Crush(69)

For some reason it made me think about the first night I met Elle. It was raining and she was so wet when she walked into Molly’s. Even then I thought she looked beautiful. Exquisite may be a better word. There wasn’t anything about her that didn’t make me want to give her as much of myself as I possibly could.

Just as the rain started to pound the pavement, something in my rearview mirror grabbed my attention. Someone was following me. My mindless driving had me looking around, trying to figure out where the f*ck I was.

I hadn’t been paying attention.

Okay, I was on a small side street, just having crossed over Dorchester Avenue. With another glance in my rearview mirror, I saw flashing blue lights. The sound of the siren immediately followed.

Fuck, how fast was I going? I hadn’t been paying attention.

I pulled over and then yanked open the glove box to retrieve my insurance card. As I was reaching for my wallet, I noticed another cop car pull behind the one already parked.

Suspicion started to loom.

The rain was falling, and as one officer got out of the first car in his rain gear, another leaned out, holding a transmitter in his hand. “Get out of the car with your hands up.”

Fuck me. Not this again.

Slowly, I opened the door and heard my sneakers squishing in the water as I stepped away from the car and turned around. It wasn’t Blanchet’s goon squad, though, like I thought it might be. These cops were from Patrick’s neighborhood, which meant more than likely they were on Patrick’s payroll.

Fuck me.

The officers approached me and this time there was no pretense. “Logan McPherson, you’re under arrest.”

“What for?” I yelled over the drowning sound of the rain.

“Aiding and abetting a known felon with possible terrorist ties.”

Cuffs were being slapped on me before I could even draw a breath to think. “What are you talking about?”

The cop from the second car got out and strode over toward us. He popped the hatch to the back of the Rover. “Call impound and have them pick up the vehicle.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

No answer.

One was in front of me. Another one behind me. The third was now inside the Rover. “I got a weapon,” he said.

“It’s registered,” I bit out.

“Move it,” the one from behind drawled.

Sandwiched between two of them, I was being shoved toward the police car. “You have to read me my rights.”

“Law enforcement has the ability to question suspected terrorists without immediately providing Miranda warnings when the interrogation is reasonably prompted by immediate concern for the safety of the public . . .”

I struggled against the hold on me. My legs stopped moving. My body became rigid. My shoulders squared.

No. No. No.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

I started to dig my heels in. That’s when I saw the baton. Felt it against my rib cage, my thighs, my back, and then my legs. The one cop kept speaking. The second cop was now dragging me to the car.

They could keep me in isolation for a prolonged period of time by marking me as a potential terrorist. Twenty-four, forty-eight, or even seventy-two hours wouldn’t be blinked upon.

Up to three days I could be MIA.

Elle.

Elle.

What would she think?

Oh, God! Fuck no.

“You have to let me make a call,” I pleaded.

Their laughter was loud and the echo of it carried over the rain.

There weren’t going to let me do shit.

At that point I tuned out.

I knew the law. I knew what this meant. The only way to gain latitude when it came to Miranda Rights was for the DEA to have turned to the FBI.

The DEA knew. Somehow they knew I’d moved the cocaine. They had to.

And now they’d involved the FBI.

I was f*cked on so many levels.





ELLE


The clock on the wall read six twenty.

It wasn’t like Logan to not call if he was going to be late. I pushed the door open and stood outside. Time passed slowly as I gazed around. At the sidewalk that was wet from the rainstorm that had just passed. At the spring leaves that blew in the cool breeze and stuck to the ground. At the birds singing in the sky.

When the streetlights switched on to illuminate the impending dusk, I glanced at the time again.

Six forty.

A dark and terrible thought pushed to the front of my mind as I pressed end on the call I’d just made. It was something my mother had always said, and it had been in my mind ever since Killian’s death.

Things come in threes.

Was this the third?

One last time I tried to call him, but Logan’s phone was still going directly to voicemail. I left a short message: “Logan, it’s me. I’m going to go ahead and walk home. In case we miss each other, meet me there.”

I could call Peyton and ask her to come back and pick me up, but the walk to my townhouse was short and I hoped it would help unravel the unease I was feeling in the pit of my stomach. I refused to think the way my mind was headed. Logan and I had simply crossed wires. Miscommunicated. He was probably at my house waiting for me and hadn’t realized his phone had died.

Yet, deep within, I knew that wasn’t the case. He was always beside his phone. Always answered every single one of my calls.