Blurred (Connections, #3.5)(35)
“I’m so sorry.”
Her hand swipes the room. “This wasn’t set up for you. So don’t worry about it.”
I ignore her jab and zip my pants up. The pain that never stays away for long comes rushing back worse than ever. Guilt assaults me. It was wrong of me to say someone else’s name with her. I respect this girl too much to be such a prick to her. It’s just everything that happened today has me all f*cked up.
I follow the hallway and see a light on under a door. I knock lightly. “Kimberly, I’m sorry.”
With a small sobbing voice she says, “I go by Kay now. Kimberly is long gone.”
I rub my hands over my face and try to figure out what to say to make this better. Nothing sounds right in my head so I do what she asks and leave, knowing this is just another relationship I have managed to f*ck up.
Chapter 11
Rock Bottom
I’m flying down the road, seeking quiet. I’m almost at my destination when flashing lights appear in my rearview mirror. I glance at my speedometer. Fifty-five. Fuck, what’s the speed limit? Thirty up here, maybe? Fuck, f*ck, f*ck. The police car catches up with me just as I pass the overlook and I pull to the side of the road. I kill the engine and remove my helmet. Cool air rushes over me, but sweat pours from my brow.
A flashlight beam hits my eyes as the officer stands at a safe distance.
“Dismount the vehicle,” he calls.
I toss my leg over the bike. “I was going too fast, wasn’t I?”
The officer approaches and shines the light in my face and just stares for a few short seconds. “Have you been drinking?”
I contemplate lying, but I’m pretty sure I was swerving a little too much. “Yes, I have.” When I say those words, all that runs through my head is how f*cking stupid I am to have put myself in this situation.
“Stand with your heels together and raise your arms to your sides,” he says.
“Now raise your left leg six inches from the ground while counting out loud to ten,” he instructs me, and I try, but by the time I get to five, I have to hop to keep my balance and by the time I get to eight I have to set my foot down. Shit, I don’t even think I could do that sober.
He’s conducting a field sobriety test. I’ve seen them on TV a million times. I’ve also heard they do nothing in terms of affirming or disproving one’s state, but I do what he asks. I already admitted to drinking. What more does he want—a formal confirmation? Fine.
“Touch your finger to your nose,” he says next, not saying a word about my inability to stand on one leg.
I think I manage that, though I’m not sure.
He has me complete two other tests and I have no f*cking idea whether I pass either one. All I can hear is the sound of his pen scratching the surface of his clipboard. He looks up at me to ask, “Will you agree to a Breathalyzer?”
“Yes.” I’m scared shitless at this point and just want this to end. I breathe in and then blow into the plastic tube. Fuck, the gauge indicates my blood alcohol level is 0.079. And with that final result, I’m promptly arrested, cuffed, and escorted into the back of the police car. I stay silent during the ride to the station. My pulse is pounding and my ears are ringing. Fuck, what have I done?
Once we arrive, I am formally charged with driving while intoxicated. My photo is snapped and I’m moved to sit at a chair near a desk. Within a few minutes my belongings are confiscated—they say they’ll be returned upon release. I’m shoved into a holding area with at least ten other drunk men—derelicts, winos, scum, bottom of the earth. Fuck—I’m not like them! I’m not! My nerves get the better of me and I sit on the wooden bench with my head hung low just wanting to get out of here.
Once I’m booked, I’m shoved into a cell with no one to call to get me out. Serena’s in Hawaii with Trent, Caleb is God knows where, and I’d call Beck or Ruby but I never got their numbers. Who the hell do I know who would fork out the one thousand dollars needed to post as bond to bail me out?
As I lay there in the tiny jail cell, suited up in an Orange County prison shirt, it occurs to me how far I am from the road I started on in life, far from where my mother would want me to be. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be chained up like a criminal. Fuck—I need to get out of here. Leaning my head against the bars, I know there’s only one person I can call—one person who possibly couldn’t think any worse of me than she already does.
Back at the desk, I squeeze my eyes shut as I dial the number and the phone rings. When she answers I’m both surprised and relieved. “It’s me, Ben. I need your help. I’ve been arrested.” It comes out on a rush full of shame and regret. My voice is low, maybe too low for her to hear because there’s no response. I repeat myself, this time louder.
“I’m here. I can hear you, Ben.”
Sometime later, in the early hours of the morning, I’m taken back to the booking area where I’m asked to sign a release form. What is this—my get out of jail free card? I still can’t believe I’m even here. The officer explains how lucky I am that my level wasn’t bumped up to .08. He says that I’m free to go. I glance above and silently say thank you. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m handed my clothes and the rest of my shit and directed toward the bathroom. When I come out, I hand back the orange shirt and I’m ushered through a door. Once I get through it, I’m on my own. It must be the central admittance area. It’s crowded. There are people everywhere. I look around and there she sits, on a black upholstered bench—Dahl.