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“Ian…” I exhaled, and he braced his hand on the doorframe—his knuckles were scraped and bruised, too.
“Hey,” he said with a wince. “I didn’t think you’d still be coming over.”
“Why not?”
“You know—” He motioned to his face.
“Really? You think because you got into a fight, suddenly I’m just going to cut and run? I’m not the one who decided I couldn’t handle the dating part.”
He flinched.
“And we’re supposed to still be friends, or did I misunderstand that part, too?”
Honestly, maybe he didn’t deserve me being pissed at the moment. Or maybe he did. Either way…
“I’ve been texting you, and you said nothing. Not a word. Not you. Not Jake.”
He dipped his chin. “Jake got arrested.”
My stomach bottomed out.
“What?”
Chapter Ten
We Three (My temper, my future, and me)
Jake
My jaw ached. So did my knuckles. Pretty sure my bruises had bruises. Bubba had a wicked left hook and a worse right one. I’d gotten in a lot of blows, too. A click sounded when I ground my teeth together. Fuck, my jaw hurt. The corner of my lips was puffy, too. Every time I moved my mouth, even a little, the taste of blood touched my tongue.
I sat in a small room at the local police station. Not a place I ever thought I would find myself. On the upside, I wasn’t handcuffed. On the downside, I’d been here for hours.
As far as I knew, I hadn’t been charged—yet. At least, that was what the officers who picked me up from the school and brought me in had said. The handoff between the SROs and the police could have been embarrassing.
Except, I’d been too pissed. Pissed at the coach because he’d called the SROs. Pissed at Bubba because he was a jerk who’d told Frankie one of the worst possible things about us in addition to being a dumbass. Pissed at myself because all I’d seen was red.
My temper.
Mom had been on my ass for the last few years, “Jake, you have got to learn to control that temper. I get it. Things make you mad. But you have to be in charge of you.”
Welp, that was a big fat negative.
My inability to control my temper had me here. If they pressed charges, I had no idea what that meant. I wasn’t eighteen, but that was a formality. It was a couple of months away. I did know better than to answer anything without an attorney. Hence why they had to call my mother. I wanted to call Frankie or at least let her know, but the only option they’d given me was using their phones. She was in class, and I wasn’t leaving this as a voice mail.
“Hey, Frankie. Don’t freak out. I busted Bubba’s face ‘cause he’s a jackass. I’m at the police station. Can you pick up my homework for me?”
Worst of all, my phone was in my backpack, which I hadn’t been allowed to have. They’d gotten Mom’s number from the school. I was sure the school had called her, and if they hadn’t, the cops here had.
That was why I was now sitting in this boring ass room with literally nothing to do but stare at the ugly ass institutional walls painted this cream color and wait.
Homework.
The door opened, and one of the cops who’d brought me in was there. “Need a Coke or something, kid?”
My face was killing me.
“Maybe an ice pack?”
