I look in the rear view mirror at the crying children in the back bench seat. What is happening?
“Get out of the car and put your hands on your head!” A man barks at my side. I look over, and a cop is standing a foot away from me with his gun drawn and pointing at my head.
Fuck.
“I said, get out of the car, sir!” he repeats himself and I comply, slowly sliding out of the seat until my feet hit the pavement below me. I put my hands flat on my head and am instantly tackled to the ground. My arms are wrenched behind my back and the cold pinch of metal surrounds my wrists.
I’m easily lifted by two men back onto my feet and I see the red and blue lights flashing on the police car for the first time. Everything still feels unreal. Like this is a dream. This can’t be real. I just blink and wait for my mind to wake up, but it won’t.
Looking around, I can see that people are standing outside of their cars with their cellphones held out at the end of their arms. Their faces are contorted with horror and fascination.
“Mack!” I snap my head toward Lauren’s voice and see her on the side of the road, bawling. Under her arm is Chris, his face is pushed into her ribs. Chelsea is next to them both, glaring at me.
“Watch your head, sir. One of the officers pushes down on my scalp and I duck into the back seat of the cruiser. He slams the door shut in my face and outside the window I can still see Lauren screaming my name.
This isn’t a dream. This is a fucking nightmare.
35
Lauren
2014
How is it that I’m parked at yet another police department to pick up yet another one of my guys? Mack was told that he’s free to go after being detained for a couple of hours. He called and asked me to pick him up. Of course I said yes, but not because I’m happy to do so. Him and I need to have a serious talk. Things have gotten out of control.
Mack must have spotted me when I pulled in here, because he’s quickly crossing the parking lot toward my car. From his casual strut and easy smile, you’d never know he was the same guy who dragged a poor man out of his car in a terrifying melt down this morning.
He opens the door and ducks his head down to look over at me. “Hey gorgeous, thanks for springing me from the joint,” he teases, his eyes sparkling.
“Get in, Mack.” My voice is like a flat line on a heart monitor. My happiness isn’t far behind it.
Mack’s smile turns down at the corners as he closes his mouth, but he doesn’t push it. He slides into the passenger seat and closes his door with a thud.
“How about we go out for dinner? I’ll buy us a nice bottle of wine and then I can make this all up to you when we get back home. Your sweet nectar can be my dessert,” his eyes narrow and his voice drops low.
He’s so sexy. I could lose all of my senses, my sight, my hearing, my smell, and still know that. It would still radiate from him and permeate my soul. The idea of his face buried between my thighs is certainly enough to distract me for a second.
But, it’s never going to be enough to fix what happened today.
“Mack, we have to talk,” his smirk slips off his face and he refuses to look at me. Instead, he pushes his jaw out as he stares straight ahead.
“Lauren, look, I know things got a bit crazy today, but it’s all going to be fine. The police didn’t think it was a big enough deal to press any charges, so I don’t think we need to rehash it.”
If this was a foreign film, the subtitle underneath him would be two words long: Drop It.
Part of me wants to let it go. To believe that this was just a one-off situation. That nothing needs to change.
That part of me is a fucking liar.
“No, Mack. We do need to rehash it ‘cause this can’t keep happening. Do you even remember what you did today? Do you remember dragging a father out of his vehicle in front of his wife and kids and trying to drive away? Because that’s a scene I don’t think I’m going to ever forget.”
Mack’s eyebrows furrow together like storm clouds rolling in across a darkening sky. I watch his face for a flicker of recognition. For some small sign that he does remember, but the vacant, million-mile stare in his eyes tells me he doesn’t.
“The police filled me in on it,” he finally mumbles.
His eyelids look heavy; like he hasn’t slept in days. It’s clear that he hasn’t left the war behind. He may have escaped Afghanistan with his life, but his soul is still trapped over there, a POW being slowly tortured to death.
“Mack, I …” my mind searches. I want to be gentle with him. I want to find the right words to say what I need to. However, I know he’ll just smell the bullshit through the flowers. “I want you to get help. I want you to go to therapy.”