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24
Gideon
Iknew the second that cop said, “…against my son,” that I was fucked. The sheriff shouldn’t have been allowed to be the arresting officer or even present for that matter. Him being the one to handcuff me meant he was above the law.
And I was nothing more than an angry punk from the lower forty-eight who hurt one of their own.
Fucked, I told myself again as he led me across the precinct’s parking garage in silence. Someone buzzed us through a metal door, and it clanged shut behind me with a finality that promised freedom was a thing of my past.
Assault in the first degree would probably stick, even though all I’d done was bloody Devon’s nose. Prosecutors would convince the jury my fists were dangerous instruments—which they were—and I’d get the maximum penalty.
At least the fucker handed me off in prebooking to a different cop who asked me a few questions about my identity. My information went to records to check for warrants, which I knew would come back clean, thanks to Dad.
After getting patted down, my personal shit bagged and taken from me, I wound up standing on a blue X for my mug shot. I kept my chin up, expression hard, eyes cold as hell—my “fuck you” face even though my gut clenched like a kid locked outside after dark.
Being seventeen, I should have gotten a DJJ risk assessment, but that got nixed. No doubt, they planned to try me as an adult, but I didn’t say jack shit, didn’t ask questions. I would wait for my lawyer.
I got fingerprinted for the third time in my life, and my one request to obtain a bond got ignored.
So did the phone call legally owed me.
My juvenile ass landed in a hard chair at a steel table—and that goddamn one-way window made me want to squirm. Face passive, I sat in silence.
Waiting.
Knowing what was coming.
I’d been through the drill twice before. Did you beat up that shithead? Who started it?
They kept my hands cuffed behind my back like the asshole cops thought I was some threat. Dangerous instruments that they were, probably a good fucking idea.
My gut churned with rage, red lust for blood. Hands fisted, I counted every ticking second. Thinking of Addilyn, the terror, the pain on her face.
That connection I’d felt to her—I’d never even imagined such a feeling. I prayed like fuck she obeyed me—stayed away from him.
Stretching my neck side to side, I considered the consequences for that bastard if she didn’t. I would end him. Spill his blood, spit on his lifeless body—
The heavy door squeaked open. At least it wasn’t the fucking sheriff who finally came in, a folder in his hand.
“Not saying jack shit until I see my lawyer,” I stated and clamped my lips shut. While I didn’t have a lawyer, I knew Dad would get me one.
The fucker pulled out the chair across the table from me, the metal base scraping over concrete.
Questions got tossed my way one after the other, but I did exactly as I’d said—didn’t speak a goddamn word.
Was I at Devon Bradshaw’s house the night before?
Dumb fucker knew I’d been—while leading me to the cruiser outside our home, Devon’s dad had taunted about the surveillance system around their house. Caught fucking red handed. Literally.
Had I beaten Devon until he collapsed?
I wanted to roll my eyes. Why the fuck did he even ask? They knew the truth. Staring at the gray, cement wall, I ignored the cop’s questions, the words registering but not worthy of my answers.
Had I threatened him—twice—the day before in the school’s hallway, stating that if he touched Addilyn I would kill him? Slammed him into lockers various times.
They were definitely going all in, I realized. My insides chilled, but I held still. Unmoving as though unaffected, in a world of my own.
Where the fuck is Dad?
