Convict: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

  I thrash. I have to get up. I have to make sure he doesn’t hurt her, but there’s at least three people holding me down.

  Someone puts a knee in my back. They bind my wrists together behind me, and I kick, trying to knock them off even though I feel like a fish out of water, increasingly helpless.

  “Don’t let him—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Stone,” Luna’s voice says, right behind me. She digs her knee into my back harder. “You’re under arrest for assault.”

  29

  Luna

  The second I say something, Stone stops struggling. He’s panting, sweat sliding down his face and into the carpet.

  “Sorry,” he whispers, his face half-smashed against the floor.

  Then he tries to turn his head and look at me, his eyes desperate.

  “Luna, that’s—”

  “Shut up,” I say, keeping my voice low. Then I clear my throat and start reciting.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” I say, hoping he gets the hint. “Anything you say can and will be used...”

  I’m still drunk, still not wearing underwear, and I’m fucking bewildered. The other guy is still on the floor, and one of the waiters is holding a towel to his nose. Someone’s on the phone, talking low and fast.

  Stone closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. I steal a glance at the guy he beat up. One second he was asking me if I knew any good bars that were still open in town, and the next second Stone was slamming him into the floor.

  I’ve got a very, very strong suspicion it’s not because he was talking to me. Or, rather, not just because he was talking to me. Stone’s a little protective, but he’s not insane.

  This is something deeper. Stone recognized that guy.

  They know he’s here, I think, and a shiver runs down my spine.

  In another minute, there are flashing lights outside. Paramedics run in and kneel over the other guy. Two cops in uniform — not Chad, thank God — come in, grab Stone, and put him in the back of a squad car. A third takes witness statements, including mine.

  It’s all a big fucking mess, but at least while he’s in custody Stone will be okay. The holding cell at police headquarters is probably the safest place in Tortuga. I get a ride back there from the cop who took witness statements, a female rookie who can’t be more than twenty-three.

  “You’re okay?” she asks once we’re in the car.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say.

  “You always carry zip tie handcuffs in your purse?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious.

  I laugh a little.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “This is the first time I’ve used them, though.”

  She nods, and we don’t say anything else, which is fine. I don’t particularly want to talk about how I was on a date with a guy I had to arrest.

  At the police station, everything takes forever. Processing Stone and getting him into the holding cell takes forever. Filling out my arrest report takes forever. Giving another statement takes forever. At least I sober up while I wait.

  The other guy, who gives his name as Blake Paxton, refuses medical treatment beyond letting the paramedics patch him up on-site. Then he insists on coming to the police station and giving his account as soon as possible.

  I let someone else interview him. I was there. I’m biased. But I stay at the police station and look up Blake Paxton, even though I suspect that’s not his real name.

  I wish we could get his fingerprints, or a hair, or at least a good photo or something. If he’s with the Syndicate, there’s a great chance he’s connected to my arson case, and if I can prove that, we can put him away and I can solve this thing in one fell swoop.

  The only problem is that Blake Paxton may as well be a ghost. The only person I can find with that name died in 2009 at the age of eighty-five. It’s suspicious, sure, but absence of evidence is just that. It doesn’t prove anything, and law enforcement databases in the U.S. are notoriously incomplete, no matter what cop shows want you to believe.

  It’s close to midnight when Chad comes in. I wonder what he did that they gave him the night shift — he’s been on it for about a week now, I think, and the night shift is definitely punishment.

  He takes a route through the main room that manages to go right by my desk.

  “Looking lovely, Rivers,” he says, a smug look on his jerk face. “Hot date?”

  Great, so he’s already heard.

  “Go fuck yourself, Chad,” I say. I don’t even look up at him.

  He disappears. People go home. The rookie cop who was talking to Blake comes out of the interview room, frowning, and comes over to me.

  “Paxton says he doesn’t want to press charges,” she says, clearly concerned.

  I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but I raise my eyebrows.

  “He doesn’t?” I ask.

  He could. It would be open-and-shut, because about seven people, including a police officer, watched Stone attack him completely unprovoked.

  But then again, I’m pretty sure Blake Paxton isn’t a real person. If that’s true, of course he doesn’t want to press charges.

  “Will you talk to him?” she asks. “Just to make sure he understands the implications?”

  “You know I was on a date with the guy who assaulted him, right?” I ask. “I might not be the very best person.”

  She looks around.

  “You’re kind of the only person,” she says. “Besides, if you tell him to press charges against your date, maybe he’ll listen? Maybe he’s afraid of police retaliation?”

  If he presses charges, at least we can keep Stone in custody a little longer, I think. And maybe they’d let Stone off with community service or something, since he doesn’t technically have a record...

  It’s not like either option is great.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”

  30

  Stone

  I lean my head back against the concrete wall and close my eyes. The bench I’m sitting on is uncomfortable, the fluorescent lights in here make my eyes ache, and the knuckles on my right hand are badly bruised from punching Hammer.

  The other guy in the holding cell rolls onto his back and looks at the ceiling, lying on the bench across the cell from me. He’s still drunk as hell.

  “Motherfuckers roar and they got Gonzo noses,” he mutters. “Just come up the coast like they fuckin’ own the place, man, don’t nobody own California...”

  He’s been going on like this since they hauled me in here, a couple of hours ago. It took me a while to piece together, but apparently he’s talking about elephant seals. They’re seals with trunks. Like elephants. I have no idea if they’re real. He might have hallucinated them.

  I want to shout, shake the bars of the cage, try to rip the sink and the toilet out of the wall. I’m in here, Luna’s out there, and so is Hammer. They could be together right now.

  But following my urges has already landed me in here, and I’m fucking useless if I’m behind bars. So I force myself to sit quietly even though every cell in my body wants to do anything but.

  A door opens in the hallway outside, and a uniformed cop comes through, followed by Luna.

  I stand, but she looks over at me. She shakes her head once, then looks forward, disappearing down a hallway.

  I sit down again, my head in my hands.

  You ruined everything, I think. You couldn’t even do something nice for Luna without fucking it up.

  She’s too good for you, and you’ve known it all along.

  When I get out of here — if I get out of here — I’ve only got one option left.

  If I don’t turn myself over, they’ll hurt her. That’s fucking clear. So I’ll turn myself in.

  The thought makes me feel oddly calm.

  “Floppy fuckin’ fish animals,” the drunk guy opines.

  A while later, the door to the hallway opens again, and I look over. This time it’s just one cop, a man in uniform, and he heads straight for the holdi
ng cell.

  It’s Chad, one of the last people I want to see. I don’t need his bullshit right now, but I don’t say anything. I’ve already fucked up bad enough, and pissing off a police officer won’t help me get out of here, no matter how punchable his face is.

  I lean back again, close my eyes, and try to ignore him. The drunk is still muttering to himself, possibly still about seals.

  “Who the fuck names their kid Stone?”

  Even with my eyes closed, I can tell he’s close, probably right on the other side of the bars.

  I don’t answer. He’s not worth it.

  “Your mom a drunk? Druggie? You even know who your father is, or did she have to guess?”

  Anger swells in me, even though he’s pretty much right. I fight back the urge to say she knew who it was, he just didn’t stick around.

  I don’t need to add fuel to the fire. I just need to ignore him until he goes away.

  “If your mother was a slut, that explains a lot,” he goes on.

  “Just so fuckin’ graceful,” the drunk guy whispers loudly.

  Chad’s only trying to piss you off, I tell myself. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s not worth the effort.

  “It explains why you like Luna, for one thing,” he says.

  My eyes snap open, and I just look at him.

  “You should shut the fuck up,” I say, keeping my voice dangerously quiet.

  Chad grins. He looks like a schoolyard bully who’s trying to demand some kid’s lunch money.

  “Bet she’s nice and stretched out,” he says.

  I jump to my feet before I can stop myself and stalk to the bars of the cell. Chad’s right on the other side, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to grab his collar and slam him against them, but I don’t.

  It doesn’t matter what he says, I tell myself again, furiously. You both know he’s lying. He’s just trying to piss you off.

  “Leave Luna the fuck out of this,” I say. “You’ve got a problem with me, have it with me.”

  “I just wanted to you warn you,” he says, fake-friendly. “You think things are great, and then bam, she’s off, jumping on someone else’s dick.”

  I know he’s just making shit up, but it’s still making black prickle at the edges of my vision that he’s saying this at all. That he’s saying it out loud where people can hear his goddamn lies.

  “Once a dumb slut, always a dumb slut,” he says.

  My hands are tight around the bars, my knuckles pure white, my right hand screaming in pain. This is the most self-control I’ve ever had in my life, and I grit my teeth together, anger coursing through my veins.

  Don’t fall for it, I think. You can only get out and save her if you don’t punch a cop.

  “And they just come outta the water onto my beach? My beach?”

  Neither of us even acknowledges that the drunk exists.

  “Or maybe you like that sort of thing?” Chad says. Now his eyes are blazing, and he’s clearly angry that it’s not working. “Whores who—”

  The door behind him opens, and he stops short, a worried look coming into his eyes.

  Luna walks through the door, and I laugh in his face.

  “It’s pretty fucking easy to be brave when there’s bars between us and no one else to hear you, huh?” I ask, pulling myself forward, my face almost against the bars.

  “Chad, what the fuck are you doing in here?” she asks, clearly annoyed.

  “Just talking to the prisoner,” he says, turning around.

  “How about you go do your job?” Luna suggests, sarcastically.

  “Calm down, princess,” he says.

  Luna rolls her eyes, but Chad walks to the door. She waits until it shuts behind him to speak.

  “Goddamn fucking douchebag,” she mutters, then starts unlocking the holding cell. “Come on, your lawyer’s here.”

  “Just fuckin’ come up on the beaches. People beaches,” the drunk mutters.

  I frown.

  “I don’t have a lawyer,” I say.

  Luna gives me a significant look.

  “It’s the court-appointed lawyer,” she says. “Come on.”

  I don’t argue, just follow. I’m still jittery from my near-altercation with Chad, and I can just imagine him, walking around the station, smirking, knowing that he got away with saying that shit to me. Knowing that I didn’t do anything about it.

  Luna opens a door, flips a light switch, and ushers me through. There’s no one inside, but she shuts the door behind us and turns to me.

  “We use this room for lawyers to talk to their clients in private,” she explains, then looks at me. “What did Chad want?”

  I just shake my head.

  “Nothing,” I say. “He was just trying to piss me off.”

  “Did it work?” she asks.

  I snort. Luna tilts her head to one side. She looks tired, and her eyes are slightly red-rimmed, but a tiny smile tugs at her lips.

  “Well, you didn’t kick his ass,” she says. “That’s progress, at least.”

  I did this. I did all of this.

  Jesus, it’s progress that I didn’t kick someone’s ass. What the hell is wrong with me?

  It’s past midnight, Luna’s still wearing the dress she wore for our date, she’s got circles under her eyes, and she looks like she might have been crying. If it weren’t for me, she’d be at home, in bed. Nobody would be after her.

  This is my problem, not hers. It’s up to me to fix, because I know I’ve already fucked up too many times for her to forgive me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I fucked up. I fucked everything up.”

  “Stone,” she says.

  “You deserve better than me,” I say. “You should be with someone who can give you what you need, who can treat you right, who can go a week without putting you in danger—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, cut the pity party,” she says. “If you start in on what I deserve again I swear I’m walking out of here.”

  I blink. She pauses.

  “Sorry,” she says after a moment, and pushes one hand through her hair. “I’m kind of tired and punchy. I don’t mean that. But how about you let me decide what I deserve, and just tell me what’s going on so we can figure something out?”

  It takes me a moment to comprehend what she just said.

  “We?” I repeat.

  “Yes, we,” she says, sounding impatient. “Who was that guy? Was he from the Syndicate?”

  “This is my problem,” I say. “I’m not dragging you into it.”

  Luna takes a deep breath, then steps forward. She takes my face in both hands and looks into my eyes.

  “Let me help you,” she says, her voice low and serious.

  I swallow.

  “You’re not pissed at me?” I ask.

  She sighs and leans her forehead against mine.

  “I wish you hadn’t tackled a stranger in a restaurant,” she admits. “You could have handled that differently, for sure.”

  “He’s with the Syndicate,” I say.

  “Yeah, I figured,” she says dryly. We’re both quiet for a moment, and she goes on. “You don’t have to do everything on your own, you know. There are people who’ll help you. There are people who want to help you.”

  I shake my head slightly.

  “Luna, I don’t—”

  “If the next word out of your mouth is deserve I will scream, and then I will find a reason to keep you in that holding cell with Carl for as long as I possibly can,” she says.

  I shut up. Luna releases my face, but she takes my hands in hers.

  “I have a lot more resources than you do, I’ve got a fresh perspective, and frankly, I think I’m better at planning than you are,” she says, then barely smiles. “And this may surprise you, but I’m actually pretty good at figuring shit out.”

  I let myself smile, just a little.

  “It doesn’t surprise me at all,” I say.

  We sit at
the table, and I tell her about the illegally modifying cars, about Sylvie, about the gun, about storming into Sylvie’s yesterday and telling her I knew where Ellwood was. I gloss over that I did it to protect her, because I have a feeling she’s not in the mood.

  I tell her that the guy she was talking to was Hammer. I remind her who Hammer was.

  She taps her fingers against the table and thinks.

  “Has anyone called you looking for Ellwood?” she asks.

  “Not yet,” I say. “Though they took my phone when I got here, so it’s in a bag somewhere.”

  We pause.

  “Along with my underwear,” Luna says.

  “You’re the one who handed them to me,” I say. I try not to smile at the memory.

  “I didn’t think I’d be arresting you twenty minutes later,” she points out. “I thought I’d be—”

  She stops, blushing slightly, and I grin.

  “You thought you’d be picking your clothes up off my floor tomorrow morning?” I ask.

  I slide my hand over hers, on the table. We’re in an interview room in the police station, I’m in serious trouble, and the thought still distracts me.

  Luna laughs.

  “Something like that,” she says. Then she shakes her head. “Okay. Whoever’s looking for you is probably connected to the arson, right?”

  “Probably,” I say.

  “We have fingerprints from that,” she says. “They were all over the can of spray paint, and we even found a couple on the car that didn’t belong to either of the owners or their families.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “So if I can get fingerprints...” I say.

  “If we can match them, we’ll have reasonable cause to search their houses, their cars, all that stuff,” she says, leaning forward. “We have evidence, but it’s like having one puzzle piece. We don’t have anything to fit it to.”

  “I can’t just ask to fingerprint them,” I say.

  Luna grins.

  “You’re going to be devious,” I say.

  “I’m going to tell you about some legal technicalities,” she says. “Police can’t pat you down or search your house without a warrant, but anything you discard is fair game.”