Page 97 of Kings Don't Break
22
KORINE
It’s after three a.m. when my iPhone vibrates on the nightstand next to my bed. I roll over, half wondering if I’m dreaming or if someone’s really calling me this late.
“Hello…” I mumble, my voice raspy with sleep.
“This is a collect call from the Pulsboro Police Department. To accept the call, please press one.”
I’m stuck on words like Pulsboro Police Department and collect call. Who would possibly be calling me this late from the police station? Is this Ken’s latest scheme to make me pay? Is he making another attempt to beg me to come home?
He’s never used his work number for our personal affairs before…
I press one on my keypad. The line clicks as I’m transferred over and then rings in my ear. The person on the other end comes on and leaves me even more speechless than I already am.
“Kori,” Blake says, his voice gruffer than usual. “Are you there?”
A second ticks by. I can only clutch the phone to my ear and stare at the dark shapes in my bedroom.
Blake’s calling me from the police station?! Am I dreaming?!
A breath falters out of me before I remember how to speak. “Blake, what’s going on? Why are you calling me collect?”
“Long story.” He sounds exhausted. Worn down as if he’s been through so much. “Kori… I need you to get a hold of Mace. He’ll need to bail me out.”
“Bail you out—you’ve been arrested? How? Why? Are you okay?”
“I tried calling him,” he goes on, ignoring my questions. “But he didn’t answer. He’s probably knocked out this time of night. I only get three calls. Kori, this is important. You need to get a hold of Mace.”
The phone slips into the crook of my neck. I’ve jumped out of bed and rushed over to my closet to throw on some real clothes.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be there soon,” I say, trying to keep calm. My hands tremble and my foot refuses to cooperate sliding into my snow boot.
“Kori, I don’t want you showing up to the station?—”
“I’ll get a hold of Mason. Blake, be careful.”
I hang up on him before he can scold me anymore. It doesn’t occur to me ’til I’ve grabbed my purse and rushed out of my bedroom that I don’t have Mason’s number. Why didn’t I think to ask?!
“Damn it.”
After a quick check on Mama to ensure she’s okay, I look up the local taxi company. It’s so late it wouldn’t be surprising if they’ve already stopped their service for the night. A moody man answers with the rasp of a chain-smoker.
“We’re about to close for the night,” he grunts. “No more pickups.”
“Please! I’ll pay double the fare.”
He agrees after giving my offer some consideration. Within twenty minutes, I’m seated in the backseat of a dented up taxi that takes me a couple miles down to the Steel Saloon. The grumpy taxi driver blasts off the second I’m stepping out of his car, exhaust fumes clouding the dark scene.
The lights in the saloon are out. Not a peep can be heard from inside. Even the MC has closed down for the night.
I sprint toward the house in the back. Mason lives there with Sydney. They’ll have to hear me banging on their door.
It takes a few tries, but after I pound my fist on their door, I pick up movement on the inside. A curtain in one of the second floor windows sways. Footsteps pad from the opposite side of the door. A pause goes by—presumably as the peep hole’s checked—and then the door’s yanked open.
Mason’s standing before me, shirtless in a pair of sweatpants. A pistol is casually held at his left side. His brows snap together, eyes narrowing. They give me a once-over, and I realize what he’s doing a second later.
He’s checking if I’ve turned up on his doorstep injured.
