by Caisey Quinn
Ashley the Expensive Lawyer who apparently accepts sexual favors as payment makes a beeline for Dallas.
“Mr. Lark,” she says with alert green eyes. “I’m Ashley Weisman. We spoke on the phone earlier. Thank you so much for calling me.”
“No, problem. Thank you for coming out so late.”
I have a childlike urge to kick her in the shin.
“I’m Dixie,” I say slightly louder than necessary while stepping between them and shoving my hand at her. The surprise is evident on her face. “And now that we’re all acquainted, can you tell us how much longer it will be until they let him go?”
“Ah, yes. The piano player. From the bar,” she says as if the words taste bad in her mouth. “I remember.” It’s clear she’s sizing me up and I make a point to not shrink in her presence.
Dallas looks confused by her statement and I attempt to mimic his expression. “Glad I made an impression. I don’t recall having met you.”
A twinge of annoyance creases her delicate features but I just smile. Once upon a time I was intimidated by women like her. Polished. Professional. Sophisticated in ways I could and would never be. But after the Mandy Lantram Experience, I have realized that we are all just human beings and that each of us has our own kind of beauty and our own flaws.
“Yes, well, I don’t think we ever officially met. Gavin doesn’t typically do well with introductions.”
She knows what he typically does or doesn’t do well with?
“And how do you know him, exactly? Gavin, I mean.”
Ashley glances at Dallas and I dare him with my eyes to so much as give a slight shake of his head to deter her from answering. He looks away as if suddenly captivated by an immensely intriguing vending machine in the corner.
“He’s a friend. And a client when necessary,” she informs me with a smug grin. “Which seems to be quite often here lately.”
“Yes, well, as I said before, thanks for coming out so late,” Dallas repeats. “And were you able to get them to let him go tonight?”
She returns her attention to my brother and tucks a thick piece of her hair behind her left ear. “Unfortunately, due to his probation and the violent nature of the crime, he is required to stay for twenty-four hours.”
My heart sinks like a stone to the pit of my stomach at the thought of him sleeping in a cold, lonely jail cell tonight. “So they won’t let him out until tomorrow around eight or nine P.M.?” The night has been such a blur, I’m not even sure what time he was booked.
“Correct. But sometimes with shift change they let folks out a little early. If you’re coming to pick him up, I’d come around six or six thirty. Of course I’d be happy to—”
“We’ll be picking him up,” I announce. “No need for you to come all this way again.”
Likely sensing my tone, Dallas pipes up with another question. “What about his hand? Is there a way to get him any medical attention for it tonight? Did you tell them he was a musician?”
“They allowed him to have a splint and an ice pack. I’m afraid that’s about all that’s available at this facility.”
My brother nods. “That’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
She smiles warmly while handing Dallas a business card from her purse. “Here’s this if you need anything, anything at all.” Her eyes are slightly tighter when she turns to me. “You witnessed what happened, correct?”
I nod. “I did. Carl had clearly not known Liam had been coming to my place because he was out of the truck, slapping him and trying to shove him inside the cab before . . . before Gavin stopped him.”
Her mouth purses and she appears contemplative for a few seconds. “Well, that’s good—not that he was mistreating his son but that you saw the abuse. Although I wish there had been another eyewitness that would be willing to verify your statement. Clearly you have a bias in Gavin’s favor so that might prejudice your statement a bit. The ADA might not care about the defendant’s girlfriend’s interpretation of events. I know how they think. I know several of them personally.”
I feel my eyes narrow. I backed down with Mandy Lantram. Too bad for this chick I’ve grown up a lot since then. I am a reliable and credible witness, dammit. “I’m sure you do—”
“Need to get going home before it gets too late. Have a good evening, Ms. Weisman.”
Dallas nods to dismiss her but she stays put. “Please, call me Ashley.”
“Have a good evening, Ms. Weisman,” I say evenly, meeting her eyes. “Thank you for your help.”
“It’s my job. You do the same.”
“Will do,” Dallas says.
Once she’s out of earshot, I hold out my hand. “Give it.”
“What?”
“Her card. Give it to me.”
Dallas frowns. “Okay.” He hands me the sleek black card with white and silver print. “So now, what do we do about Gavin?”
“First, you go home and get some sleep. You look dead on your feet.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s true. Go get some rest and I’ll stay here and hassle them a little more about maybe checking on his hands. If he’s injured badly we’ll have to cancel the Phi Kap gig and save his strength for the battle. I’ll come home soon and crash and we can come back tomorrow evening and pick him up.”
We hug goodbye but when I pull EmmyLou into my driveway I sit for a few moments, reliving the fight I never saw coming.
I wish I’d asked Dallas the question I need the answer to the most.
After everything, after Gavin is out of jail, after I demand they come clean about the year I was in Houston and everything is out in the open . . . then what?
18 | Gavin
“SHE CANNOT SEE me like this, Dallas. I mean it.” I’m gripping the phone tightly and my right leg is bouncing so rapidly I look like I’m having withdrawal symptoms.
He nods on the other side of the glass. “I know. But listen, the situation with your attorney and Dixie facing off . . . It’s like I said before, either you’re going to come clean about the past or it’s going to get out ahead of you. You need to talk to her. Soon.”
I nod several times. “I will.”
“She says she’s not doing the battle or moving forward with the band until we come clean about everything. I don’t think she’s kidding.”
“I don’t think she is, either.” I bite a loose piece of skin off the side of my thumb. “And I don’t know if she’s going to be able to go through with it if she knows everything. Especially after what she saw last night.”
He doesn’t say anything right away but his demeanor changes dramatically and I know he wants to cuss. “What she saw, Gavin, was a child abuser get what he deserved. Stop beating yourself up already. Speaking of beatings, how’s the hand?”
My eyes drop to the swollen, bruised, and scabbed-over knuckles on my right hand.
“Still attached.”
Dallas frowns. “I’m serious, man. Between worrying about whether or not Dixie’s going to bail because of your bullshit or if your hand is going to be functioning by Friday night, I am stressed the fuck out.”
All I can do is give him the “sorry I’m such a major fuckup” look that I have to give a lot of people that I disappoint.
The officer standing behind me gives the two-minute warning.
Dallas appears to be doing a sort of deep-breathing thing Robyn probably makes him do.
“You okay, man?”
“Yeah, just trying to get centered,” he tells me.
“Centered, huh? How’s that working out for you?”
He smirks. “Scale of one to ten, how centered do I seem?” He rakes his free hand through his hair and my honest answer is negative fifteen.
“Five. Give or take a few.”
Dallas shakes his head. “Sometimes I think I should just call Robyn’s uncle and see if he needs me to play backup guitar for his Elvis act.”
I open my mouth to make a joke, but then I remember something important—something that kept
me awake all night other than the sweat- and urine-scented mattress I had to try to sleep on in a six-by-eight cell.
“Wait,” I say when the officer taps me on the shoulder, meaning I have thirty seconds left. “I need you to do something for me,” I say to Dallas.
“I know, man. We’ll be back in a few short hours to pick you up. Your attorney said it could be as early as six or as late as eight thirty.”
I want to laugh at Dallas because, God love him, I’m not scheduling a fucking manscaping appointment. I’m in jail. They can let me out—or not—whenever they feel like it.
“Right. No rush because paperwork and all that takes a while. But that’s not what I need. I need you to tell Dixie to call Sheila Montgomery at Child Protective Services. Sheila can make sure Liam doesn’t have to go back to his abusive father even once he’s out of the hospital.”
Dallas whips out his pen and the small notebook he keeps in his back pocket for song lyrics. “Shee-La Mont-gum-er-ee,” he says as he writes each syllable. “Got it. Anything else? Need one of those prepaid cards for food or money for vending machines or—”
“Time’s up,” the officer behind me announces and there’s a click. I shake my head to his last question. I can’t hear the rest of what he’s saying but he shows me the notebook where he wrote the social worker’s name and I feel a few ounces of relief.
At least maybe that kid can get the kind of help I never could. Maybe someone will stand a chance of being better than what I’ve become.
“Garrison, you’re up,” a booming voice calls, sending my name ricocheting off the cell walls.
I fell asleep sitting up on the bed because I couldn’t bring myself to lie on it.
Having grown up with a junkie for a mother, I can handle going without food. I didn’t touch anything that was served through the slot in the cell door because I know a few guys who work at this particular establishment and they’ve told me some disgusting shit that has been done to food. But I cannot handle the feel of filth. I grew up in it and I hate it. I need a shower more than I need air right now. I also want to shave my face before I see Dixie but I know she’s going to be out there as well as I know my own name.
I shuffle in line with the other guys heading to where we pick up the meager personal belongings we came with. I give my name and Social Security number to an African-American female officer who looks tired as she practically tosses a large Ziploc bag at me. Next is the paperwork part and I have to sign that, yes, I will appear in court on the determined date that will be sent to me by mail, and yes, I understand the conditions of my release.
Next is the bathroom, where I toss this ugly orange jumpsuit into the designated bin and put back on clothes that are partially covered in dried blood. Most of which isn’t mine.
Great.
Filthy and blood-covered. Nothing says working on reformation and redemption like that particular combination. Naturally it would be my “Drummers Hit It Harder” T-shirt that I happened to be wearing when I nearly beat a man to death.
Basically I am karma’s bitch right now.
Once I’ve changed, I wash my hands, splash some water on my face, and tuck my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans along with my folded-up pink and yellow release papers and dead-as-hell cell phone.
I exit the bathroom and show my ID at the final desk.
Walking out in the dingy gray waiting area would be a relief if she weren’t standing there looking so delectable as she argues with the officer at the front desk.
“It’s after ten. His attorney said eight thirty at the—”
Dixie stops midsentence when she sees me.
“Hey. There he is,” Dallas calls out. He stands and strides over to me looking as worn down as I feel.
“Barely,” I answer honestly.
Dixie hangs back but I can see every emotion she feels playing on a steady loop in her eyes.
Happiness. Concern. Longing. Confusion. Doubt. And the worst one of all.
Fear.
I don’t know if she’s afraid for me or afraid of me.
I can’t stand the thought of it being that second one.
As the three of us walk to the exit, I give her the most comforting smile I can manage and meet her eyes when I say, “Hey, Bluebird. I meant to write while I was locked up but they wouldn’t give me a pen.”
The hint of a smile pulls at the right side of her beautiful mouth. “Got you some dinner. It might be cold, but it’s got to be better than whatever they had.” She produces a Jimmy Johns bag that I know will contain my favorite, a Vito sub, no onions, extra cheese, and heavy on the dressing. I can see a couple of bags of chips inside, too, and I want to wrap my arms around her or kiss her to say thank you but I know it wouldn’t be an okay thing to do right now.
It’s just a sandwich and yet knowing that she cared about me like that, that she took time out of her life to get my favorite one, and that she’s paid attention over the years to how I like it . . . it does something to me. They say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and they might be on to something. Whoever the hell “they” are.
“You need anything?”
“Just this sandwich and a shower and I’ll be a new man.” Or closer to being one, anyway.
We reach Dallas’s truck and I open the door for Dixie. She climbs in and my eyes drop to her ass. Blood shoots to my dick, waking him as I remember taking her from behind. I want to kick my own ass right now. Here she is being so kind and sweet to me after everything I’ve done and I’m acting like a man who just did a yearlong stint in the state pen, not an overnight at county.
Swallowing hard and trying to think of fluffy bunnies and other non-erection-inducing images, I get into Dallas’s truck and face forward for the entire drive.
“You should probably eat something, man. You look pale as fuck and like someone backed over you with their car.”
Leave it to Dallas to give it to me straight.
“Well, I didn’t win the cell block modeling competition, so you’re probably right.” I reach into the bag and pull out the chips. Once I’ve opened the bag, I offer it to Dixie and she shakes her head.
“I already ate. Thanks, though.”
Her voice sounds strange. Strained somehow.
“You okay?” Despite my self-imposed ban on checking her out, I turn and examine her for signs of distress.
She avoids my eyes and a heavy weight settles onto my chest.
Maybe I’ve finally done it. Maybe seeing what she saw has finally shown her who I really am, and I didn’t even intend for it to happen.
“I’m fine,” she says quietly. “Tired.”
I call bullshit. Dixie Lark is not a good liar. Fine is typically not a word you want to hear in the female vocabulary. Ever.
Dallas glances over at our exchange and I decide to save it for when we’re alone—though I’m not sure when that will be. I have a lot of explaining to do, a good bit of begging, and probably some down-on-my-knees apologizing.
Tension and anxiety twist my insides into a complicated knot and I decide it’s best to hold off on the sandwich while riding down a bumpy road in a pickup truck.
Dallas puts on his left blinker to head toward the highway and Dixie puts her hand on his arm.
“He’s going to the house. With me.”
Huh.
I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her tell Dallas what to do. And technically she’s telling me what to do, I suppose, but I do not feel at all inclined to argue. Except . . .
“I kind of need a shower. And clean clothes.”
“You can borrow some of mine,” Dallas says evenly as he drives on past the left turn.
“Okay. Thanks, man.”
Dallas kind of grunts out his version of “you’re welcome” and we continue to their house in silence.
When we pull into the driveway, I expect all three of us to get out and go inside but Dallas leaves the truck running.
“You’re not staying?” Dixie asks him
as she climbs out.
I watch their exchange, feeling a little like a voyeuristic third wheel and a lot like something is being discussed silently between them.
Dallas shakes his head. “I’m not. I’ve been away from Robyn for long enough.”
“That’s a five-hour drive, Dallas,” Dixie reminds him, sounding unhappy about his leaving us alone.
He grins and nods. “I’m aware of this. I’m good. I’ll text you when I get home.”
“I don’t have to stay if Dallas isn’t,” I tell Dixie quietly. The last time we were here alone, I was a monster of epic proportions. I can understand why she wouldn’t be too thrilled for a sleepover.
Her eyes are tense when she looks up at me. There is so much there.
Dixie Lark in the daylight is beautiful. The sun seems to seek her out specifically and beams of light shoot off her skin and hair as if she were an ethereal creature come to life just to stand in sunshine. But at night?
At night her eyes gleam and moonlight turns her skin into a color that I have never seen on anyone else. Her ink paints a beautiful portrait on her delicate skin and it makes me wish I could draw or that I had a decent camera so I could capture the way she looks against the stark darkness of night.
“I want you to stay,” she says, barely loud enough for me to hear over the rumble of Dallas’s truck engine. “Please.”
I have to close my eyes for a second because watching her right now will send my dick the wrong message entirely.
“Listen, I hate to be a dick,” Dallas breaks in, “but we only have a few days until the Phi Kap gig, then the battle, and your hand looks like hell, Garrison.”
Both Dixie and I snap to attention at his interruption of our moment. He’s facing us, leaning forward on his steering wheel and looking like he’s barely resisting the urge to throttle us both.
“More importantly, you two obviously have some major shit to work out and I can tell you both from personal experience, if you can’t find some sort of common ground before the show, there’s no point in even bothering. Either one or both of you will be distracted and we’ll ruin any shot the band has at winning.” He glares for a minute but then his gaze softens. “I love you both and I won’t try and tell you how to live your lives or what I think is the best solution for everyone. But I will tell you that while I understand that nothing can be resolved in one night, I do think it would be a good idea to tell each other some hard truths.” He hits me hard with a pointed stare. Then his tone softens slightly. “Better now than the night before the battle.”