Page 5 of Bound By Obsession

All of these thoughts rush through my head so fast, I barely have time to step aside as he passes. Our shoulders connect, and his dazed green eyes swing back with a glare. A singular glance that halts the entire world, my ears filled with the roar of my blood rushing. My lips part, a choked breath withholding everything I want to say. What heneedsto know.

This is my moment. The chance I’ve been waiting for, until it’s suddenly not. Wyatt is shoved along by the uniformed officer at his back. His hands are bound by cuffs, blood dripping from his knuckles and leaving a trail on the concrete. He’s gone as quickly as he appeared, shoved into the back of the police car and sped away. The paparazzi take chase, not even noticing me standing there. I can’t look away from the blood splatters. Some have been smudged during the panic and by morning, no one will even notice them at all.

“Fucks sake!” Huxley hisses, dragging his hands over his face. “Nixon’s going to lose his shit about this. Wyatt has never even had a detention, let alone been arrested. The media is going to have a field day.” I swallow hard, vaguely wondering how I’meven going to get a hold of Nixon to tell him. Putting genetics and recent discoveries aside, he is still Wyatt’s father. He’s the man who raised him, and ultimately the one who disciplines him.

“Hey, Aves. You okay?” Dax tentatively rubs my arm, drawing my attention away from the blood splatter once more. I must be white as a sheet, and the cold has settled into my chest cavity. I try a nod, but I don’t know if the numbness taking over has permitted it.

“Are we going after him?” Axel asks no one in particular, looking in the direction that the cop car sped away. No one answers and it’s with a little jolt, everyone else has their eyes on me. Waiting for my instruction, as if I’m their stand-in leader. I suppose coming this far was my decision. I inhale deeply, closing my eyes in search of composure.

“Let him sweat. He was high as a kite. A night in a cell will do him good.” A beat of silence follows until Garrett steps out into the road.

“Peach is right. We’ll head down to the station first thing, once Wyatt’s worked this bullshit out of his system.” A horn blares as Garrett wanders in front of cars without a care in the world. We hastily trail behind, apologizing to the vehicles who have skidded to a stop. Huxley’s face is still strained but he doesn’t comment further. We split apart, Garrett’s arm around my shoulders while the others begin their trek to the SUV for our bags. I get the impression they wanted to speak privately, maybe to talk Huxley around. If Garrett senses the tension radiating from me, he doesn’t show it.

“Looks like I’m out of a job. Does this mean I can join in the singular bedroom fun?” He grins. All of the fight has escaped me.

“Unless you and Axel feel like putting on a show, there won’t be any fun. I’m eating and going to bed. To sleep,” I quicklyadd. Garrett smirks away and drags his tongue up my cheek. The security guard at the hotel entrance tries to hide his disgust. I don’t even bother wiping the saliva away. I’m used to Garrett’s ways by now.

“I’ll hand feed you, Peach, and then tuck you in for the night. How does that sound?” Despite being almost certain that was a euphemism for beinghand-fedGarrett’s cock, I grunt in response, allowing myself to be led back into the foyer. Maybe a distraction is needed, now that I have twelve more hours to worry about Wyatt’s reaction to what I have to say. Dammit, Garrett’s going to get his own way again.

Aloud bang jolts me from my sleep. Fluorescent overhead lights are disorientating as my head tenses. I easily could have taken a hammer to the temple, given the throbbing radiating there. My back aches from the twisted position I’m lying in on a solid wooden bench. Where the hell am I and what happened to me?

Suddenly, hands grab my ruined shirt, dragging me upright. I groan at the assault on my protesting body. Attempting to shove the overweight brute away, I discover my wrists are bound painfully in tight metal cuffs. No, not a brute - a cop. He shoves me out of a cell and then continuously prods my back with a blunt object to shuffle along a dimly lit hallway. In terms of small mercies, my eyes have a chance to adjust to the vice-like grip on my head. All self-inflicted, evidently.

A guard dressed in black pushes the door open at the end of the hallway, glaring at me in disgust as I walk past. Squinting, I find myself being prodded through a busy police station. Stacks of paperwork rival towers of empty donut boxes on dozens of desks. Officers either scowl or completely ignore me as a strong hand grips my shoulder and pushes me through another set of metal doors. After removing the cuffs, he barks at me to sit down before leaving the interrogation room. I just about hide my wince until he’s slammed the door closed.

Catching sight of myself in the two-way mirror, I can see why so many people were snarling. Even I’m appalled by my own reflection. My once-white shirt is covered in filth and blood, which I’m going to guess is mine judging from the line of disposable stitches running across my temple and into my right eyebrow. Many of the shirt’s buttons have been ripped off, my belt is missing and now I realize I’m not wearing shoes. My hair resembles a bird’s nest while my eyes are more bloodshot than green.

I round the table in the center, rolling my wrists and twisting my back. The door reopens to reveal a short Latina woman, her rigid posture and grimace not looking good for my immediate future. The navy uniform hugs her frame tightly and a shiny badge sways from her thick black belt. A similarly dressed male cop, who I vaguely recognize from somewhere, trails in behind her and shuts the three of us inside.

“Mister Hughes, is it? Take a seat.” The woman points to one of the collapsible chairs around this side of the table. I drop into it, despite the pain shooting through my back. My head is spinning but I keep a calm expression on my face. Sitting opposite, she opens the brown folder she carried in and places it on the table. A mugshot I don’t remember having taken is clipped to the inside cover, apparently before I was cleaned up since a blood smear covers my right cheek.

“Hughes as in Nixon Hughes? He owns the mansion up in Brookhaven?” The male cop asks. I nod slowly, trying my best to place his thinning hair and rounded belly. Where do I know him from? He makes a low whistle and smirks at me. “I wonder what your father would make of your overnight stay with us. Hardly up to par with your penthouse suite.”

“If you manage to contact him, feel free to ask.” I reply bitterly. Little Latino, as I’ve decided to call her, clears her throat to regain control of my apparent interrogation.

“Master Hughes, you’ve been arrested for damage to private property, possession of drugs and assaulting a police officer. These are very serious charges.” Staring at the picture on her file, I search my brain for the events that led me here. There was that waitress and her drugs, and the rest is fuzzy. Something about too much self-loathing and a mirror? I’m not sure. Something is triggered, because when I look back to the male cop, a smile pulls at my lips. I remember him now.

“How fortunate you were so close by,” I drawl, an image of him on the dancefloor with his shirt wide open and cuffs swinging around his fat finger springing to mind. “But I must ask, as a man of the law - what were you doing partying in uniform, Officer-” I lean forward to read his nametag, “Phallus?”

“It’s Phillis, you little shit, and I was undercover hunting for scum like you.” He sneers, something resembling pink icing stuck in his overbite. Crossing my arms over the disgustingly soiled shirt I’m still wearing, I lean back and ignore the rest of their practiced spiel.

Little Latino plays good cop and tries to reach my conscience as I laugh internally. I couldn’t give less of a shit if they locked me up and threw away the key. In fact, it may be preferable since my life is rapidly swirling out of control. I used to be someone to the Shadowed Souls. I used to think that to them, I wasfinally irreplaceable. I was wrong. I’m utterly alone and no one is coming to save me.

The door bursts open with a loud clang.Hold that thought. “Don’t say another word,” a dark haired man in a pinstripe navy suit strides in with a black briefcase in hand. Chunky gold rings adorn his meaty fingers, a shiny gold watch poking out from his cuff. He casually takes a seat beside me, not seeming fazed by the glowers he’s receiving from across the table.

“Sorry, who the fuck are you?” I break the silence. I place him around mid-thirties as his blue eyes slide to me.

“Jeremy Charlton, your lawyer.” He extends his hand which I hesitantly shake, still confused as to why he’s here.

“Did my father send you?” The easy smile on his face doesn’t falter, but he doesn’t answer my question. Opening the leather briefcase, he pulls out large images of Officer Phallus raving it up in the club and slides them across the metallic surface.

“My client was detained while the arresting officer was intoxicated, which makes his statement inadmissible in court. For all we know, you could have planted the drugs on him in a bid to boost your career,” he glares accusingly at the sweating man across from him. Officer Phallus blubbers and grunts incoherently in anger, his face turning a beetroot red. Charlton continues.

“As the son of a billionaire, I’m certain you wouldn’t want your boss to find out about this, so why don’t we agree that my client walks out of here with his record intact and he, in return, will not press charges?” My attorney cocks his eyebrows at me for back-up, so I shrug and nod. Following his lead, we both stand and exit the room without another word.

With more assurance than before, I stroll through the building, spotting my phone in a clear evidence bag on the edge of an empty desk. Swiping it, I push through the double doors leading onto the main street and inhale deeply. The crisp air oflate afternoon fills my lungs, the dying sun peeking around tall buildings. Charlton clears his throat as I begin to walk away, gesturing for me to slide into the black limousine parked against the sidewalk. His driver, dressed in a suit and flat cap, flicks his half-finished cigarette to the floor and squashes it beneath his shiny loafer.

“Since when do attorneys drive their clients home in limos?” I ask. He pulls the door open with an easy smile, waiting for me to duck inside before following and slamming the door shut. That pounding headache is still ever present in the front of my skull. The driver takes his seat up front and rolls up the dividing window separating us.

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