The Longest Five Years (Completed)

Reagan

Present Day

My phone buzzes in my lap, the screen lighting up with Benson's face. Each time I hit deny, Luke's hands ball into fists beside me.

"Tell me what's going on, Reagan," he pleads.

"No," I shake my head. I can't. It's too messy. Surprisingly, he leaves it alone.

My phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

His knee is bouncing. Foot tapping. He leans forward.

"Stop the car," Luke says to the driver.

"No, keep driving," I plead.

"Who's payin' here, because that's who I'm listening to. Got it?" The driver seems irritated with both of us and I can't blame him. The light turns red and we both settle back against the seat, clearly worked up. "Figure it out."

"I'm paying. Now stop the car, Alan," Luke says, looking up at the driver's name on his overhead visor. "I'll pay you double."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Alan says with a smile. His eyes find me in the rearview. "Sorry, darlin'."

"What are you doing?" I panic when he grabs the door handle. "Luke, stop," I lean across the cab and put my hand on his, hoping to somehow change his mind.

"You don't have to come right out and say it for me to know something's wrong, Reags. I heard what he said to you. What he called you," he swallows. "I'm going back to find him so I can ask him if he likes the fear floating in your eyes. It was there tonight. It's there every. Single. Time. He calls," he says slowly.

"Don't. Your ribs. You'll get hurt," I beg him. Beg him. I never saw this coming.

"It's far too late for that. And better me than you," he says as he opens the door and heads back in the direction of Hank's.

I can't believe he's doing this. All I can think of is his bruises and broken ribs and Benson's big, hard fists. Music may be his passion, but he hits the punching bags daily at the gym.

Luke is a punching bag he's been waiting to smack around for years.

I can't breathe. I'm out of the car, a little buzzed and wobbly in my heels.

The clouds are heavy. It's going to pour any minute, and I'm crying.

"Luke!" I yell and he stops. He turns and I walk to him carefully, afraid he might run if I move too quickly.

Thunder rolls and I jump.

"Just come back to the car, okay? Come on back with me," I reach for his hand, but it's still a fist and he won't let my fingers find his. "Let him be tonight. He's drunk. It's not worth your time," I tell him.

"I'm a cop, Reagan," he reminds me. "I can handle it."

His eyes, icy and dark, find mine. They're cold and angry until I ask him again

"Well I can't. It'll only make it worse, believe me," my voice breaks. His eyes immediately soften and it's too familiar. It feels too good right now.

I get it. It's not just the way Benson treated me on stage, or how he nearly spat when he scolded me for not answering his calls. It's everything--five years of emotions breaking through the surface.

His cheeks turned red when Benson repeatedly screamed my name as I left the bar. "I love you, Reagan. Don't do this to me. Don't be a bitch now, baby. You love me. You love me..."

"Come on," I repeat calmly. "Let's just go home," I'm feeling light. Woozy.

His fists unclench and his hand falls loosely at his side, watching to see what I do next. And because I'm afraid if I make the wrong move he'll turn around and dart, I thread my fingers with his and lead him to the car.