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"I need a restraining order against two people immediately. My friend does as well, but I'll bring her here in person to file with you."
"Of course. I'll gather the forms and we can get started." He stands and moves to collect the necessary paperwork.
I let out a breath, the knot in my stomach somewhat eased. I'm in shock Sharon dropped the charges. There must've been something in it for her, because she wouldn't have backed off so easily. If she can't have me, no one can and she does a damned good job at it.
Max, on the other hand, needs to serve some time. I have no clue what's going on with his case, but I'll be digging for information. I need to keep them away from Emma and myself.
Emma.
Her face pops into my head, her warm brown eyes, her soft creamy skin, and her long golden-brown hair.
My heart hammers in my chest at the thought of her. What could she be doing right now at this exact moment? Is she thinking of me? Missing me as much as I miss her?
We were never anything... hell, we barely dated. So, why do I feel as if half of my heart is missing?
* * *
The next day,I make the forty-five-minute drive to the prison. I'm hoping Ethan listens to me. A rehab center sounds nicer than serving time in prison.
I clench the wheel tightly as I pull in. My nerves get the best of me; my heart picks up speed. Using my therapist’s tricks, I do deep belly breathing in an attempt to relax myself.
I circle the lot a couple of times, sliding into a spot near the back. I grab my wallet and phone and head inside.
After being buzzed in and searched, I'm led to the family waiting room. There’re a few other people sitting in the dark, dank room. No decorations or bulletin boards line the walls, nor is there a TV. A few chairs, a couple of tables, and a few scattered magazines is all there is to see. Fits the theme of a prison, cold and uninviting.
I take a seat and wait as I scroll through my phone.
My name is called and I stand to see Ethan walking behind an officer. He scowls at me and I brace myself, my hands gripping the sides of the table.
His face is slightly puffy and swollen, one eye black, while the other is a purplish color. His lip is split and he has long scratch marks on his neck.
I grip the table so hard, my knuckles turn white. This isn't my brother. This isn't the fun-loving carefree Ethan I know and love. The disease has destroyed him, whittled him down to a small shell of himself.
He sits in a chair diagonally from me, his arms crossed. "Come to rub it in?"
I shake my head, ensuring to keep my gaze serious. "No, I came to try to help you."
Ethan sneers. "You've never wanted to help me before. How in the hell can you help?"
"How about trying for the judge to lessen the prison time by going to a sober house or rehab center?"
"No, no way. I'm not going to one of those places so they can nit-pick my brain."
"Ethan, they aren't trying to nit-pick your brain. They want to help you so you can fight this horrible disease."
"I don't have a fucking disease, Knox. I enjoy getting high." Ethan leans back as he rests his handcuffed hands on the table between us. His eyes hold mine, as if he's daring me to do something. Anything.
"It's time to grow up. Get your life together and figure out your shit."
"You're not our dad, Knox."
"I'm only trying to help." I hold my hands up in surrender.
"I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help. I'll do what I want. And, if I enjoy being high, then so be it."
He stands and the chair scrapes the floor with a loud screech. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."
Ethan turns and shuffles towards the door, a guard scurrying behind him.
