bit of privacy. “You’re only here for one night?” I ask, my voice huskier than I’m anticipating.
I sound like a dirty old perv willing to do anything to spill his load in the next thirty seconds. It wasn’t the vibe I was going for. I don’t love Savannah only because she brings out a sexual hunger in me like no woman before her. I love her because of moments like this. She drove over fourteen hours to watch my ten-minute graduation service. If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is.
“Yeah. I used two personal days. Considering I only started a few months ago, I don’t have many up my sleeve.” The cheekiness on her face softens for pride. “But I really wanted to see you graduate. I’m so proud of you, Ryan.”
Just as quickly as her cheekiness was squashed, it returns stronger than ever. “And no amount of photos would do this uniform justice. Hot dayum, Ry. I guarantee half the population of Ravenshoe will start scheming ways to get arrested when they see you walking the beat.”
I laugh... until I spot a gleam in her eyes I haven’t seen in months. Savannah’s equally sexy jealous side has emerged from the darkness.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t one of her sexiest assets.
“I love you guys,” I shout, my unusual praise barely distinguishable from the heavy slur of my words.
Brax stops slamming his fists into Chris’s stomach to return my praise. Although I’m not one hundred percent certain what they are arguing about, I’m fairly sure Brax is retaliating to Chris giving him crap about his “non-date” with Justine.
“Let’s see if you still love them when you’re puking your guts up tomorrow morning.” Savannah releases a breathless grunt when she aids me into the passenger seat of my truck.
When she leans over to latch my belt, I inhale a large whiff of her rose scent. “You smell pretty,” I inform her, tapping her nose with my index finger.
“I what?” Savannah asks, proving my words are as unintelligible to her ears as they are to mine.
I don’t know why I’m slurring. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol all night. When Brax and Chris suggested we take my graduation celebration to Bronte’s Peak, Savannah and I readily agreed. Although we’re both eager to spend some quality one on one time with each other before she returns to Cornell tomorrow, if Brax and Chris didn’t fund her travels, she would have never been here to begin with, so the least we could do was accept their invitation.
“Was your coke flat?” I ask Savannah when she slips into the driver’s seat of my truck. My tongue wiggles around my mouth, trying to rid it of the skanky taste coating it the past two hours. “I think my soda was out of date. Something wasn’t quite right with it.”
Giggling softly, Savannah sticks the key into the ignition before attempting to fire up my motor. An inappropriately timed chuckle leaves my mouth when her foot fails to reach the gas pedal.
“My little pocket rocket,” I murmur through a hiccup. “You need to adjust the lever. It’s right down here.” I slide my hand between her thighs to grip the lever I’m referring to.
When Savannah’s intoxicating scent lingers into my nostrils, I burrow my head between her legs and inhale a large whiff. “Hello down there. You smell just as pretty as your owner.”
It’s lucky I’m drunk or I may have shot myself after that line.
Thankfully, Savannah is saved from replying to my mumbled comment when I pass out in her lap. Embarrassing snores and all.
I wake up the next morning with a cotton wool mouth and a raging headache. Though my thumping skull requests more sleep, I slowly crack open my eyes. It takes me a few moments to gather my bases. I’m not in the room I’ve awoken in every day the past sixteen years. I’m in a room that smells like roses and is covered wall to wall with pink accessories.
Although Savannah has always loved earthy tones, she didn’t have the heart to tell her mom she hated the candy pink feature wall she painted in her room one afternoon when Savannah was at school. Her mom added to the girly palette every month.
When I spot the time on an old-fashioned alarm clock on Savannah’s bedside table, I lurch into a half-seated position. Bile races to my throat, spurred by my sudden movements. I deserve to vomit. My girlfriend drove over fourteen hours to see me, and I didn’t even have the decency to see her off. Savannah had to be on the road no later than 8 AM. It's a little after 11.
After gathering my clothes strewn across the floor, I head to Thorn’s room to say goodbye. Although Thorn forgets me the instant I leave, I still say hello and goodbye in the same manner every time I am in his house. It's the respectful thing to do.
Another forty minutes pass before I’m heading to my truck. Thorn was extra chatty today. I raise my hand into the air, blocking the rays of the high-hanging sun that add to the thump of my head. I am halfway to my truck before it dawns on me that I shouldn’t be driving. Even adamant I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol last night, there's no doubt I am suffering the effects of a hangover.
My assumptions are proven dead accurate when I drag my cell out of my pocket to call for a cab. There are numerous messages from Brax and Chris, confessing to spiking my coke with vodka.
I’m going to kill them.
I know it was all in fun, but I won’t see Savannah for another two months, and they ruined the only night we had together.
I stop scrolling local taxi companies on google when a visual a million years couldn’t erase from my mind pops into my peripheral vision. Savannah is leaning over my truck, tinkering with my motor. She's wearing the same tiny pair of white shorts from months ago, but instead of them being paired with a spaghetti-strap cami, she's wearing a plaid shirt. All she needs is pigtails, and my Daisy Duke fantasy would come true.
“Savannah?” I ask, wondering if I am still drunk.
The smile she's wearing when she cranks her neck toward me leaves no doubt of my sobriety. I am drunk, but it isn’t alcohol causing my dizzy state. It's the girl of my dreams.
“What are you doing here?”
Savannah giggles. “I live here.” The purr of her sexy voice adds to my unstable swagger.
“You know what I mean. You’re supposed to be halfway to Cornell by now.”
Smiling, he steps off my bumper and paces closer to me. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I tried waking you.” Her cute nose screws up. “I thought Chris was impossible to budge when he's sleeping. You are ten times worse.”
I grin to hide my grimace. “Brax and Chris spiked my drinks,” I confess.
“I know,” Savannah replies, her sugary-sweet voice dipping to hide her deceit.
“You know because you witnessed them do it? Or because you helped them?”
She screws up her nose in a way that shouldn’t be cute, but it totally is. “A little bit of column A and a little bit of column b.”
Her last three words come out in a flurry when she spots revenge brewing in my eyes.
“Ryan... don’t you dare,” she warns, knowing me well enough to know where my mind has wandered to.
“You help them steal hours away from me. That means you’ve got hours to make up for.”
She pegs a grease-covered rag into my face before bolting to the other side of my truck. I’m nipping at her heels two seconds later.
“Stop!” she squeals, wiggling in my arms. “I hate being tickled.”
She's such a liar. She loves it.
I tickle her until the hue of laughter gracing her cheeks switches to anger.
Okay, maybe she doesn’t like being tickled.
My dick braces against the seam of my jeans when Savannah twists around to face me. There's a smear of grease on her right cheek the hood of my truck shadowed earlier. Seeing her all greased up and messy shouldn’t be exciting, but it is—way more than I could ever express.
This is the Savannah I’ve always known. Imperfectly flawless.
“Promise me, Savan
nah—”
“I promise,” she interrupts, her smile more blinding than the midday sun.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask,” I josh, barging into her with my hip.
Savannah cocks a brow. “I know, Ry. And I won’t.”
The confidence of her last three words nearly knocks me on my ass. She knew what I was going to say before the words were even fabricated in my brain.
Don’t ever change.
40
Ryan
“Air conditioning privileges, choice of radio stations and which donut stores we visit are off limits for a rookie officer,” Regina remarks, her tone laced with a cheekiness I’ve become accustomed to the past six months.
“Come on, I’ve been your partner for eight weeks. Can’t we drop the rookie line?”
Regina laughs, assuming I’m joking. “I have wrinkles older than you, Ryan. Your rookie title isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
I roll my eyes, feigning annoyance before dropping them to the screen of my phone.
“How’s she doing?” Regina asks, knowing me well enough to intuit the reason for the smirk crossing my lips.
“Good. She’s got a few hours left before she reaches the Florida border.”
Air whistles between Regina’s teeth. “I really wish she wouldn’t drive that far. She’d be here in an hour if she weren’t so stubborn.”
I nod in full agreement. “Tell me about it. But you know Savannah...”
“As stubborn as she is beautiful,” we say in sync.
Although Regina has taken a mentoring role with me, her relationship with Savannah is more nurturing. She isn’t trying to replace Savannah’s parents; she’s simply lessening the burden on Savannah’s shoulders as she crosses from her teen years to her young adult ones.
Before I can return Savannah’s message, a call comes over our radio. “We have a 10-51PI on Tait. Emergency responders requested. Multi-vehicle accident.”
Regina shifts her eyes to mine. “Do you want in? Or do you want to call it a day?”
“I’ve got nothing to do until Savannah arrives. Let’s do this.”
Smiling, Regina flips on the police sirens to part the sea of traffic before replying to dispatch, “10-4, we’re two minutes out. Send back up.”
She beeps her horn at a dark sedan sitting in front of us. When it refuses to budge from its spot in front of a red light, she mounts the curb to skim down the side of him.
“Take down his tag. I’ll be sure to pay him a visit later.”
“Already on it,” I reply, jotting the offending motorist’s license plate onto my notepad.
I’ve only been on the job a few weeks, but I’ve already learned Regina’s traits well enough I can intuit her next move more times than not. By saying she's going to “pay him a visit later,” she means she's going to follow him across town until he inevitably makes a mistake, then she’ll ride his ass by giving him every ticket possible in the state of Florida.
With the road drenched by a recent downpour, it takes us a little longer to arrive on scene than Regina predicted. The crash site is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. A dark sedan is pinned between a concrete pillar meant to separate incoming and outgoing traffic and a white van, and the driver of the van is still seated in the driver’s seat, cradling a massive gash split across her forehead.
“10-41, we are on scene. What’s the ETA on emergency responders?” Regina asks into the radio at the same time a screamed, “Michael!” bellows through my ears.
Regina nudges her head to the trunk of our cruiser. “Get the first aid kit. Paramedics are still five minutes out.”
Confusion smacks into me when a dark-haired teenage boy races past me on my way to the trunk. Although I’m certain we’ve never met, there's something oddly familiar about him. I watch him sprint across the shards of glass littering the asphalt, not the least bit concerned for his safety. When he reaches the crumpled back passenger door of the sedan, the reasoning behind his frantic composure comes to light.
“Michael!” he screams on repeat as he claws at the crushed metal.
His attempts to open the door are thwarted. The sturdy steel used in old sedans like this barely budges when attacked with a saw, much less a teen’s hands.
Spotting a steel crowbar sitting next to the first aid kit, I grab it, slam down the trunk, then make my way onto the scene. When I notice Regina is aiding the driver out of the van, I slide the green first aid kit to her before moving to assist the teenage boy.
“Move to the side,” I command a man pacing back and forth at the side of the wreckage.
Bile surges to the base of my throat when a large cloud covers the low-hanging sun, allowing me to see the victim trapped inside the wreckage. It's a little boy who could be not much older than five.
My attempts to free the child become as frantic as the teenage boy. I ram the crowbar into the seam of the door before yanking on it with all my might. My frantic tugs on the steel bar pop some of the wrinkles the van caused to the door, but the metal barely budges.
Recalling months of training, I step back to assess the situation more thoroughly.
The sound of metal clinking on asphalt booms into my ears when I drop the crowbar onto the road so I can climb through the shattered driver’s side window. With the teen’s anguish at an all-time high, he failed to spot a suitable access point.
It's better this way, though. The scene inside the vehicle is ten times worse than it appears outside. The back passenger door has crumpled so far inward, the door has impacted over half of the safety seat the dark-haired boy is harnessed into.
“Hey, little guy,” I murmur, praying the lack of color in the boy’s cheeks is natural. “I’m just going... I’m just going to touch your neck. Okay?”
My hands rattle when I raise my fingers to his neck, praying to feel a pulse.
There isn’t one. Not even a faint one.
I hear, “No. No. No,” screamed from outside the vehicle as the dark-haired teen is dragged away from the car by another two boys so the fire department can access the vehicle without hinderance. The unnamed teen fights against his friends, but they hold him tightly, refusing to release him from their grasp.
While his friends sit with him, I stay with the little boy. I want to do more, but there's nothing more that can be done. His injuries are too extensive.
“We need an immediate blood workup on the driver of the sedan,” Regina instructs a set of paramedics in the process of sedating the man believed responsible for the accident. “He blew three times over the legal limit on arrival.”
I shift my eyes from the teenage boy sitting on the rain-soaked ground to the paramedic when she says, “This is an open and shut case. I can smell the booze on him.”
“Where are they taking him?” I ask, nudging my head to the ambulance I know is carrying the body of a little boy killed by his father’s stupidity.
Why anyone would get behind the wheel after drinking is beyond me. You’re not just risking your life when you drink and drive; you’re risking the innocent lives of those around you. Today’s accident proves that without a doubt.
Before the eerie similarities between my family situation and the little boy’s can mesh, the fair-haired paramedic answers my question. “With no formal identification on the driver or the casualty, we have no choice but to take them to Ravenshoe Public. The driver of the van is being transported to Mercer Private.”
She closes the back doors of the responder van we are standing next to before handing me the sedan driver’s possessions the fireman pulled from the wreckage. While she and Regina continue talking shop, I rummage through the bag of papers. Most are cash receipts for fast food restaurants and local liquor stores, but there's one slip of paper that may aid in identifying the driver. It's a delivery slip for a J-45 Gibson Guitar.
I hold the paper into the sun attempting to break through the dark rain clouds hovering above my head, hoping the faded ink will pop off the wrinkl
ed paper with better lighting. My idea has the effect I am aiming for when a name peeks through the creases.
“Tre... Trey...Trev...or? Trevor.”
After jotting down the name “Trevor” in my notepad, I set to work on unraveling the second half of the driver’s name. It's more jumbled than the first, meaning it takes me twice as long to unearth.
“Ta... Tae... Tao”
“Taylor?” comes a voice from behind, a voice I immediately recognize.
“Look,” Regina says, carefully removing the delivery slip from my hand.
Her finger traces a loop hidden by a large crease. “That’s a Y? T. A. Y.”
I take note of each letter she unearths. “L. O. R. Yep, it’s definitely Taylor.”
Confident in her findings, I add the name Taylor to the one I wrote earlier. My stomach swishes when I absorb the names sitting side by side. “Trevor Taylor,” I say out loud, as if expressing it will alter the evidence presented before me.
As the ground spins under my feet, my eyes rocket to the dark-haired boy sitting cradled in the arms of his African American friend. When his dark, stormy eyes lift, the air sucks from my lungs.
Oh, no. God no.
“That’s, uh... He’s, uh...”
“Big breaths, Ryan,” Regina encourages, fearful I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. I’m not. I just can’t get my mouth to cooperate with my brain.
After a quick swallow, I stammer out, “The victim is Chris’s brother. He’s my best friend’s brother. His name is Michael. He only turned four last month.” I return my eyes to the dark-haired teen. “That’s Michael’s brother, Noah.”
When Regina follows the direction of my gaze, she curses under her breath before signaling for a fellow officer to join us next to the wreckage.
“We need a counseling team brought in. A member of the fatality’s family was present during extraction...”
