Page 25 of Dahlia Made A List

“I’ll handle it.” Wyatt waved his thumb over his shoulder. “Get out of here.”

The last of the tension slipped from my shoulders when the police officer heaved an annoyed breath, but strode past Wy. He waved at the row of cars behind the cruiser, motioning for them to pass on by.

Heat exploded in my cheeks, fiery and humiliating. I’d been so confident of my driving ability at the airstrip. Learned to shift smooth as silk, memorized the rules of the road, let my confidence grow as I navigated the quiet neighborhoods today. Only to lose my mind at the first sight of a car headed in my direction.

Wyatt opened the driver side door, squatted down on his heels, and leveled his dark browns at me. “Alright, suck it up.”

“Pardon me?”

“Wes may be an idiot, but he’s right about this. We can’t sit here blocking traffic. And you’re not driving.” He reached across me to unfasten my seatbelt. “We’re trading places.”

His words finally registered and I fumbled my way out of the Firebird. Every muscle in my body burned and my skin still felt clammy, my face hot, and my stomach like I could vomit any second, but I tucked my chin to my chest and hauled myself out of the driver’s seat and around to the passenger side. His gaze drilled into me the whole time and I didn’t want to meet his gaze, didn’t want to see the pity or judgment in his eyes.

My legs wobbled and I pressed my fingers against the gleaming black finish of the car as I shuffled unsteadily around the car. Part of me listened for Wyatt to chew me out, to complain about leaving smudges on his precious Firebird.

But the complaints never came. Instead, he hovered at my side, not touching me, but close enough that if my legs gave out, I’d catch him or the car.

The police officer reappeared, stopping my unsteady progress at the rear of the Firebird. “What the hell you doin’ letting a drunk behind the wheel in the first place, Wyatt? I can’t turn a blind eye and you know it.”

I wanted to scream that I wasn’t drunk. That the officer may have the best of intentions, but he was being cruel and obtuse.

But Wyatt froze. I tilted my head back and he nodded toward the trunk of the car. “Brace yourself.”

Before I could process his words, Wyatt hauled around and shoved the officer’s shoulder, pushing him away from the back of the car. As soon as the officer’s attention was off me and on him, Wyatt dropped his hand from his shirt and squared up, chest to chest.

The other man’s jowls quivered, his nostrils flared, his voice thick with shock. “Don’t touch me.”

I gasped, the tears I’d been battling falling freely now. Holy crap, Wyatt was gonna be arrested. I called his name, barely a croak of sound fighting through the mortification smothering me.

A woman emerged from a nearby house. Her eyes sought mine, but I turned my face down to study the shining black surface of the Firebird’s paint job. I’d have to move to Alaska to outrun this humiliation.

After I bailed Wyatt out of jail.

“Wyatt Weston, what would your grandmother say, she saw you like this?”

“I don’t rightly know, Ms. Cathy. Maybe you should give her a call on that phone you're holding at the ready. Let her know Mr. McCluskey is busy, so you’re taking up the mantle of nosy fuckin’ busybody.”

“Well, I never—”

“But you had to pick today to start, didn’t you?” Wyatt snarled at the woman old enough to be his mother.

The officer took another step back to add space between himself and Wyatt, and the added distance must have given him a little burst of courage, as he said, “Don’t speak to Ms. Cathy—”

But neither Wyatt nor the woman paid him any heed. “I think she’d want to know about her grandson abusing an officer of the law.”

“I’ve only got time for one asshole at a time, Ms. Cathy, and Wes here is taking center stage.”

She gasped, the sound carrying across half her yard, the sidewalk and into the street to reach me. “You Westons think you own this town.”

Wyatt stiffened, his hands balling up into fists at his side. “I’m getting Dahlia back in my car and we’re leaving. You two idiots do what you gotta do.”

“J.T. will hear of this.”

Wyatt made an exaggerated show of looking around and that’s when I realized we’d attracted a crowd.

“Pretty sure he already has.”

Twenty minutes later, I stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to my apartment. We’d made the short drive in silence. I couldn’t believe Wyatt hadn’t been arrested. I’d never known him to throw his name around, and he hadn’t today either. But that didn’t stop people from using it.

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