“He isn’t over you either,” I say softly.
She chokes on a laugh. “Oh. I’d say he is.”
I need to know what happened between them. But now isn’t the time.
Harper pulls onto the main road. “So, to the station? I have no idea if that’s where they’ll keep him. Depends if he’s being questioned or thrown in a cell. We won’t get near him if he’s actually in jail.” She glances in the mirror. “Let me make some calls.”
She starts talking to people through her Bluetooth. Names I don’t recognize. Questions I can barely follow. Everything blurs. The road, the streetlights, the sound of Harper’s voice negotiating with people who speak in codes and half-sentences. I guess reporters can get themselves into places others can’t.
She better not screw over Hunter, but my gut is saying trust her. That the pain she’s showing for Ace is enough.
All I can think about is Hunter. His face pressed into the hood of that truck. The sound the cuffs made when they clicked shut. His hat rolling into the gutter.
I need to get to him.
“Okay. We will try this station first and see if I can get some answers for you. We might be waiting around a while, though.”
Tears stream down my cheeks as I nod. I didn’t realize there were this many places he could go to. Everything about his case, this charge, is backwards.
Like Hunter says, it all seems like a big setup, but I’m not going anywhere until I find him and I see him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
HUNTER
This fuckingjumpsuit is a crime in itself.
These pricks have put me behind bars. Not the real jail, not the one where they throw you in with men who have nothing left to lose. No, they’ve got me in a temporary holding cell instead. My own personal concrete box with iron bars, a stone slab pretending to be a bed, and a stainless steel toilet shoved in the corner like an afterthought.
Real luxury.
The kind of thing a lot of officers don't even know exists in their building.
I rattle the bars when an officer walks past. This one I don’t recognize. I’ve been here for six hours. Six hours of sitting on a rock and staring at gray walls while these idiots pretend they’re building a case. And they haven’t done shit with me except toss me in here and ignore me.
I’d love to know who is paying them off for this shit. But, they ain’t going to tell me. I got to figure that out for myself, once Iget myself out of here. “I need to make my fucking phone call,” I shout.
He laughs without turning around. “Yeah. You can wait. Your lawyer already called in to check on the progress.”
I frown, shaking my head. “What fuckin’ lawyer?”
Drago won’t even have word of this yet. But, Reese, that fuckin’ asshole, he has contacts everywhere.
“Reese Atkins. Said he’s your lawyer. Pretty shit one if you ask me, because he still ain’t here.”
I scoff, keeping a straight face. “My phone call?”
He laughs again.
I nod slowly. Studying the back of his head. “You’ll regret that.”
He stops mid-step and turns back toward the cell. Then he really looks at me. Not a glance. A proper look. “Why? What makes you different from the other low lives we get in here?” he asks.
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Have you actually checked my records? My last name, perhaps?”
Glad to see they’re a bright bunch here. Maybe he just came on shift, and nobody handed him the memo about me.
“Hunter Sterling,” I confirm.