Page 6 of Wrecked

“You can give your report down at the station.” He puts his hand on my head and guides me into the backseat of the patrol car.

I feel like an animal. A caged animal with a barricade between me and the two officers. The metal of the cuffs is digging into my wrists, and I try to stay still so as not to cut myself up. Yeah, right. All I want to do is squirm, cry, and get the hell out of here.

We arrive at the station. The officer guides me out of the car and grabs my arm to walk me into the station. It’s a boring beige and brown room with desks in the center and offices at the back. There’s a holding room to the right where the criminals stay. I shiver at the thought. Luckily, I am placed in a chair next to a desk. My handcuffs are readjusted so my hands are placed in front of my body. A minor courtesy I find promising.

Officer Harper sits down with a pad and a pen and takes my statement.

A loud bang from the front of the building is heard. A door slams against the wall, and two men come barreling in. The first is a man with a dark mustache, buzz cut, and smug smile. It’s a shame that I actually know who he is.

Nico Martinez.

He spots me sitting in the chair, and the look on his face—aroused at seeing me submissive and handcuffed as well—makes me want to vomit. He’s wearing jeans and a blue hoodie, and he is thrusting about, trying to get free from the man holding on to him from behind.

Adam.

He has his right hand on Nico, his knuckles red from the grip. His other arm is hidden behind Nico, holding on to cuffed arms. Adam’s jaw is clenched high, jowls protruding; his mouth is a hard line. He pushes Nico into the holding room and then attaches his handcuffs to a round metal hook.

When the door is closed, Adam turns. His face is reddened from the struggle, and his chest is puffed out from the forceful hold he had on Nico. He struts through the room, a walking force of testosterone. When he finds me sitting here at Harper’s desk, his black boots halt with a squeak on the linoleum floor. Those dark eyes widen slightly, and he runs a hand through his hair. He looks shocked to see me. If I wasn’t so delirious by the evening’s change of events, I could swear a look of concern was passing over his face.

But I am wrong.

His brows curve in, but his mouth remains ticked. It’s that same pursed, pissed off look he’s worn for the last seven years.

He motions to an officer nearby, presumably asking why I’m cuffed and being interrogated. He just shakes his head and walks away, muttering to himself in disgust.

Yes, that’s the Adam I know today. Far from my boyfriend’s best friend who used to play basketball with me for hours and talk about everything from movies to music to life in general. Adam has changed a lot since then. Now, he’s cold, stiff as a whiskey on the rocks.

“You understand why it’s hard for me to believe your story, Miss Paige?” Officer Harper puts his pen down on the pad. He leans back in his chair, his body rigid as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. His voice is deep and authoritative as he speaks, “This was your vehicle with no signs of another passenger either in the car or on the ground. You were found with the driver’s door open, trying to leave the scene. You say here you had four drinks over the course of two and a half hours, and your blood alcohol level was 0.109. That’s a good reason to want to run away.”

“No!” I lean forward, pleading with the man who holds my fate, “I swear to God, I was not driving. Did you even investigate the crash?”

“The passenger-side airbag did not deploy.”

“So?” I’m exasperated, my future lying in the hands of a defective piece of nylon. “I’ll find witnesses. My friend Suzanne. She knows I had a designated driver. She saw me leave.”

Office Harper rises and places his hand on my arm, escorting me out of the chair.

Is he letting me go? Thank God. I knew he’d see reason. There is no way I can get arrested for drunk-driving when my entire life—

Wait, where is he taking me? Why are we walking toward lockup? Am I being detained?

“You can’t leave me here!” I plead as he takes my handcuffed hands and attaches them to a long chain on the wall.

“The state of Ohio takes OVI offenses very seriously. Anyone who blows over a point eight is mandated to spend seventy-two hours in jail. You’ll be fingerprinted and processed for arraignment. You might want to consider getting yourself a lawyer.” Officer Harper closes the door behind him, leaving me shackled to a wall.

“I’ll take a lie detector test. Hook me up to one of those machines. You’ll see. Hello? Officer Harper, please. Where did you go?” I call out into the empty room.

Falling onto the bench behind me, I sob into my palms. The tears wet my skin, and my lifeline becomes coated in the weight of desperation. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.

My throat tightens, and my stomach clenches. I’m being incarcerated. My voice not being listened to, being unable to defend myself, is the most helpless feeling I’ve ever known.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in handcuffs?” The dark, sinister sound of Nico Martinez echoes from the other side of the room.

I forgot he was in here.

I look up and see eyes exploring up and down my legs, my shorts riding high on my crotch from sitting on the bench. I snap my legs together and swallow the lump in my throat.

“Shy?” he says, followed by a closed mouth smirk. His beady eyes roam over my breasts and then up to my face. “Or do you think I’m not worth the sound of your voice?”