Page 6 of If All Else Sails
A lovely suggestion when my hands are cuffed behind my back.
I’m honestly stunned. Wyatt saw me walking around this— his?—yard. Called the police on me. And is letting them drive me away.
I know the man never liked me, butthis?
There’s always been something hostile between us, ever since the very first time Jacob brought Wyatt home from college for the weekend. If it were a one-time incident, maybe I could write it off. Consistently, though, Wyatt finds a way to ruin things: my self-esteem, my birthday dinner, my college graduation. You know—little things like that.
Still, Wyatt and I are not quite Taylor Swift “Bad Blood”– level enemies, so I don’t understand this sudden escalation to having mearrested.
Before now, our interactions have been snarky, though minimal. We give each other a wide berth, even if I’m always half aware of his gray eyes piercing into me, like he’s watching for me to make a mistake.
Jacob has always defended Wyatt, a fact that chaps my hide. Where’s the sibling loyalty?You just don’t understand him, my brother has said more than once.
What’s not to understand? The man is some kind of egotistical sports player who has the attitude of a honey badger with a hangover. And for whatever reason, he seems bound and determined to make me suffer every chance he gets.
“Do you mind not kicking my seat?” the cop asks.
This only makes me want to kick it harder.
Look—I’m not normally the kind of person who enjoys bucking authority. In our family, that’s always been Jacob’s role, where I’m more of a rule follower. Not quite a people pleaser, but maybe with people-pleasing tendencies. I’ve always been polite to police officers in the brief interactions I’ve had with them. Which is probably why, even though I’ve gotten pulled over twice for speeding,I’ve only ever driven away with warnings.
But after spending at least ten minutes in a hot car, I am plumb out of politeness.
“Oh, sorry.” I don’t even attempt to sound sorry or soften the bite in my tone. “I’m just trying to avoid smashing my head into the window. But if you don’t mind the legal ramifications of me getting a concussion while in custody, that’s cool.”
He slows down. He also glares at me in the rearview mirror.
Then his eyes suddenly widen, those massive eyebrows shooting upward. Without warning, he hits the brakes. Hard enough that I actually do hit my head—my face, really—on the wire mesh separating the front and back seats.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask, but he’s out of the car, leaving the door wide open as his boots crunch on the driveway.
And of course, he turned off the car, which means the air flow stops. Again.
I wiggle to look out the back window, wondering if I have an imprint of the partition on my cheek.
“Oh,nowyou want to come outside,” I grumble when I see Wyatt standing in the middle of the driveway, talking animatedly to both cops.
I’m shocked to see Wyatt leaning on crutches. Did he get injured? I didn’t hear about it, but I also don’t follow hockey. Jacob knows I’ve never been the least bit interested in updates on his clients. Especially Wyatt. I think it kills Jacob a little bit that I don’t get starstruck.
He doesn’t understand or knowwhyI have an aversion to athletes. No one does. And I’m not about to start explaining.
Still, considering his friendship with Wyatt, an injury seems like something Jacob might have mentioned.
All three men look toward the cruiser I’m in, and when their gazes fall on me, I tilt my chin up in the universal dudebro signal forWhat’s up. Best I can do in handcuffs.
“Come on, Wyatt,” I mutter. “Before I melt into a puddle, tell the nice officers of the law this is all just a misunderstanding so I can get out of here.”
And that’s exactly what I’ll be doing the moment I’m freed: getting out of here.
I also plan to have a strongly worded conversation with Jacob becausewhat was his endgame here? Why am I here at Wyatt’s murder cottage while my brother is nowhere to be found? You can’t have a Super Summer Sibling Extravaganza without both siblings.
Wyatt is still having what looks like a heated discussion with the cops. Speaking of heated...A bead of sweat rolls down the center of my spine. People are always going on about why you shouldn’t leave pets in hot cars—not even for five minutes.
But what about innocently accused trespassers? Don’t I have at least as many rights as a dog?!
Maybe I can sue Wyatt for emotional damage. If the officers leave me here much longer, I’ll tack heatstroke onto the list. I may not have known about the crutches, but Jacob did brag to me about Wyatt’s latest contract with Boston. He isperfectlawsuit material. And my school nurse salary could do with a little boost.
The two officers suddenly turn and walk toward the cruiser I’m in. Wyatt does not move but continues standing in the driveway, leaning on his crutches, staring at me. Even from here, I can see the hard clench of his jaw.
