Blaze

Fifty; Blaise

I regret the words as soon as they escape my lips. His gaze meets mine in challenge. He slowly reaches for his radio again.

"Unit 34. On Route 40. Belligerent motorist post routine traffic stop. Bringing her in for wanton endangerment, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest." What? This is absolutely unbelievable. He has lost his damn mind.

"Hands behind your back," he orders while grabbing my wrist and twisting it until it rests on my lower back. He repeats the movements on the other hand, not even giving me an opportunity to comply.

"You have the right to remain silent."

I twist and thrash, the metal cuffs biting painfully into my wrist. If I'm getting arrested for resisting arrest, I'm sure as hell going to resist arrest. I'm not going to make this easy on him.

"Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney."

"Why the cuffs, Wyatt? Afraid I'll kick your ass again?"

He snickers, and I chastise myself for losing my cool. "Want to add terroristic threatening to those charges?"

Tears freely fall from my eyes as he finishes his Miranda warning, grabs the cuffs and leads me back to the car. He puts a hand on the top of my head and gently pushes me into the back seat.

"You're insane, you know that? This is insane." I can't help but rant from the back seat. "Where I go and what I do isn't your problem anymore. We are over."

He snickers again, and his eyes flash to meet mine in the rear view mirror. He reaches over and flips a switch on a small black box resting on his dash.

"No we're not. We are going to look back on this night one day and laugh. You're going to appreciate how much I love you. The lengths I've gone to protect you from yourself." He explains it all so calmly, as if he's making any sense.

He has genuinely lost his damn mind. I resist the urge to tell him this, though. It'll do no good. I settle into the back seat and wait. I'll get my phone call when we get to the station and everything will get sorted out.

Except I don't get a phone call when we get to the station. In fact, I'm not booked at all. No intake. No mugshot. No fingerprints. Wyatt just makes eye contact with the deputy sitting at the front desk and gestures to an interrogation room with his head.

At first I'm grateful. Maybe there won't be an official arrest report to explain during my interview. But the longer I sit in the empty, cold interrogation room, the more I start to worry. If I was never booked, that means there's no record of me even being here. How long can they hold me?

Wyatt casually saunters in an hour later. Or maybe it's just been minutes? There's no clock in here, and my cell phone is still lying on the passenger seat of my car.

"I'm worried about you, Blaise. You're not acting like yourself. What's going on?"

"You just fucking arrested me!" My voice echos off the cinderblock walls and I have to will myself not to lose my cool. Self-control has never been my strong point. He places his hand over mine in the center of the table and I jerk away.

"Where were you going?" He sits back and crosses his arms. I mirror his movements.

"I want my phone call."

"Who were you meeting?"

"I want a lawyer."

He groans and places his head in his hands. "This can be easy or difficult. Your choice. Just talk to me. Where were you going?" He switches strategies, softening his voice and looking at me with concern.

"Lawyer," I repeat. He pushes back from the table, standing suddenly. His chair flips backwards, the metal clanging loudly against the concrete floor.

"Dammit! I'm not going to let you do this. You can sit in a jail cell all night for all I care, but I'm not going to let you ruin everything because you're over emotional and stubborn. You'll regret this little slutty phase. And I don't want you all dirtied up when you come crawling back to me. I won't allow it."

He glares at me expectantly but I refuse to speak. He's not remotely rational. It will do no good. I don't care to win this argument, I just want to get out of here.

"Is that what you want?" His voice finally breaks the tense silence. "Do you want to spend the night in jail?"

"I want- " My voice cracks and tears spill from my eyes again. I sit up, take a deep breath, and meet Wyatt's gaze, but I still don't speak. He pulls his chair around the table and places it next to mine. He puts an arm around my slumped in shoulders and leans in so close our faces almost touch.

"What do you want, Blaise? Just stop fighting me and let me help you. What do you want?"

"A lawyer," I whisper. His eyes flash and he brings a fist down hard on the metal table in front of us. He shouts a curse and grabs at his swelling knuckles.

"Fine," he growls, cradling an injured hand to his chest and stomping toward the door. "A night in jail it is." The door slams behind him and locks with a click and buzz that turns my stomach.

I don't know how long I sit in that room before the door opens again. This time an exhausted looking Officer Davenport walks into the room, his eyes trained to the floor. He sighs and runs a hand over his jaw. "You're free to go. Thank you for your cooperation." 

Officer Davenport finally looks up at me. His shoulders are rounded forward, and his eyebrows are pulled together slightly as if he's in pain. His posture and expression both communicate his shame.

"Wyatt didn't give me much of a choice. He's insane, you know that?" 

Davenport sighs again, and looks back down at the floor like a scolded puppy. "I'm sorry for you're trouble. You're free to go," he repeats.

It's not my trouble he should be apologizing for, it's his partner's actions. He and I both know Wyatt crossed a line tonight. And we both know he'll face no accountability. And that's a real shame, because Davenport is a good guy. He's a good cop. But what's the point of a good cop if he won't stand up to the bad ones? 

***

I try James's phone again, so frustrated I can barely concentrate to drive. It goes straight to voicemail. It's almost one in the morning before I pull into Martha's drive. My heart drops when I realize his car isn't here. Of course it isn't. I'm almost four hours late.

I leave another apologetic voicemail and throw the car in reverse, planning to back into my own driveway, when Martha's porch light turns on and I see her step out onto the porch, wearing a heavy floral robe and hair rollers.

I jump out of the car and race up her sidewalk.

"James?" I ask. She shakes her head and gives me a small smile.

"Sorry, dear. He waited around for hours but when you didn't answer his calls..." My chest squeezes. Poor James. He must be crushed right now.

"No, I just. I just got hung up. It was all a mess." I hang my head. This is never going to happen with us. There is always something in the damn way. I'm so frustrated I can barely think straight. And now he thinks I rejected him. Again.

"He probably hates me. He clearly doesn't want to talk to me. He turned his phone off."

Martha puts her arm around me and squeezes. "Oh, honey, I doubt that. That man is smitten. That cabin's in a pretty secluded area. I'd be surprised if he has reception."

That makes me feel a little better. Not that it brings me any closer to James.

"I didn't even think about that. I honestly don't know anything about the place. I don't even know what town he's in."

She chuckles. "Well, I do." My head pops up and my heart races.

"You do?"

"Well sure, dear. Do you want the coordinates?"