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Cam turned onto the Waterburg Bridge. His arm throbbed, Drea was on her way to holding, he needed to call in every favor Reggie owed him, and this prick was busting his chops. “‘Los set up a safe house for me. I need him and Tony to meet me there ASAP.”
“No can do. They’re elbows and alligators with another client right now.” He paused. “Roscoe and I are all you got.”
Wasn’t he a lucky fucking guy? If it wasn’t Drea’s life on the line, he’d have told Mr. Know It All to piss off. Instead, he ate the words. “Meet me at Fifteen Parsnip Lane in Waterburg in thirty.”
Chapter Sixteen
“I won’t cry for you, my mascara’s too expensive.” - Adriana Lima
Drea was cried out, emotionally exhausted, and her butt was about to go flat from sitting on the bench in the holding cell at Harbor City’s eighth precinct. No one would talk to her. She’d screamed herself hoarse trying to get the guards’ attention, but they’d ignored her with practiced ease.
What she wanted was talk to Cam’s friend Reggie. He’d know if Cam had made it out of the park alive. Knight was crazy, but Cam was bigger and smarter. In a fair fight she didn’t doubt Cam would wipe the floor with the thug. But it hadn’t been a fair fight. Acid ate away the lining of her stomach.
A woman in an aquamarine bandage dress, a pair of fishnet thigh highs with the knees ripped out, and flip flops quit pacing right in front of Drea. She stood with a hand on her cocked out hip. The smell of whi
skey and burnt vinyl hung around her like an invisible stomach-roiling cloud.
“Move over. My feet are killing me in these piece of shit jail-issued flip flops.” She chomped her nonexistent gum.
Too tired to argue over a foot of hardwood bench, Drea scooted over.
“I’m Caitlyn.” The woman flopped down.
“Drea.
Caitlyn twisted her long red hair into a knot on the top of her head. “Let me give you a piece of advice, sister. Do not pick a fight with a bouncer at an Irish bar—especially not when he’s your brother-in-law. Fuck, I need a cigarette and a shower.”
Drea had no idea what to do with that information. “Look, I’m not really—”
“In the mood to talk.” The girl made a dismissive gesture with her hands. “Yeah, no one in here is, but if I don’t talk to someone, I’m going to go nutty. The whole thing was a mess. It’s not like I meant to set his car on fire.”
“You torched someone’s car?” Drea couldn’t help but ask.
“Not just someone’s—my brother-in-law’s. And I didn’t torch it. I shot a flaming arrow through the window.” She rolled her unfocused eyes at Drea and shrugged. “It’s not like he was in it.”
It was like watching a live episode of a crazy reality show: Drunk Jailhouse Confessions. She’d watch the shit out of that show curled up with a glass of wine and the latest issue of Chantal fashion magazine.
“Did anyone get hurt?” Drea asked, sucked in despite herself.
Caitlyn hiccupped and turned a light shade of green that made Drea inch away. The story was good, but it wasn’t worth getting puked on good. The other woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her color returned to its previous porcelain shade, augmented by a smattering of freckles across her nose.
“No one got hurt.” She shook her head. “Just his ugly fucking Trans Am. Who drives a Trans Am anymore? And don’t call it a classic, it was a junker.”
Apparently at the end of her tale, Caitlyn leaned back against the cement wall.
The curiosity was killing Drea. She had to know. “What happened to your shoes?”
Caitlyn lifted her right leg and arched her foot to better show off one cheap plastic flip flop. “Ditched ‘em when I took off running after the car exploded.”
“Smart plan.” Drea chuckled. The image was too ridiculous not to. “So you’re going to be arraigned tomorrow?”
Caitlyn nodded. “We all are. Hopefully, my sister will post bail. If not, I am so screwed. I’m too pretty for county.” She gave Drea an assessing up and down look. “Dude?”
“Huh?” She knew she looked like a hot mess, but she’d never been mistaken for a guy before.
“A guy. Are you in here because of a guy?”
Drea stiffened and crashed back to her own shredded reality with a hard thunk. “What makes you say that?”
