Don't Look Down

thirty-five: don't break my heart

I'm exhausted, and probably look terrible. But in my defense, I spent the night at the police station. After the deputy cuffed Seth and escorted him from our room, I locked up, drove to the station, and planted my butt in the waiting room.

My initial reaction was to be as close to him as possible. He was there because he defended me and I couldn't abandon him. But after countless attempts to either see him or post his bail—which I was told isn't financially achievable—I accomplished nothing.

Scratch that. From the stink eye deputy Lucy kept shooting me from behind the front desk, I think I accomplished pissing her off. I don't blame her. When I first stormed into the station, I was an F5 tornado—all pounding winds and scorching rage. I'd even gone so far as to slam her phone down on the desk when she'd told me for the umpteenth time Seth wasn't allowed visitors. It's a miracle I'm not in the cell next to him.

But now my fury has fizzled out, only to be replaced by disappointment. Defeat weighs me down as I drive back to our hotel to check out. It's my only stop before an uncomfortable interaction I'm preparing to have with my mother and her scumbag of a husband. It's my last resort. Groveling, bargaining, I'm above nothing if it results in dropped charges.

I pull up to the motel and my phone rings from inside my purse. Slamming my door shut, I swipe the phone, hitting answer.

"Hello."

"Thanks for replying to my text last night," Marsha says.

I all but sigh into the phone. "Marsh." In the midst of everything happening, I'd completely forgotten about my naïve best friend back home.

"Glad to see you care." She snorts. "I'm having a mental crisis over potentially having my first boyfriend in, oh, six years and I can't even get my best friend's go ahead. What's up with that?"

Reaching my door, I slide my keycard into the slot and push it open.

"I'm so sorry. Things got crazy here and–"

My words get trapped in my throat as cold steel presses against my temple. Across the room sits Calvin, poised and relaxed with his arms thrown atop the back of the couch.

"Hang up the phone."

Lindsay's voice sounds from my left, right behind the barrel of her gun. It digs into the tender flesh of my scalp.

I consider sprinting down the hallway toward the clerk at the front desk. Lindsay may be skilled with a gun and all it would take is the pull of her trigger to have me crumpling lifeless to the floor, but I'm quick. With a little maneuvering I could shield myself behind the door before she's given the opportunity.

"Don't even think about it." This time, the words belongs to Calvin. His voice feels like velvet against the shell of my ear, all smooth and dominant. That paired with his toned frame, crisp, tailored navy suit, and striking features makes it easy to understand why Marsha fell for him. Luckily, I know why she shouldn't have.