Page 29 of Devil's Due: Sarge

Before I turn to look at him, I squeeze my eyes shut to work up some tears. “Yes. I just have to use the restroom.” I dart my eyes down to the empty drink containers still in the truck that we’d neglected to throw away, to get him to look.

“Well, now… that’s a shame. You’re gone be here a while because see, we got a call into dispatch from a security guard at the airport. Seems it’s a little odd for a car to only stay in long-term parking for fifteen minutes. He thought maybe you’d been up to no good.”

“I’m not sure why he thought that,” Sarge says.

“What I’m sure of is I’m gone need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

Sarge reaches into his jeans to pull out his wallet, pulling his license and insurance card and handing them off. “Babe,” he says to me. “My registration’s in the glove box.”

I try not to let his use of ‘babe’ affect me, but it’s hard because I like—or liked—no, I still like hearing it. I just wish it meant the same as it did a couple of days ago. If he’s asking me to open the glove box, there’s nothing illegal inside. And I know from the war with the old Horde regime that Sarge doesn’t have any warrants or priors against him.

Not wanting to look like I’m stalling, I press the latch to open the glove box and sitting right on top there’s an envelope that I clearly read through the film window holds the registration. I remove the paper from the envelope and hand it over to Sarge, who hands it over to the deputy.

In turn, the deputy steps away from the truck, calling in the information. But he stops in his tracks and turns to walk back to Sarge’s window. Not nearly enough time for him to have gotten what he needed. That would be because he’s not back for Sarge. He looks at me. “I’m gone need your identification as well.” He stresses the word ‘identification’ to make it sound like identificaSHONE.

Well, this I could be honest with. “I’m afraid I don’t have an I.D. on me.” When he raises his eyebrow I throw in, “Forgot it in my other pants at home. I don’t carry a purse.”

“What’s your name?” he asks, or more likedemands.

I can’t tell him my name. What if I’m on an FBI list or something? But I can’t not tell him, either. With all the crazy thoughts flipping through my mind, I don’t exactly think through the consequences of my next action and call out the first name that comes to mind. “Greer Lennox.”

“Right,” the deputy says, stepping away. “I’ll be calling this in.” The whole while the deputy is talking to me, I feel Sarge’s heavy gaze on me, burning its mark onto my skin like a brand.

It was stupid of me to use his last name, I know, but what if I’d given Greer Smith and there’s a Greer Smith with a rap sheet a mile long and ten different warrants out against her?

Finally, Sarge’s gaze grows too heavy and I snap. “What? I had to tell him something and I couldn’t exactly offer my real name.” Then I stop to take a breath and whisper, “FBI.”

Sarge—it’s unnerving. He doesn’t make a sound and I don’t know if he’s angry I lied or what until he reaches his hand out to cup the back of my head, pulling me in close enough to press a kiss to my parted lips. Predictably, I melt into him. How could I possibly do anything else?

We’re still fixed in our lip-lock when I notice the deputy approaching the truck out of the corner of my eye and break away. “Deputy,” I whisper, to which he brushes his thumb on my cheek under my eye and nods.

“Both names come up clear,” the deputy starts. “But I decided to do a check into that there biker club you’re part of.” He dips his chin to indicate the cut that Sarge always wears. I’m so used to seeing it on his person that I forget it’s there most of the time. “And you know what I found?”

“I’m on pins and needles,” Sarge replies.

“Wouldn’t be so smart if I was you. Seems your lot been getting up to some pretty serious trouble for years now.”

“Not my chapter—cleaned house. We’re law-abiding citizens now. Call Bentley or Thornbriar, Kentucky.”

“I’m gone need to search your vehicle.” It took everything in me not to laugh at his pronunciation of vehicle asvee-HICKLEbecause none of this is funny, well, except for his pronunciation.

Sarge cuts a reprimanding glance at me, then back at the deputy. “You have a warrant to search my truck?”

I swear the deputy’s face darkens to the color of a fire hydrant. He might want to get his blood pressure checked.

“So you refusin’?” He steps back from the truck and I know he’s ready to do something stupid like try to detain us.

“Sarge,” I whisper to catch his attention. He only slightly turns his head to me, but he’s mostly keeping his eyes on the deputy. “We don’t have the time. If he detains you…” I let the thought trail off. Did I want the deputy searching the truck? No. But I feel like it’s a chance we have to take—even if I end up in prison.

“No,” Sarge says. “I’m not refusing. Search away.”

“Good. I’m gone need you to step out of the vehicle.” Then he looks to me. “You, too. One at a time.”

When Sarge reaches his hand over to squeeze mine, I’m sure he has the patience of a saint. Why else would he put up with me? The moment he has the door open and one foot out, the deputy orders him to sit on the dirty ground with his hands to his back.

Sarge does exactly as the deputy asks without struggle. Even when the deputy cuffs him. I gasp. Why cuff him? He’s being cooperative.

“Now you,” the deputy says to me. Me?

---