Page 6 of Resurrection
Yes, I’ve been quietly following her on social media all these years from a dummy Instagram account. She’s done well for herself, and that’s the only reason I don’t feel like what I did to her was a mistake. Maybe she wouldn’t have gotten where she is now by simply being my girlfriend in LA.
Just as I start to relax into the high school memories of us, I hear a distinct siren yelp behind me. Red and blue lights fill my mirrors.
Fuck.
So much for not getting in trouble.
I tap the brakes and coast onto the shoulder. The cruiser halts behind me with a soft squeal of tires on asphalt. Leaning over, I pop open the glove compartment, its usual mess revealing my crumpled registration paper buried under receipts. As I grab it, I catch sight of movement in the side mirror—the sheriff's silhouette strides toward me, his hand casually resting near his holstered weapon like he’s in an old Western-movie showdown.
He reaches my window, and his knuckles give a casual rap against the glass. Only his standard-issue uniform is visible to me until I press the button and watch as the window glides down with a smooth whir.
The wind carries in the scent of hot tar mixed with just-cut grass. Standing there, he dips his head down into view and says, "License and registration, please."
At first, my mind is a little confused. But there’s no mistaking that jawline or those intense dark-brown—almost black—eyes or those criminally thick Medina lashes or that freckle on his right cheekbone. Adrian Medina. Always out to get me, just like I remember.
"Adri?" I choke out.
"Ty," he replies with a poker face as if we’d never lived next door to each other while growing up.
"Is that how you say hello these days?"
"You were going ninety in a sixty-five zone."
I look at my dashboard as if I’m going to see proof of my wrongdoing, but the car in is neutral. "Sorry, man. I guess I got distracted."
"Distraction kills people," he says grimly. "License and registration."
I hand him the paperwork. "Sorry. I promise I wasn’t showing off."
"Sure." He scans the documents and returns them to me.
"I had no idea you were a sheriff now," I admit.
I think my mother mentioned "the Medina boy” became a deputy some time ago during one of those brief phone conversations. But my mind is interesting. It blocks out all news related to Sageview Ridge unless it’s regarding Naomi. Somehow, I missed the fact that her brother is a big deal.
"You don’t visit," Adri replies, pulling out a citation book from the side pocket of his shirt.
"Just busy."
"I’m sure." He scribbles something on the pad, tears the page out, and hands it to me. "You better watch your speed next time."
I take the paper and stare at it for a second. "A ticket? Really?" I glance up at him.
"What? You think you’re an exception because you were part of that hotshot band back in the day?"
"It was an honest oversight."
"Stay away from my sister, Brady," Adri then says all of sudden.
His voice is flat, but it lands like a punch to the gut. Without a single word, he starts walking back to his cruiser.
It takes a while before I can force my eyes away from the mirror and get back on the road.
I’m still pissed at Adri for writing me the ticket when I pull up to the casino parking lot fifteen minutes later. I sit in my car for a moment while my phone goes off with several texts from Jon, who’s already inside and on his second drink.
Finally, I shove the ticket into the glove compartment, grab my baseball cap from the passenger seat, and climb out of the Audi.
Even this time of year, the desert here is harsh—dry and barren—though it’s also comfortably familiar.
