Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3

by Lang Blakeney, Lisa

  I barely know Nate or his daughter anymore. Why is he trying to act like there's some strong connection between us when there isn't? He's trying to hold me to some sort of old-school, army buddy, drunken promise that they made when they were half blitzed on beer. That's a mistake. He doesn't even know the half of it. I can't promise him or anyone anything. Not now. Not ever.

  "You realize things didn't quite work out that way," I say turning my head to look at him straight on. It's the first time I notice that Nate actually looks like dog shit. "I wouldn't know Ariana if I walked by her on the street."

  Nate shakes his head regretfully.

  "Truth be told I didn't think Jack was going to ever leave Philadelphia. Philly is in his blood. Still to this day don't really know why he did. And then I didn't think we'd lose him so soon after that. I thought me and him had more time. Now it seems as if I don't know where the time went. You two were supposed to grow up best friends. Not strangers like this."

  I don't want to talk about this shit anymore.

  He's muddying the waters with this conversation.

  I can't feel guilty about what I need to do.

  If what Bucky says is true. Nate is a drug dealer. A heroin dealer. Just like all the others. I make no exceptions. Stealing from him will be an honor. And after I take all of his money and save my ass in the process, I'm out.

  Neither he or his daughter will ever see me again.

  * * *

  Five

  TINY

  I sit nervously in the car and wait. Alternating between watching the police car through my rearview window and twisting my hands. I've never been stopped by the police before, and even though my father taught me numerous times what I should do if it ever happens, I'm still on edge.

  A female officer gets out of the car. Immediately that makes me feel better for some reason. I guess I'm sexist. Her hair is slicked back into a neat, low ponytail and she holds her hands on her waist belt as she approaches. I roll down my window and look her in her eyes with an inquisitive but respectful "what's the problem" look.

  "Ma'am, did you know that one of your rear taillights was out?"

  "Oh, my goodness, no. I didn't realize that."

  Oh, good this is just a courtesy stop.

  "I'll get that fixed right away," I assure her.

  I watch as two other officers get out of a second car that I hadn't noticed pulled up and walk directly behind her. One is a man with pale skin and bright orange hair who looks like he's fresh out of high school. The other is a tall brunette, who looks young as well, despite her stern stare and face full of acne scars.

  I keep a watchful eye on them as they approach, not understanding why it takes three people to make a traffic stop, but remembering that my father taught me to stay calm and be cooperative when dealing with police officers. They're only doing their job, and I've done nothing wrong.

  "May I see your driver's license, registration, and insurance card, ma'am."

  "Of course."

  I rifle shakily through my purse pulling out my wallet and then my license. Then I grab the registration and insurance documents for the car from behind my sun visor and hand everything over to her. I take a look at her badge. Her name is Officer Robinson. It's always good to address people by their names, so that they can better identify with you. I do that with all my patients. You'd be surprised by how many nurses don't.

  "Here you go, Officer Robinson," I offer. Giving her my best smile.

  The three officers return to the squad car, and the two quiet ones watch the lead officer start to run my information through what I imagine is some sort of online database. It's obvious to me now that she's showing them what to do. They must be police officer candidates or new graduates, and this is a teaching moment for them.

  Fucking great.

  I know that I haven't done anything wrong, but I'm still worried. There's something frightening about having to submit to people who have the authority to tell you what to do without your permission.

  I consider for a moment picking up my phone and texting my dad to tell him that I've been stopped, but then I think better of it. He's probably on the road himself, in addition to the fact that he wasn't feeling well this morning. This would just distract and worry him to death. At worst, this is probably just a matter of running my license and writing me an overpriced ticket for the taillight. At best, they'll let me go with a warning.

  After about ten excruciating minutes of waiting for the officer to return, all three of them return. This time the two women are by me on the driver's side of the car, and the red headed man is standing by the passenger side door.

  "Miss Carter, did you know that your license is suspended?"

  "Really...why?"

  "Your license is suspended for non-payment of a moving violation."

  "I am not aware of any moving violation, Officer. I'm a careful driver. I don't speed. There must be an error."

  "A moving violation doesn't just mean a speeding ticket. It could be a variety of things. Driving through a stop sign. Improper turn. Driving without a seatbelt. Red light tickets. If violations like these aren't paid on time then the next step is to suspend your license which is where you're at."

  Red light tickets?

  Now I remember.

  Fuck a duck.

  A camera caught me running what I still think was a quick changing yellow light and sent a letter to my house requiring me to pay a hundred freakin' bucks. I was livid about it, and was planning on going to court to challenge it as soon as I had a day off from the hospital, but I put the ticket in my to do pile and completely forgot about it.

  Dammit.

  "Can you let this go with a warning, Officer? I have an elderly father at home who's coming down with the flu. I'm a nurse and his primary caretaker. I really need to get home to him, but I promise to take care of the ticket first thing in the morning. It was an honest mistake."

  I might be exaggerating about the elderly father thing a bit, my father acts younger than most men ten years younger than him, but I once saw my friend Sloan get out of a speeding ticket by pretending to cry in front of the officer. So, I know that the sympathy card works. Of course, that cop was a balding, older man of a certain age, and Sloan is a smoking hot twenty-something-year-old.

  "Sorry about your father, but I'm afraid that we're going to have to charge you for driving with a suspended license."

  "Really? Even though I admit that I forgot about the ticket, I honestly didn't know that my license was suspended because of it. They didn't send any notifications to my house about it."

  "I'm sorry, but ignorance is not a defense."

  Ugh. Maybe I would have been better off with a male cop.

  "Okay, so how much is that ticket going to be then?"

  I just want her to issue the ticket and get going at this point. I can tell that this woman is a stickler for the rules and only plays by the book. She's not going to budge. It's my own fault for forgetting about the ticket.

  "You're being charged, Miss Carter. There is no ticket. Step out of the car please."

  My stomach flip flops.

  "Wait, why?"

  "I'm going to have to take you into custody."

  "What do you mean into custody? Are you saying that you're arresting me?"

  My heart starts to palpitate with a mixture of fear, confusion and shock. I notice that all three officers now have their hands resting on their belts. Close to their weapons. I guess I shouldn't have raised my voice, but frankly I'm stunned.

  "I'm afraid not, ma'am. Now I'm going to need you to step out of the car please."

  "This is unbelievable," I protest. Still not moving to exit the car. "What's going to happen to my car?" I ask when actually that's the last thing I need to be worried about. Who gives a shit about a car? I'm about to be arrested.

  "It will be impounded in the municipal lot. You can get it when you're released."

  Oh my God. I cannot believe this. This is straight out of a mo
vie. A freakin' horror film. I'm being arrested for the first time in my life. Like a criminal. For a freakin' traffic ticket?!

  "I just don't understand," I mutter under my breath. Nervously stuffing my phone, my sunglasses, and my ChapStick back into my purse. "It was just a ticket."

  "I need you to get out of the car, ma'am. If I have to tell you again, I'm going to add resisting arrest to your charges."

  At this point, a group of bystanders have stopped along the sidewalk and are now watching the scene unfold. I suppose it's natural for people to be curious when someone's getting arrested, especially with the national spotlight on police departments across the country, but to say that I'm completely mortified right now would be an understatement. I just pray that nobody tapes this and throws it up on YouTube.

  Again, nobody's fault but my own.

  And our ass backward justice system.

  Don't they have real criminals to go arrest? Like the one probably already sitting in my house.

  Officer Robinson asks me to hold my hands in front of me as she clasps a pair of heavy silver cuffs on my wrists. "Hold your hands together please."

  They're heavier than I imagined handcuffs would feel like and they're tight. I think she put these on and tightened them not taking in account that I'm big boned aka on the chubby side. Maybe it's because I moved a little too slowly for her liking. Maybe because I asked to many questions. Maybe she just doesn't like her own species.

  "What about my phone and my purse?"

  Still asking meaningless questions. Unfortunately, I don't have a significant other to call, and luckily, I don't have a shift at the hospital tonight, but I do have one important person to answer to and he's going to be looking for me soon.

  My father.

  * * *

  Six

  TINY

  "Officer O'Reilly will grab your phone and purse for you. They'll be returned to you after you're processed at the precinct."

  I sit quietly in the back of the patrol car with my legs crossed and my hands cuffed wondering what on earth I've done in a past life to deserve this night. While I get that there are way worse things that could happen to a person than being arrested for a traffic violation, for me this is way up on my list of "no way in hell" things that could ever happen to me.

  I'm being arrested.

  This is absolutely surreal.

  I lean into the window and blow my warm breath on it. Watching little pools of condensation form. I'm not sure where we're going or even what direction we're driving in at this point. It's almost like I'm driving in a completely different city. In a completely different universe.

  "Excuse me, when will I be able to make a call and let someone know what's going on?" I ask knowing that if my father gets home before me and sees that I'm not there and that I haven't called, he's going to flip.

  Not because he's abnormally overprotective but because my father is a stickler for holding people accountable for doing what they say they're going to do. And we had a plan.

  My father drove all day to Upstate New York to bring home an old family friend to stay with us for a while, and I'm supposed to be there to greet them upon arrival. Just the thought of meeting a convicted felon sends shivers up my spine.

  Of course, I'm laughing at myself though, because isn't it ironic that my father is picking Stone up from his home of the last five years–White Pines Penitentiary, when I'm on my way to freakin' jail myself. That's going to be great dinner conversation. At least we'll have something in common.

  "You can call him after you're processed."

  Officer Robinson isn't being rude, but she isn't being very nice either. More like cold and indifferent. Everything can happen after I'm processed. What do they make a commission off of how many people they process a day? Or maybe she's tired of my questions, but that makes both of us. God knows I'm already tired of asking them.

  We arrive to a police station in a neighborhood that I'm not familiar with where I'm told to sit and wait on a hard, wooden chair that wobbles. I notice that they are questioning three other women in the same main room that I'm sitting in. All three are wearing far too much makeup and far too little clothes.

  A man dressed in regular clothes approaches me, but I can tell that he's a cop. Something about his walk. His approach. He must be a detective or an officer who's off duty.

  "What corner did they pick you up at?" he asks in an inquisitive tone of voice.

  Oh, my lord, does he think I'm a prostitute?

  "I don't work any kind of corner."

  "Oh...sorry." And I swear he almost laughs.

  After some time passes the same man who asked me about what corner I worked on removes the cuffs from my wrists and asks me to stand over with the other women, linking us all together with what I think is called a daisy chain.

  "Is this really necessary?" I ask. Feeling like their treatment of me is totally overkill. This is how they chain hardened criminals together to transport them to and from prison. Not short, curvy, nurses who run red lights.

  "It's standard procedure for transport."

  "Where am I going? Where's Officer Robinson?"

  "It was her job to make the arrest and bring you here. Now it's my turn."

  "So, I'm not being processed here?"

  This looks like a perfectly fine precinct to me. There are four desks and a small jail cell in the corner of the room that no one is in. Why can't I stay here?

  "This is just a local station. You're going to central booking where you'll be processed and then see the judge."

  One of the three women, who's dressed in a very tight, red, spandex dress and wearing badly glued false eyelashes interrupts us to ask the officer a question.

  "Ricky, can we make a stop before we get there?"

  It doesn't get past me that she called him by his first name. Clearly, she's been arrested before. Either that or this guy is her next door freakin' neighbor.

  "Sure, Glitter. What do you want? Cheetos again?"

  The officers start walking us toward a large white police van while Ricky and Glitter continue negotiating what sounds like a planned snack stop. She asks him to grab snacks for all three of the women. Cheetos for her, Doritos for another, and a Snickers bar for the third. No one asks me what I want. Which would be to go back to sleep and start this day over again tomorrow.

  I do my best to step up carefully in the van in my dress and heels, and trust me when I say that it isn't easy when you're daisy chained to a woman in front of you and in back of you. I wince slightly when the backs of my thighs touch the ice cold metal benches in the van.

  "I've never seen you before. Where you do work?" The woman Glitter asks me with high suspicion in her voice.

  "At Memorial Hospital," I say out loud. Hoping that both cops sitting up front will see the error of their ways. I am a normal, upstanding, law abiding citizen. I don't belong in here is what I really want to scream.

  "Memorial hospital? You're a square?"

  "Umm, a what?"

  "People with normal jobs. People who don't hustle."

  "Oh well, then yeah, that's me. The square. I'm a nurse."

  "What'd they arrest you for? You beat up your old man or something? Kill a patient?"

  "Nothing that interesting I'm afraid. I was arrested for non-payment of a traffic ticket."

  I almost topple over to one side as the officers recklessly ride over the many potholes in the streets.

  "A ticket?"

  "Yep."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously."

  "Aww, girl, that's fucked up."

  "Sure the hell is." One of the other women agrees.

  "Why'd you arrest this poor square, Ricky?"

  "Wasn't me," he responds while still facing forward in the passenger seat.

  "Y'all arresting squares for tickets now just to get your arrest quotas up?"

  Detective Ricky turns around with a scrunched up expression across his face. Clearly not liking the insinuation my new b
est friend is making.

  "It's because of the new quality of life laws on the books. Trying to clean up the city from the likes of you girls and your employers. You break the law and we're arresting you. Regardless of what law it is. Now if you want me and Paul to stop at the store before your long night in holding, I suggest you shut it."

  Glitter completely ignores his warning.

  I'm starting to really like this girl.

  "That's fucked up, Ricky. She's a nurse. Hope you never end up at her hospital on a gurney."

  He glances at me briefly, but then doesn't respond to Glitter's words. I think it's pretty evident that he knows my arrest is bullshit, but he also doesn't care.

  The impact of what is happening right now is starting to hit me.

  Hard.

  I'm handcuffed to a group of working women, hustlers, prostitutes.

  I'm going to a place called central booking.

  I'm going to be charged with a crime.

  And I'm scared shitless.

  * * *

  Seven

  STONE

  "So where will I be sleeping?" I ask hoping that Nate hasn't made too much of a special effort to accommodate me.

  "The guest room of course."

  "I don't remember there being a guest room."

  "It's been a while, son. Made some renovations a few years back. Stuff that Joanne always wanted me to do to the place when she was alive. I've always been good with my hands, so I put an enclosed deck off of the back of the dining room. Don't worry. It's fully insulated and heated. That's where you'll be staying."

  I nod silently in approval as if it really matters where I'm sleeping. I'm not here for the accommodations. I'm here to complete a job.

  "That good for you?" he asks.

  "Yep," I say.

  "Well just to be clear, it's not the perfect situation. There's no bathroom on the first floor, so you and Ariana will have to share hers. City was going to raise my taxes if I added another bathroom. Those assholes. But the good thing though is that Ariana cooks most nights, although she won't take any special requests no matter how much you ask. I've wanted her to fry me some trout for the longest, but she refuses to do it. Something about my cholesterol numbers."