Page 87 of Babalon

Looking down at where he grips me, I stare momentarily before flicking my eyes up to his. His brows pinch together as he holds me there. Finally releasing, and straightening his perfectly pressed shirt like he was the one ruffled by the interaction and not me, he starts with his police bullshit.

“I’m going to take you down to the station for a talk.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t have any probable cause nor have I indicated any guilt.”

“Nadia, cooperate or this could go south very fast.”

“My childhood home just burned to a crisp and you think I’m concerned about things getting worse?”

“T—this was your home?” he asks curiously but stupidly.

“Yes, the frantic man on the phone with 9-1-1 is none other than my father. Now, if you would, get out of my way.”

Powering by him, I make it to the driver side door and start to wrench it open, only for the detective to step up and shove it closed.

This guy has a death wish if I ever saw one.

Turning, I press my back against the truck and look up at him, waiting for him to speak. Eyes looking over his features for any hint of deception or need for caution. He could put me behind bars with ease, now that he knows I am tied to another crime. Hopefully, my father will keep his fucking mouth shut and take the insurance money to pay his medical bills, but if I knew him, he won’t.

“We’re not done here, Nadia. I suggest you follow me down to the station or the next time I see you, it will be with a warrant for your arrest.”

“Hmph, when you put it that way,Detective.”

Unfolding my arms, I hand him my wrists, suspending them in the space between us. Patiently waiting for him to slap handcuffs around them, but this goody-two-shoes won’t do anything of the sort. He plays by the book, like a goddamn square. With a little smirk, I drop my hands and proceed to get into my truck.

“See you next time, Detective. We’ll make it a date.”

Slamming the door in his face and placing the key in the ignition, I start the truck with a loud rumble. Shifting it out of park and into drive, I press on the gas pedal and lurch the truck forward. This is the last time I will ever come back here, no matter what happens; this part of my life is gone.

Pulling back up at my apartment, the scent of smoke embedded in my Aerosmith T-shirt and leggings, I jump out andshut the door firmly behind me. Gravel crunches under my shoes as I whistle on my way to the mailbox nestled in the community area of my complex.

Stepping up to my box, I slide the small key into the locking mechanism and turn it, the metal grinding against the frame holding the square door steady when not in use. Pulling it open, I reach in and snatch the contents out. A few envelopes, probably bills which I pay via phone, then others that look like spam. Chucking those into the trash, I head out of the community area and drift toward my apartment.

I usually like to park in front of the stairs that lead up to my unit, but a neighbor has been swiping my spot lately. Coming to the bottom of the steps, I see him bent under the propped-up hood of an antique car. Climbing a few of the stairs, I decide to turn and look down at him. We have not officially met, but we do see one another every once in a while.

He seems quiet and pretty nice— far from what I am used to regarding people. The prison is loud, my friends are loud, the world is even noisier. Not this guy though, he keeps to himself, and even the Chevy Nova he is working on isn’t so obnoxious when he starts it that it shakes the windows.

“Hi,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He jump and smack the back of his head on the inside of the hood, instinctively reaching to rub it as he comes out from under the metal. When he turns, I look over him; jeans hanging low on his hips, a too tight t-shirt that hugs every damn muscle in his arms. Hurricane grey eyes stare up at me, chocolate colored hair tied back out of his face.

He’s attractive, though older than me, but I can’t say much, Kace has several years on me but this guy doesn’t seem to have much more.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You’re alright, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be behind me. Getting a little rusty, I guess.”

“I like your car. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, I’m rebuilding it for my son, Deke.”

“Your son? I’ve not seen any kids around here.”

“Ahh, yeah, he lives with his mom on the other side of the country. Military family, they move around a lot.”

“I see, how old is your son?”

“Sixteen.”

---