Page 56 of Hidden Memories

I’ve ridden countless bulls, wrestled them, roped calves at thirty miles an hour. I should have the stomach for one unknown delivery.

Turns out I don’t.

And my regret only grows stronger with every mile.

I swallow dryly, jaw locked, fingers tapping against the steering wheel as if the movement will shake off the feeling that I’ve made a deal with the Devil.

One job. One week away from Kat. It’ll be torture, but after that, we’ll be free.

And then—a glint of blue lights in my rearview mirror.

A siren shatters the night.

My pulse plummets.

No.

Every instinct I have—from years of riding, running, fighting to stay on something bigger and stronger than me—screamsmove.

But I can’t.

Because there, flashing bright and relentless in my rearview mirror is the thing I’ve been trying to outrun.

Not just the law. Not just this bad decision.

But the weight of a lifetime of almosts—almost free, almost good enough, almost giving Kat the life she deserves.

Almost having everything… and about to lose it all.

Hours pass.

I sit in a cell that smells like piss. My legs are stretched out, my head against the cold cinder block wall, staring at the tiny barred window high above me. They haven’t fingerprinted me. No booking, no paperwork. No phone call. Just left me to rot in my own thoughts, and that’s worse than anything else.

Because my thoughts? They won’t shut up.

Every road I took that led me here reroutes itself in my head. Every reckless choice, every desperate move to secure a future with Kat, a future where we had freedom instead of being shackled to expectations or empty bank accounts. I thought this was the smart move. The one-time risk that would make it all possible.

And now? I’m fucked.

My gut churns. Something is off. I don’t know much about getting arrested, but I’ve watched enough TV toknow this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You get booked. You get processed. You get put in the system.

I’m just sitting here.

The jangle of keys yanks me from my spiraling thoughts. Footsteps. My body tenses as the guard unlocks the door, and then—a man steps in behind him.

Not a cop.

A man in a dark, tailored suit. Sharp. Composed. Deadly.

His bright-blue eyes settle on me, cold and cutting, framed by a helmet of dark, slicked-back hair. His suit is impeccable, expensive, a different class of power.

He smirks.

“Santiago Mendez,” he says, like he’s tasting the name, deciding if it’s worth spitting out.

I don’t answer. I just stand, tall and solid. If this man wants me weak, he won’t get it.

“Let’s talk.”

---