Pulling over, I slip my wallet from my back pocket and retrieve my license. My arms are covered in smeared blood and claw-like scratches.
Fuck.
With nothing but jeans and a t-shirt on, there’s no way to hide these.
The blinding yellow of a bright flashlight shines in my face, and I can’t make out the deputy’s face.
“Royal Lockhart?” a woman’s voice asks. The light lowers, and I see her. Bare face. Hardened stare. Zero sympathy. The nameplate above the badge on her chest reads DEPUTY MARTINEZ.
“Yes?”
“Sir, step out of the vehicle and place your hands where I can see them.”
I can practically feel the color draining from my face, and when I try to swallow, nothing happens. My throat is tight. My chest weighted.
This isn’t a normal traffic stop.
Climbing out with slow, deliberate moves, I raise my hands in the air. Another squad car is parked behind Deputy Martinez’s vehicle, and a third one flies up in a cloud of dust.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening?
“Royal Lockhart, you are under arrest for sexual assault of a minor.” There’s an underlayment of disgust in her voice, and the pounding of my heart in my ears makes her sound far away even though she’s standing behind me. The ratcheting and clinking of her handcuffs sends a knot to my stomach. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney . . .”
I swallow air like I’m drowning, and when the metal cuffs are tightened around my wrists, I close my eyes.
This is all a bad dream.
No, it’s a nightmare.
Deputy Martinez leads me to the back of her car and presses her hand on the top of my head when she pushes me in. I land on my knees, and with my hands behind my back, I right my position.
The cuffs dig into the bones of my wrist. I stare straight ahead at the tailgate of my truck. Both doors to the cab are open and two deputies are combing through it like they’re going to find something.
They walk back with a white evidence bag filled with who knows what. All I had in there were a couple of sweatshirts, some packs of gum, a half-empty Gatorade bottle, and an extra pair of sneakers.
Deputy Martinez climbs into the front seat a while later, bringing the radio to her lips. “We got him. On our way back.”
The backseat is nothing but metal on metal. Metal seat. Metal bars.
I’m a fucking caged animal.
With each bump in the road, I bounce in the back, my head smacking the grid on the window. Martinez says nothing, but I’m not sure what I was expecting. It’s not like cops have to express their appreciation for your cooperation.
I draw in four long, deep breaths and shut my eyes again, resisting the urge to scream at this woman that I’m innocent.
I did nothing wrong besides try to save my sister from that fucking predator she thinks she loves.
Robert would tell me to keep my mouth shut until he gets here, so that’s what I’ll do.
I’ll call him first chance I get, and he’ll fix all this.
And later tonight, we’ll be heading back to Rixton Falls. And I can see Demi. And I can forget this ever happened.
God. Demi. I miss her so much right now.
With eyes closed tight, I concentrate on how good it’s going to feel to see her again. To put this behind me and to lose myself in her beautiful blues and to taste her on my tongue and smell her on my skin.
I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything in my entire life.
Demi Rosewood is my life.
Just have to get through tonight.
And then I’ll see her tomorrow.
Chapter Forty-Two
Demi
“Demi. Demi, say something.” Royal’s hand on mine brings me out of my catatonic trance.
He’s the victim, but I’m sitting here, emotionally gutted, trying to wrap my head around everything he just told me.
He drove. He drove for miles, spilling his story. Sharing every painful detail. And now we’re parked outside his apartment. His car’s beside mine, as if he’s silently telling me he understands if I want to leave him.
I turn to Royal, eyes filled to the brim with nothing but heartache and salty tears, and lunge for him. Wrapping my arms around him, my entire body shakes, and I bury my head in his shoulder.
The image of Royal, at nineteen, scared, falsely accused, mistakenly hopeful . . . sends a deep, searing pain across my chest.
“You . . . you believe me?” His voice is a broken whisper against my ear.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My words are trapped, lodged in my restricted throat, so I nod vehemently.
Peeling myself away, I drag my fingers beneath my eyes and clean up the wet streaks and dab at my nose. Our eyes meet, and all those hardened, dark feelings I’d carried toward him soften, melting.