Page 68 of Gluttony

I hate that I disappointed them. All the work I did at the company, earning their trust and making them see me as a competent and dependable employee has now vanished in a poof of lie-scented air. I’ll probably never see them again after tonight and it would be understandable. After all, I’m the guilty party.

The thought that maybe I should have told them everything as soon as I found out that Mickey was responsible for my attack inserts itself into my brain, and once it’s there, it’s all I can think about. Chances are, they may have forgiven me, or at least given me a chance to redeem myself.

Who am I kidding? Even then, it was too late. Playing thewhat ifgame will only make me feel worse.

A loud bang throws me off my pity party train. In an instant, I’m on my feet and backing away from the door toward the end of the bed. There’s yelling and loud footsteps until my door flies open and two police officers get their sights on me.

“Found her.” The big guy grabs me then turns me around while the shorter one zip-ties my wrists at the small of my back. I’m screaming at them but they’re not even bothered enough to look down at me.

“What are you doing? What’s going on?” They both encourage me to walk by pushing me back into the main suite.

What the fuck?

“Bowie Jones, we have a warrant for your arrest. Anything you say, can and will be…” The big guy pauses a second before continuing. “Held against you in court.”

“Court of law.” His partner, Shorty, corrects him but he just grunts like he doesn’t care one way or another. “It’s important, Jesus.”

“Is it though?” Their bickering makes me want to punch them in the throat, but I’m thinking that would be a stupid idea, not to mention my wrists are fucking restrained behind my back.

“What am I being arrested for? What did I do?” I’m frantic, my head spinning to one side then the other, my feet trying to stop this madness as I put on the proverbial brakes.

But these two cops don’t care, they don’t even acknowledge me, all they do is continue with their Miranda rights as they block my view of the room.

But just as we turn to walk out into the hotel hallway, I see them.

My eyes meet Hayes’s as Hayden and Orion stand by, one watching me, the other shooting daggers at the female cop who has the grumpy twin pinned to the wall with her forearm at his throat.

Of the three of them, Hayes has always been the toughest to crack, keeping his emotions behind shuttered eyes and an impenetrable wall of indifference. Yet, as our gazes lock, his vulnerabilities are as clear as the night sky in the countryside. Fear and rage mix together as he fights every one of his instinctsin an effort to stay cool and collected. I get it, it’s not like he can punch the cop and come rescue me. That’s not what makes all my hope disintegrate as I drink up his handsome features, those emotions I understand to my very core. What tells me something is wrong is the regret that shines right through and gets clearer as the seconds pass.

Hayes cares…for me, and now it’s too late, I’ve ruined everything.

I don’t pee myself but it’s fucking close. Instead, tears are streaming down my face as I scream for the guys to help me, to save me, to…do something.

To my horror, nothing happens. They don’t move, they don’t speak, they don’t even tell me they’ll call a lawyer and bail me out. Maybe they’re in shock, too. I mean, it’s the early hours of the morning. And by early, I mean nearing four.

Every cop show I’ve ever seen, they only arrest in the middle of the night when their target is a flight risk or when they want to catch them off guard to avoid any kind of shootout.

Is that how they see me? I don’t fucking know how to use a gun and they could have easily found me at work in five hours.

Random thoughts are colliding in my mind as I try to make sense of this absurdity when it hits me.

Mickey. That motherfucker turned me in.

I can’t believe he did this, it’s the only thing that makes sense. I thought for sure that even if he hated me, he would never take the risk of having me talking to the cops. Never.

Then again, he sold our condo, drained our bank account, had me beaten and left for dead…I think it’s safe to say he’s capable of any fucking thing, including this.

Earlier tonight, I fawned over the beauty of this hotel when we walked into the main hall. All the gold and marble and black overtones make the place seem surreal, it screams wealth and power. I do my walk of shame through the luxurious entranceand cringe every time a passerby stops and stares. Being dressed in my pajamas, black satin with red hearts all over, doesn’t help, and as we hit the night streets in early March, I question every single one of my life choices. Including skimpy nightwear and fuzzy slippers.

“Come on, let’s make it quick or you’re gonna freeze your tush off.” My tush? Can this guy have a stronger New York accent? He’s like an early twentieth century stereotype of the N.Y.P.D.

“Oh, because now you care?” Fuck, Bowie, just shut your damn mouth. Dude’s big enough to wring my neck out in the literal sense.

“Careful getting in.” With his hand on my head, he protects me from possible concussion. Or at least, he thinks he does. I’ve been getting in and out of cars my whole life, I think I can do it without killing myself.

“Why am I being arrested?” I’m still not getting a real answer and it’s making me a little bat shit crazy.

“All in due time, sweetheart.” Shorty—although only in comparison to King Kong over there—talks like a black and white movie star where hisssounds more like ash. It’s my favorite thing about this accent but now is not the time to remember all the ways I love the Big Apple.

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