Page 68 of Castaway Whirlwind
I yank Layla up into my arms, horrified and outraged that anyone should see her performing such a private, intimate act meant only for the two of us. “You have no right barging in on us!” I yell, pushing her behind me to shield her fromtheir view while stuffing my wet cock back in my jeans. “Get the f—” I throw up a hand over my eyes when a flashlight is shoved in my face, blinding me to whoever reaches around me and roughly tugs Layla away.
“Russell!”
Layla’s fearful, broken sob has me whipping my arm out to knock the flashlight away and swinging a fist at the owner’s face. And then I’m on to the next one when hands grab at my arms, trying to restrain me.
Whoever they are, they’re no match for my fury until a woman hisses, “Who’s going to take care of Layla if you’re in jail?”Deputy Cooke.
Hers are the only words that penetrate the red haze, bursting my rage like a balloon, at least outwardly so. And it’s only Cooke that I allow to yank my arms behind my back and cuff my wrists.
“Play it smart, Berenson,” Cooke says low for only me to hear, pushing me forward to guide me out of the woods, allowing the branches to whip my face and chest. I grunt, having to widen my natural stride to keep my jeans from falling down my hips since I couldn’t zip them before being cuffed.
“Russell,” Layla says with a frail voice, sniffling from behind.
I try to turn,needingto hold and comfort my little darlin’, but Cooke shoves me forward, causing me to nearly stumble, yelling, “Keep it moving, asshole!”
The whole county department has shown up, people lined up on their knees on the patio, facing the building with their fingers laced together on top of their heads while multiple officers move down the line to handcuff them. Without the music and with all the lights thrown on, it’s eerie listening toat least half the bar patrons either yelling obscenities, begging to be released, or crying.
“On your knees, now!” Cooke yells, kicking the back of one knee so I’ll collapse next to Wyatt, whose head looks like it’s going to pop, as Dolly quietly cries beside him, her delicate wrists already cuffed.
The next second, I’m on my feet, delivering a swift kick to Officer Green’s gut after he does the same to Layla as Cooke did to me, making her land hard on her bare knees on the concrete, crying out.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her!” Green yells, bent over and clutching his stomach. His left cheek is already swollen, and I’m guessing he’s the officer I punched in the woods.
When I hesitate to deliver a second kick, this time to his face, two officers I don’t know very well tackle me to the ground, scraping several layers of skin off my nose and cheek above my beard, one of them kneeling on my back and tightening my cuffs. I catch a quick flash of silver between two cruisers, and though I don’t see anyone lurking in the shadows, I know it’s Elliott. A glance down the line of cuffed individuals confirms he somehow slipped away from the officers but hasn’t left.
“Sick motherfucker. Let’s go.” The knee on my back is lifted, and I’m wrenched upwards by my hands, my shoulders nearly popping out of their sockets. They march me away toward the front of the building, out of view, and shove me into a cruiser with no idea what’s going to happen to me or my darlin’. I just have to trust that whatever it is, Elliott has it handled.
And there will be hell to pay.
* **
“I’m not talking without my lawyer,” I repeat,playing it smart, disturbed by the photos spread out on the metal table in the stifling hot interrogation room. My face throbs from my untreated skinning, silently questioning the credibility of Jack and Jake’s confession of boredom for the reason they allegedly vandalized the house.
Turns out the officers were already on their way to the dance hall, no doubt intending to publicly humiliate Layla and me by arresting us for “solicitation” in front of so many witnesses. It’s too bad for them and great for us that the bar fight broke out, damn near half the place getting arrested right alongside us.
Someone took professional photos of Layla and me exchanging cash in our kitchen and her counting the money, then dropping it on the table next to her cleaning supplies. These go back to the first time she cleaned, then followed up on her second, capturing in graphic detail me masturbating while she changed our bedsheets. Included are multiple close-up shots of me yanking her closer to cum on her thong, then tugging it down.
We have a stalker, one who hired a private investigator, is my guess. The only person I can think of who could possibly have a reason for it—who itallcomes back to—is Steven. Somehow, someway, Layla’s ex is the one responsible.
Deputy Madden scoffs, rocking back on two legs of his metal chair opposite me. “A lawyer isn’t going to be much help. All the jury has to do is take one look at the two of you, and they’ll come to the same conclusion.” He lets the chair drop forward, a sneer on his square face, his hair cropped close to his scalp so you can’t tell it’s thinning early. “A fat, rich and lonely, dirty old John soliciting a poor, young, desperate prostitute. No oneis going to believe you didn’t have to pay her to pretend to be your fiancée. No one.”
“She’s not a prostitute,” I bite out, then clamp my lips shut, hating that he got a rise out of me.
“Bullshit. Tell me, how much money have you wasted on Layla before she could finally stomach the idea of fucking you? Five thousand? Ten? Twenty?” Madden laughs cruelly. “Maybe she didn’t start off as a prostitute, but you sure as hell turned her into one.”
I keep my mouth shut through sheer willpower alone, though my adrenaline spikes, wanting to leap over the table and put Madden in a coma. I thought I knew everyone in this town, but Madden somehow slipped my radar. I also thought everyone would know that our love is genuine, but I get the sinking feeling that more than a few echo his doubt, and they’ve all been either too kind or too afraid of getting fired to voice it.
Deputy Cooke is wearing her characteristically cold look while she lets Madden lead. It’s interesting how those stony eyes of hers keep cutting to her fellow officer, who is second in charge behind Deputy Allen, while Gibson is “coincidentally” out of town for his youngest daughter’s wedding. If Gibson were here, I’d bet my life’s savings we never would’ve been investigated, let alone arrested. Cooke has seen Layla and me together plenty. She knows we’re the real deal.
Madden rolls his eyes when I stack and rip the photographs apart into as many pieces as I can, difficult as it is with my hands cuffed together in front now. I’d shove them in my mouth and eat them so no one else could ever see them if I didn’t know these are simply copies. It tears me up inside thinking of how many people have seen them and that I’llnever be able to scrub the images of Layla’s gorgeous, half-naked body blushing pink with pleasure from their minds.
The only thing worse is knowing how scared my darlin’ must be on the other side of the wall, muffled voices reaching our ears through the shared vent. My guts twist, wondering if whoever is interrogating Layla is as ugly on the inside as Madden, breathing down her neck, calling her all sorts of names,beating her downlike so many men have in her life while I wait on the lawyer who once represented Elliott.
Chapter 22
Layla
“So, let me get this straight,” Deputy Green says, tugging his buttoned collar away from his neck nervously. “You and Russell are in a loving, committed, consensual relationship.” It’s not a question per se, and for good reason.
