Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
He would have a record because of me.
Would he go to prison?
I had no idea what battery charges meant.
"It's a misdemeanor," Dezi said, shaking his head. "No biggie. Don't worry about it," he said again, turning, getting on his bike, and driving off.
Don't worry about it?
Who was he kidding?
I would spend the entire rest of my shift worrying about it.
Then I went ahead and went home to worry about it too.
Chapter Seven
Malcolm
"Yo," Fallon answered.
"It's me," I said, sighing, hating having to make this call.
"Where'd you go?" he asked.
"Listen," I said. "I need to be bailed out," I said.
"No shit," Fallon said, sounding both surprised and amused. "The fuck you do?" he asked, moving out of the clubhouse as he spoke, the sound dying down.
"Misdemeanor battery," I told him, catching a movement toward the front of the police station where Dezi was making the woman at the front desk let out a loud girl-like laugh.
How it was Dezi that followed me was beyond me. How he got the kids out of there was also an unknown. But I intended to figure it all out as soon as I was free.
"Good for you," Fallon said, sounding impressed. It wasn't the first call from a police station he'd gotten over the years. "What's the bail?"
"Twenty-five-hundred."
"Alright. NBPD?"
"No. I'm over in the CNPD."
"Alright. I'll be there."
"Fallon..."
"Yeah?"
"Don't tell my old man."
"Got it," he agreed, hanging up.
I was led back to my holding cell to wait for Fallon, giving me some time to think about what the fuck I'd just done.
I don't know who the bastard was. I didn't know if he was the one who'd attacked Holly behind the diner. But I did know he was a creep. And that she'd been right about him taking pictures of her.
He had been.
One quick scroll through his phone showed me that it wasn't just that night, either. Because while she was always wearing the same thing—obviously—there were many different hairstyles in his photo album.
He'd clearly been in the diner with her before on several occasions too because there were pictures from inside. One of her leaning forward to place food down on the table in front of him, giving him a shot down her shirt. Another was one when she'd been bussing one of the larger tables, leaning over it so her skirt hiked up a bit. Not all the way, but enough that I knew she wouldn't have been happy that someone had a picture of it. He had other more tame candids. Holly leaning back against a wall, head back, eyes closed, looking exhausted. Holly smiling big at someone out of the shot. He even had a short little video of her doing a little dance when she thought no one was looking.
It wasn't evidence of him hurting her, no. But it was proof of him overstepping a line.
And while it might not have been a crime to take pictures of someone without their consent, it didn't mean it was okay either.
See, I'd inherited mixed traits from my parents. I had my father's more laidback acceptance of things. But I had my mother's shorter temper, her impulsivity when I thought there was some wrongdoing going on. Then, of course, there was my father's nearly animalistic violent streak when he thought something or someone was threatening someone who was important to him.
Was Holly important to me?
That was a bit of a loaded question, wasn't it?
I didn't have a satisfactory answer, either.
Because I didn't know the woman well. But there was no denying I'd changed up my schedule on girls nights because of her. I'd sat with her, scared and hurt, in a hospital room. I went out of my way to make sure she was safe at work.
It all added up to important.
Even if I didn't know her as well as a large part of me wanted to.
I didn't pretend to understand the almost primal urge I felt to protect her. I just knew it was there. And I knew that creeps who took pictures of girls without their consent could easily become the kind of scum who grabbed them—or worse—without permission.
The idea of that, well, it made me lose my fucking shit. There was no way around that fact. I swear I practically blacked out in my rage. And if it weren't for the cops showing up, I might have ended up killing the bastard.
"Malcolm," the officer called, coming to open the cell several fucking hours later. Because Fallon didn't see a need to rush right over. "You made bail," he explained as I got up to follow him out to the desk where I found Fallon waiting, a ridiculous fatherly smile on his face at seeing me being the one in trouble for a change.
"You know, I expect to get bail calls for my sister, for Pagan, Niro, maybe even Seth and some of the girls. But you?" he said, shaking his head. "Wasn't sure I'd ever see this day," he said, clapping a hand on my back as I listened to the police about my court date. "I think this calls for drinks," he added as he opened the front door.