Page 14 of Wreckage of Me
“What the fuck was that?” I finally mumble to no one in particular.
“We had to make you look the part, Mr. Knight,” Devereaux chuckles as he stares at me from his impressive height, both hands in the pockets of his expensive trousers.
I groan in pain when I sit up. I’m getting too old for this bullshit, I think to myself when my back twinges in pain. I feel something dripping from my nose, and when I bring my hand up to stop it, I realize that it’s blood.
“Fucker, you broke my nose,” I growl at Malone, but he’s not anything if not amused.
“Just doing my part for the cause,” he grins in amusement.
While remaining in the sitting position, I bring the bottom of my white t-shirt up to my nose and wipe. It looks like a lot and such a vibrant red against my light colored shirt.
“You’ll definitely look convincing,” Devereaux chuckles, and I’m starting to hate this part of him.
“I don’t think this was necessary,” I mumble as I continue wiping at my nose and face.
“It really was, Mr. Knight. I’m going to need you to speak with Mr. Puck about staying away from my daughter while you’re on this path of doing the right thing,” he watches me with calculating eyes.
“I’m not Puck’s keeper,” I deadpan, but let out a groan of pain when I try to stand up from the floor. I’m sure this latest episode has not done any good to my ribs. At the rate I’m going, they’ll never heal properly.
“Let’s go.”
Devereaux completely ignores my discomfort. He just turns around, expecting me to follow like a good little lap dog that he thinks I am. And I have no choice but to follow him, especially when Malone is at my back, all seven feet of him looming over me. I don’t actually think he’s seven feet tall, but he’s fuckin’ tall. I’m six foot four, and this fucker could pick me up like I’m nothing if he put his mind to it.
After most likely exactly two and a half minutes of walking down a couple of hallways, I find myself sitting in an interrogation room, much like the one Becca was in for her meeting with the detective.
“Is this necessary?” I snap when a very serious looking police officer handcuffs me to the metal table.
“You’re supposed to be a dangerous murderer. It’s protocol,” he shrugs and walks away.
These fucking people are way too dedicated to making this look real, I decide as I try to move my hands around, hoping to loosen up the handcuffs a bit, even though I know it’s not possible.
After endless minutes of waiting, I finally hear commotion outside the door. That’s followed by a male voice barking instructions at Becca, I presume.
“No touching, no hugging.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” her voice sounds sarcastic, and it’s obvious that she’s pissed off.
The more I get to know this girl, the more I admire her spunk and attitude. She would’ve made a great ol’ lady. Between her and my mom, they could’ve ruled the club.
My father would’ve destroyed her spirit though, no matter how strong she’d have tried to be. My mother was strong like that once, I’m sure. She still shows signs of it once in a while, but it’s obvious that she’s scared of my father.
“Just do as you’re told,” the male voice sounds positively annoyed at Becca’s comeback.
“Yes, sir,” she can’t resist one small jab, which only makes me want to grab her and kiss her senseless. Seeing her right now and telling her to go away is going to be so damn hard. Her fighting for me like she has is something I may never experience again in my lifetime from anyone.
The heavy door finally opens and in walks the girl who got into my head in such a bad way, I’ll never forget her.
“Dylan,” she gasps and attempts to rush to me when I come into her view, but the guard puts a hand on her shoulder and stops her progress.
“No physical contact,” he barks at her.
“I got that, asshole,” she mutters in the corner of her mouth, then shakes his hand off her shoulder and rushes to the table. She drops in the hard metal chair and just stares at me like I’m the best view she’s seen in a while.
“You look tired,” I finally manage to form words.
“You look…” She hesitates, like she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. “You look all beaten up,” she whispers, and it sounds like it pains her to tell me that.
“Eh,” I shrug, “I’ve had worse.”
