Page 46 of No Turning Back
“This is bullshit,” I mutter, but it’s weak. The squad car door opens, and I duck my head to get in.
Through the windshield, I can see that my front bumper is still pressed up against that damn stop sign.
I tell myself I’ll figure it out tomorrow.
But deep down, I know tomorrow’s gonna be worse.
The next morning, I realise I was right. So, fucking right.
Remember how I don’t have my phone right now? Yeah, means I can’t scroll through my contacts, can’t call anyone. Only number I can pull from memory is Quinn’s. Should’ve memorized my mom’s, though if I’m being honest, I can’t decide which would be worse.
Hungover, reeking like vomit which is not even mine, I shuffle up to the wall phone. Cold plastic receiver against my ear, landline ringing in the dark.
“Hello?” A smoky, sexy-as-fuck voice, rough from sleep, slides through the line.
“Hey, Quinn.”
She goes dead silent.
I panic. “Please don’t hang up, I… uh… I got arrested and I don’t have my phone. I know I have no right, but-”
The dial tone cuts me off, loud and merciless.
Fuck. God, she’s a bitch.
I slam the receiver down so hard the thing rattles, and the officer’s hand twitches toward his holster. I throw my cuffed hands up fast. “Whoa, relax. I’m not dying here over a damn phone call.”
He relaxes, barely and I walk back to my holding cell like I’m marching to the gallows.
Little more than two hours later, the door swings open again. I don’t even bother looking up at first, it’s been a revolving door of indifference all night, but then the guy says, “Ortega, you made bail.”
I’m on my feet in a second. “Really? Who posted it?”
He shrugs. “Some lady.”
Wow. She actually came. Of course she did. Quinn’s a stand-up woman, always there when you need her.
Another set of doors open, and it’s… Anna.
The look on my face must be obvious because she smirks. “Happy to see you too, princess. Not too happy, though. We’ve got an appearance in front of a judge in an hour. Barely enough time to get you cleaned up.”
I jog to keep up, Anna walks like she’s late for war in those heels. We jump in a cab, and instead of heading toward my place, she tells the driver, “Target. Nearest one.”
“Target?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even speak to me as she taps away on her phone. Once we’re there Anna heads straight to themen’s section. “Since we don’t have time to swing by your house, these will have to do.” She flips through shirts, looking at each tag.
I stay quiet, trying not to squirm under her lawyer glare. Lyle’s little sister, my lawyer, and apparently the only person between me and a cell right now.
“How’d you even know where I was?” I ask as we’re making our way up the courthouse steps.
“Lyle called me.”
“How’d he know?”
“Your wife called him.” Her voice spikes with frustration. “God, Markus, what the hell were you even thinking. Drunk driving?”
“I’m sorry.”
