Page 79 of Rich Girl
“The tattoo dude?”
I nod in confirmation.
“Do you know his number off the top of your head? If not, I can call his shop once it gets to be more of a decent hour.”
I realize that I have no idea what time it even is. I left the shop at around four.
“What time is it?”
“Six forty-five.”
“Fuck, his shop won’t open until eleven.” I look at him with what I’m sure is pure desperation. “Can you get into my cell phone? I have his personal number saved on there. I don’t know it without that.”
Why the fuck are we not forced to memorize phone numbers? Having everything accessible on the cell phone is currently ruining my fucking life.
“All your personal effects have been booked for evidence. I’m sorry.”
Frustration is making me want to lash at him. I have this sudden urge to headbutt him, hopefully break his face, before escaping out of this building.
A huge problem with that is the fact that I am handcuffed, and I most likely wouldn’t make it very far.
“I’ll do a quick search in our system. Hopefully his personal number will pop up,” the officer tells me.
I just nod in gratitude, but I don’t have it in me to form words anymore. By now, we have reached the cell where I’m supposed to be staying until this is cleared out. The metal door closes with a loud slam behind me, the sound reverberating all around us.
“Put your hands in here.”
The officer shows me a small opening in the door. As soon as I place my hands through it, he uses a key to undo the handcuffs. I pull back, relieved to be out of them, but when I look around me, I am freaked the fuck out.
The room I’m in is insanely small, with a very narrow bed that takes most of its width. The length of it also allows for a toilet and a sink. The whole thing is wild.
Since there’s not enough room to pace around, I sit on the bed. It is hard as fuck, and I sure hope like hell that I won’t have to sleep on it tonight.
I’m not sure how long I sit like that for, just staring at the door, willing it to slide open. When I hear a commotion from somewhere out there, I stand up and grab the bars, pushing my face against them in an effort to see what’s happening. It is all futile because it is impossible to see for more than two feet in front of me.
Heavy footsteps approach my cell, causing my heart to start pounding, to the point where I am getting lightheaded.
“Parker,” an officer’s gruff voice hits my ears. “Hands in the slot.”
Without thinking, I do as I’m asked. He slides the handcuffs back on my wrists. As soon as I pull them back, he opens the door.
“You have a visitor,” he informs me just as he grabs my arm and walks me away from my cell. I sure hope I won’t have to get back inside of it.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. I have a feeling that he’s not the chatty kind anyway, and I am not in the mood to talk to anyone other than people who can get me out of this mess.
“Dude!” I hear Cal’s voice before I see him.
“You have thirty minutes,” the officer cuts him off. “The room is under surveillance, so no funny business.”
I roll my eyes at that. I’ve been living in this community for most of my life. Now I’m this persona non grata, and everyone thinks I’m out to get them.
“What the fuck is going on?” Cal asks as soon as the officer clears the room. “They wouldn’t tell me anything other than to say you’ve been arrested for kidnapping and some other thing. Who the fuck did you kidnap?”
I shouldn’t find any of this funny. But the way Cal’s eyes are bulging out of his head when he asks that looks hilarious to me.
“Fuck, are you losing it?” he asks, worry lacing the tone of his voice. “I’ve already put in some calls for an attorney, but it’s too early. Nobody’s in the office yet.”
I place my elbows on the small metal table that’s nailed to the floor. When I attempt to drop my face in my hands, I am reminded of the handcuffs I have holding my wrists together.
