Chapter 28

Jack

The cold metal of the bunk bit into the flesh of my palms where my hands squeezed the sides, feet tapping anxiously on the floor. The sound of my sneakers against the cement seemed to fill the small space, resonating in my skull.

I was alone for now. Deputy Morris abandoned me about an hour ago, storming off with his paperwork and laptop to another part of the precinct. I was almost certain he wasn't allowed to do that, and I was completely certain that I was within my rights to request a phone call. Deputy Morris didn't give two shits about my rights and had made that abundantly clear.

I tried hollering out a couple times to see if that would attract attention from another member of staff, but all it did was make me feel even more like a caged animal than I already did.

The clock on the opposite wall ticked silently through the hours. Melissa was either still waiting for me at the laundromat, or had already given up and gone home. Either way, she had no idea where I was. I was desperate to call her and let her know I was okay, and that I didn't skip out on her on purpose, even though I didn't have any other information to offer. I had no idea what they'd picked me up for. I got back to the motel after my job search with the intent of grabbing a quick shower before I met up with Melissa, but I didn't even make it as far as the front door. Before I knew it, I was being hauled into a police car and locked up in this cell. What the hell was going on?

I felt like rattling the bars and screaming until my lungs gave out, but I knew it would be better if I preserved my strength and even better than that if I stayed calm. For whatever reason, these guys were out to get me, and I wouldn't give them anything more than I had to.

The long hand on the clock started making another rotation of the dial before the door to the holding area opened again. It wasn't Deputy Morris who entered the room, but a short, older man with a balloon-sized gut and sidling gait. He evaluated me with eyes that looked bluer than the ocean when juxtaposed against his ruddy face, and I stared right back. It took a second for me to notice he wasn't like all the other cops I'd seen—the gold and white star on his shirt identified him as the sheriff. This could either be a very good or very bad thing.

"Jack Paxton," the sheriff rumbled, his floppy chin wriggling like a bundle of kittens when he spoke. "My name is Sheriff Beringer."

I gritted my teeth. Beringer. Of course it was.

"Do you know why we've brought you in here today, Jack?"

I rose from the small bed, crossing over to the bars and looking the sheriff straight in the eye. "I have a feeling it has something to do with your family, but I'm not sure how."

"My family?" Beringer raised a quizzical eyebrow. "No, son. This ain't got nothing to do with my clan."

"I haven't done anything wrong. I don't know why else you would have hauled me in here if not because of Donnie Beringer's ridiculous vendetta."

The sheriff's jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed into slits. "I'm going to do you a favor and forget you said that."

"Don't." I grasped the bars and leaned in closer. "Are you saying this has nothing to do with Donnie? What is he, anyway? Your cousin? Nephew?"

"None of your fucking business!" Beringer snapped. "You better learn to mind your trap when it comes to talking to authority, son. You'll soon find that I am not the kind of man you want to be messin' around with."

Beringer removed his wide-brimmed sheriff’s hat to wipe the sweat now glistening from his tomato-red forehead. He put it back on and tossed me another surly look before depositing himself in the office chair across from me and picking up the file from the desk.

He cleared his throat and began to read.

"Jack Paxton. Twenty-eight years old." He looked back up at me. "It seems you have quite the propensity for underground fighting, which I'm sure as you know is illegal in the great state of Arizona, as well as everywhere else in this country."

I backed away from the bars, needing space to process what he'd said. Immediately my thoughts flew to Roddy, to the threat he tossed at me before I hung up on him the last time we spoke.

I could make things very bad for you...

How had he managed to sell me out without implicating himself? What could he possibly have as evidence that he could use to damn me?

I decided not to acknowledge what the sheriff said either way. I just licked my lips and stared him boldly in the eye.

"I want my phone call."

Sheriff Beringer nodded slowly with a tight-lipped smile. "I thought you might." He pulled out his handcuffs and slipped the file back onto the desk. "Get to the back of the cell. If you try anything funny, I won't hesitate to take you down. Fighter or not."

I did as he said, not letting out even a peep of complaint when he snapped the cuffs on my wrists and drew them tight enough to bruise. He led me to a phone and cuffed me next to it, informing me that I had five minutes and that was it. I thanked him, offering up a cheery smile. His obvious confusion was my only consolation in the whole humiliating ordeal.

The phone was grimy and old as dirt, the ringing coming through like I was hearing it through a wall. I couldn't even lift my free hand to block my other ear. Thankfully it was quiet in the police station.

"Hello?" Melissa picked up.

It was such a relief to hear her voice. No matter what fresh hell they put me through, at least I could always close my eyes and picture her pretty face. The thought that I might not get to touch her again sent a stab of agony through my chest, but I suppressed it. I wouldn't last long in a place like this if I let depression get the best of me.

"Hey babe, it's me."

"Jack! I've been worried sick. Where are you?"

I sighed. "I'm at the police station."

I waited for her reply with bated breath. I didn't think Melissa would leave me over this, but I still feared it more than anything else. I could handle anything the world threw at me as long as I had her.

"Oh my god! What happened? Are you okay?"

I tried to lift my hand to run it through my hair but was cut short by the metal cuff. Frustration rippled through me.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I think I've been arrested, though it's a Beringer's world at the police station too, so I'm not really sure what's going on. They didn't let me call you until now, but I've been here for hours."

Melissa's voice began to rise in pitch and volume. "What? Are you fucking serious! That's crazy! I swear to god, Jack, I'm going to get you out of there. What did they say they brought you in on?"

"Illegal fighting, apparently." I grimaced. "Babe, listen, I don't have much time. I need you to make some calls for me."

Melissa and I went through the details of what was going to happen next, which didn’t take too long since all I knew was that I needed a lawyer and all I could afford was a public defender. After that, Sheriff Beringer came back and hung up the phone for me before I had a chance to say a proper goodbye.

"I wasn't done," I said calmly, trying to hide my growing rage.

I didn't even have a chance to tell Melissa that I loved her before he hung up. What if something happened to me in here and the last thing I said to her was something about how we were going to figure all this out?

"Your time was up," he replied in a flat tone, re-securing my hands behind my back and leading me back to the cell.

I highly doubted that, but I bit my tongue.

"You win many of your fights?" Beringer asked as he unlocked the cell. He slid the door open, and I stepped inside, walking up to the back wall and standing with my nose against it while I waited for him to un-cuff me.

He took his sweet time.

"You hear me?" he asked.

I didn't respond. He was trying to bait me into saying something incriminating, and I was done speaking until I had a lawyer present. I wasn't stupid.

"Well, I hope for your sake you did." He pulled the cuffs off and retreated, locking me back into my new home. "'Cause where you're going, you're gonna have to do lots of fighting."

I waited until the sheriff left the room before I turned and massaged my aching wrists. I wanted to scream. I wanted to pound my fists on the floor until it cracked. Or until my fists cracked, which would be more likely.

Instead, I sat down on the edge of the little bed and gripped the cold metal. And I waited.