I didn’t hear her. I didn’t hear Kane yelling either. I only felt the rage boiling over. I cocked my arm back for a finishing blow, but before I could connect, strong arms hooked under my armpits and hauled me backward.
“Get off me!” I thrashed, wild-eyed.
I expected Kane’s voice to sound in my ear. Instead, it was another.
“Easy, Locke! It’s over!”
I blinked, the red haze fading enough to see two uniformed officers wrestling me toward a patrol car. I recognized the one holding me—Officer Miller. A third officer descended on Brandon, bloodied and swollen, helping to prop him against the wall of the gym and get his story. Kane stood on the sidelines, torn between where to go: after me, or to stay with the third officer and set straight whatever bullshit was about to pour out of Brandon’s mouth.
Miller clicked his radio. “I just got Locke’s kid,” he sighed into it, sounding more tired than angry. “Aggravated battery. I’m bringing him in.”
An hour later, the adrenaline had curdled into a cold, hard knot in my stomach. I sat on the narrow bench of the holding cell, staring at the graffiti-etched floor. Now and again I looked over my knuckles. They were swollen and bruised, smeared with blood—mostly Brandon’s, but some of my own too. When you hit that hard, skin breaks. Flexing them had grown difficult. I’d need Tylenol, and a lot of it, to get back to normal over the next few days.
The heavy steel door at the end of the corridor buzzed and clanked open. Miller appeared, unlocking the cell.
“Locke. You’re free to go. Bail’s posted.”
I stood. I should have been pleased to be out but I knew exactly who had posted my bail, and I didn’t want to see him.
Had no choice, though. I followed Miller along the row of cells, out of the wing, and to the front desk.
And there he stood: Noah. He was the picture of corporate perfection—a tailored navy suit, silk tie, and his leather briefcase in hand. His eyes were cold. Dirty blonde hair going lighter with the grey each day. He looked like an older version of me, just stripped of all the grit and humanity.
“Tristian…” His eyes swept over my bruised knuckles, my bloodied shirt. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Noah,” I responded, my voice flat, devoid of warmth.
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Is that any way to address your father?”
“Don’t consider you my father.” My voice didn’t raise.
The air between us grew thin.
“When are you ever going to grow up?” Noah asked, a note of desperate exhaustion cracking his professional veneer.
I shrugged, shifting my weight. “Don’t think I’m much of a child.”
“You can’t expect me to come clean up after you every time you get in trouble with the law,” Noah hissed, stepping closer. “Do you have any idea what this does to my reputation?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t ask for your help. You could just let me rot in jail, and I wouldn’t give two shits.”
“Tristian, I care about you,” Noah insisted, his voice softening. But I could see through his bullshit. “All of this… the fighting, the anger… it’s starting to get out of hand.”
I looked him dead in the eye. “I’ll change when my mother sits up in that hospital bed and walks out on her own.”
Noah narrowed his eyes, caring father facade cracking. “And if she never does?”
“Then nothing changes.”
I turned on my heel and headed for the door, out from under the fluorescent lights threatening a headache and into the late afternoon sun.
“You know I love you, right, son?” he called out.
I stopped. My hand hovered over the push bar of the door. I didn’t turn around.
“No, you don’t.”
His voice shook with indignation. “Don’t call me a liar.”
