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She’s asking nothing now—not with words—just tense, restless pacing as the plane jockeys to a halt and there’s a faint hiss of depressurizing air. Then the door opens and she’s out, racing down the boarding ramp like a shot.
Goddammit, what happened?
I’ll get my luggage later—Dominick can take it back to my place. I’m after her in an instant, rattling down the metal stairs to catch up with her.
“Callie!” I call, but she doesn’t slow her mad rush to the terminal. “Callie!”
I jog to catch up with her and finally take her arm.
She whirls around, ripping her arm back with her eyes a mess. Her face is wet and her hair sticks to her cheeks in the damp spots.
Shit.
“What the hell happened?” I ask breathlessly. “Let me drive you. Guarantee I can get you there faster than anything else.”
She stares at me with liquid eyes before looking away sharply, sniffing, throwing her free hand against her face.
“It’s Dad,” she chokes out. “He’s...he’s been arrested. He got drunk and got into a brawl, and I don’t know how hurt he is, but it sounded bad.”
Fuck.
“Come on.” I don’t even hesitate to press a hand to the small of her back, ushering her forward.
No, this isn’t my problem. I don’t have to make it my problem, either.
Only, one look at her mournful eyes and I can’t help it.
“Dominick should be waiting. Let’s get you the hell out of here.”
15
In A Blue Funk (Callie)
I’m so happy my father isn’t dead I think I’ll celebrate by killing him.
He’s only a little the worse for wear with a black eye and a few scuffs and bruises.
In fact, he’s happily signing autographs for the dispatch officer who recognized him while I was paying his bail and getting him out of the tank.
Sigh.
I don’t even know what to do with this man.
I guess I’ll figure that out after the other guy makes up his mind about pressing charges. Then we’ll know if we’re dealing with a court date for assault and battery or just a good old-fashioned drunk and disorderly.
I love Dad. I do. More than anything in the world.
But after the last twenty-four hours, I’m so not emotionally equipped to handle the thought of my father going to jail.
At least the other man driving me out of my mind isn’t here right now.
Roland waits outside because I asked him to. Because I can’t stand being close to him and his infinite mountain of crap and dealing with Dad’s dilemma all at once.
Also, it’s probably not the best idea for me to have a nervous breakdown in the middle of a police station.
I’m grateful to Roland for the ride. And for how he sprang into action, whisking me away from the private jet to Dad and his drama in a snap.
So far, he’s doing exactly what I asked: forgetting last night ever happened.
He’s just being Roland in that bizarre bossman way where he acts like a total tool but then drops everything to help the second someone has a cloud hanging over them.
Sometimes getting what you want is the worst thing of all in life.
While I finish up Dad’s paperwork—including a warning about avoiding more trouble and staying in town while he’s out on bail—I can’t stop thinking about the way Roland kissed me last night.
Or I kissed him.
Honestly, I don’t know who kissed who first.
I just know we wrecked each other like a meteor strike, even if it feels like I’m the only one left with the burning debris.
I don’t have the mental power to hash that right now.
It’s been put to rest. I did the smart thing, called it a mistake, and let us both slink away with a pinch of pride intact.
Now, I just need to get Dad home and put some ice on his swollen eye and then try to figure out if we can afford a good enough lawyer to negotiate him down to probation and community service.
Heck, this might even be a positive for him.
He can’t show up to do roadside cleanup work stinking drunk.
Please. If nothing else comes from this craptacular day, please let it be the wakeup call Dad needs.
I sign the last of the documents and hand them over before scowling at my father.
“Are you even taking this seriously?”
He rips off another autograph with a lopsided smile and passes it to the wide-eyed older female officer behind the desk, then gives me a sheepish look.
“Can’t let down a fan, Callie-love. You know how it goes.”
Unfortunately, I do.
A bitter part of me wants to grab him by the shirt and scream, Just like you can’t turn down a drink, you lovable idiot?
But I can’t hurt Dad with an outburst here.
He’s sick in the head and weary in the heart.
He needs my help more than ever.
His ankle’s a little sprained, too, so I give him my arm to help steady him outside.
