Page 45 of No Turning Back
Maria pokes her head out the back door when I’m well into my third bottle. “Hey, Markus, you staying for dinner? I’m making spaghetti.”
I raise my beer in a sloppy salute. “Maria! Come here, lady.”
She stays put, smiling politely. So, I just blurt it out. “How are you okay with Captain here fucking bit-”
I don’t finish, because a fist connects with my face. My whole-body crumples sideways off the chair.
I look up to see Lyle towering over me. “Don’t talk to my wife like that.”
I stumble to my feet, and lean into his space. “Whatever.” Not my best comeback, but I’m seeing double now.
I stagger out the side gate, digging into my pockets for my phone. “Fuck.” Left it on the table. Not going back for it.
I fish out my keys instead and get in the car. My house isn’t far. I’ll make it.
It is still my house.
I’m about to have a kid with a woman who won’t stop calling me. Even my mom’s on my case about “stepping up.” I’m not even sure the kid’s mine. Yeah, I fucked her, but I pulled out. Asking for a paternity test will get me all kinds of shit, but what the hell am I supposed to do? Raise a kid that might not even be mine? One I definitely don’t want.
Fuck. How did my life get so fucked up? I never should’ve signed up for that last tour.
I’m at the intersection before my house when a stupid stop sign jumps out at me. I hit it. Head-on.
The car starts beeping. Airbag didn’t go off, small mercies. I’m too tired to deal with it. I close my eyes for just a second.
Next thing I know, there’s a knock on the window. The car is still beeping, and now there’s a flashlight in my face. The door swings open.
“Sir, step out of the vehicle.”
Ah, hell. Who called the cops?
I squint up, trying to focus, and the first thing I clock is, he’s Black. Tall, broad shoulders, that no-nonsense stance. Relief actually flickers in my chest.
I grin, sloppy. “Ah, man… brother, you know how it is. Just trying to get home, no trouble.”
He doesn’t smile. “Step out of the vehicle, sir. Now.”
I fumble with the seatbelt. My feet don’t feel like cooperating right now, but I try to play it off. “Look, we don’t gotta make this a big thing. I’m just around the corner. My house.”
“Keys.” His hand’s out. Not a request.
I drop them in his palm, maybe a little too hard. “C’mon, man. Brothers gotta look out for each other. You know how it is.”
He looks me dead in the eye, no warmth, no flicker of camaraderie. “I’m looking out for you by not letting you kill somebody tonight.”
That stings more than I’ll admit.
“Turn around, hands on the roof,” he says.
I sigh, lean against the metal. “Really? We doing this?”
“Breath smells like a brewery, sir. We’re doing this.”
He runs through the motions, field sobriety, breathalyser. I mess up the walk-and-turn halfway through, laugh it off, try to stand up straight.
“Alright, Mr. Ortega,” he says, the “Mr.” sounding a lot likedumbass, “you’re over the limit. You’re under arrest for driving while intoxicated.”
Cold metal cuffs snap around my wrists.
