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Because the guy I thought was not my type… He was so much my type I wondered if he was made just for me.
“Is he still here?” I pressed.
“Newsflash, kid. You’re the one being detained. Not me.” Grabbing the grungy-looking landline, he turned it around on the desk toward me. “This ain’t a cell phone with unlimited minutes. Make your call, then hang up.”
I gazed at the phone, knowing the second I made the call, I’d be out of here in minutes. But what about him? Did he have anyone to call? Where’d they put him? Was he okay?
Across the room, a door swung open, a cheap set of blinds covering the inset window on the top half banging against the glass. A man in uniform came out first, but my eyes kept moving, going to the space over his shoulder instead.
Prism stepped out, his arms wrapped over his chest like a shield. His posture was slumped like his shoulders were heavy, and his head was angled to stare at the floor. I forgot about the phone call. The people moving around the room. I stared hard at him, hoping he’d feel the attention and lift his face. I just needed to see him. I needed to know he was okay.
The thin T-shirt he wore was an unacceptable barrier between him and everything else, and I thought regretfully of the jacket I’d left at the rave. He still didn’t look up when he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he followed the cop to a desk that looked just like the one I was sitting at.
Despite the heaviness in his body, he perched on the edge of the chair like he didn’t trust it, pulling his hands from his pockets to clasp them tightly in his lap.
Look at me. I silently willed.
Slap! The loud smack on the table in front of me rattled the phone where it rested in its base. “All that noise about a phone call and now you aren’t even making it.”
I flicked a glance at the detective scowling on the other side of the desk but then went right back to Prism.
He was looking at me.
I took the weight of his stare like a sucker punch to the gut, my breath catching in my chest. Instead of hours, he appeared to have been in custody for days. Shadows darkened his chocolate eyes, making them appear sunken in their sockets. His full lips were red as though he’d been biting them, and his hair looked like he’d been tugging on it in desperation.
The chair I was in skidded back when I stood, hands flexing with the urge to pull him close. His eyes flashed with something that felt a whole hell of a lot like anguish, which turned something inside me rabid. I started toward him, only making it to the corner of the desk before the detective stepped in my way.
“Are you forgetting you’re in police custody?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“No.”
I glanced past my warden, noting the way Prism scrubbed the pads of his fingers over his jeans like he was trying to get ink off his skin.
The detective’s eyes widened when I met them, letting him see just how far past my limit I was heading.
Time to call in the big guns.
The fact they’d yet to realize there would be big guns frankly spoke volumes about how great at their jobs they were.
I went to the phone, snatching it up so roughly the cord knocked over a cup of pens. My finger stabbed the numbers as I dialed and sucked in a breath. The phone rang twice.
“Who is this?” Even being woken up in the middle of the night didn’t dull his commanding voice.
“Dad.”
“Arsen?” he replied. I could practically see him holding the phone away to glance at the screen. “Where are you calling from?”
“Westbrook Police Station.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story, but I got arrested.”
“What the hell for?” he spat. Then angrily, he added, “Are they insane?”
I glanced back at Prism, forgetting the phone and incredulous voice in my ear when I saw him glaring at the cop across from him. His hands gripped the edge of the chair so hard they were white, and his feet moved restlessly, ready to run.
