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“Gonna be a hell of a fight, getting custody of that kid, when you lose your job, your?—”
“You motherfucker,” Pope roars.
“Goddamn it, Pope,” Marks grunts as he tries to rein in an angry John Paul.
Danny’s still carrying me away as I try to get free when Kal remarks. “Your pissed, but you’ll get over it and come crawling back.”
And then, somehow, I end up in the back of the patrol car, locked freaking in. Within seconds, Pope is shoved in on the other side by Marks and Danny.
“Tell me what he did to you,” Pope demands as they shut the door, locking us both in.
I shake my head, and he grabs my chin, turning it back to face him.
“Whit, tell me.”
I force out, “I don’t have a working phone. Text Marks and tell him there’s white powder residue on his console, to make York document that. I … I … I can’t lose Nora.”
The dam nearly breaks, and he wraps an arm around me and pulls me into a hug, using his other hand to send the text. Then, he wraps me in both arms.
“Everything’s gonna be okay. I promise you, Whit, I’ll make sure of it.”
I want to believe him. I really do. John Paul always made things better. He could calm my nerves before a game and find me when I’d hidden so well that even I didn’t know where I was while playing manhunt. However, I’m not lost in the woods. I’m stuck right in the middle of a situational suckhole of my own creation.
“God, what have I done?” My voice is shaking. I attempt to pull away to hide the fact that the dam is about to burst apart.
His big hand palms the side of my face, and he pulls my head against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding against my face.
“You’ve done nothing but try to make everything okay for everyone.” Although quiet, his voice shakes in anger. “And you’ve made a mess, Whit, but I’m going to fix it?—”
I shove his hand away and sit up, moving so my back is against the door, putting not nearly enough room between us. “I don’t need your help!”
“Like hell you don’t.” He moves to the other side, running his hands over his scruff and up the side of his head and then gripping his hair. “Fucking Kal Seward, Whit?”
“Shut up. Just shut the … hell up!”
And he does—for approximately ten seconds.
“No, fuck that. I’m not shutting up. You’ve been telling me what to do since we were kids. I’m not a damn kid anymore, Whit!”
I fold into a ball, angry with him, but more myself, and tears of anger and frustration finally break through.
Pope bangs on the window, obviously trying to get away from me. “Mark, open the damn door!”
I glance up and see a tow truck, and then Kal throws his arms up, obviously pissed his vehicle is being towed.
Then, I see a black SUV pull alongside the patrol car and stop. When the rear passenger window rolls down, I see Kalvin Seward Senior.
He looks from me to Pope and nods once before rolling up the window and pulling forward.
“He called his freaking father?”
“The man has pull,” Pope states with zero emotion in his voice. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping on the screen, then shoves it back into his pocket.
I swing my gaze back to the vehicle and see my ex climb in the back of the SUV, followed by his asshole friend. Kalvin walks over and speaks with York before he returns to the SUV. York then begins taking pictures of the Porsche, and when she walks to the still-open passenger door, she takes more.
Pope glances at me as I try to wipe my tears on my soaked scrubs. Leaning forward, he reaches over his shoulder and pulls his windbreaker—or whatever the heck it’s called now—over his head, along with a maroon long-sleeved shirt. Walton’s school color.
“Shirt’s dry and mud-free. You should put it on; you’re soaked.”
