Page 78 of Ice Ice Maybe
I glanced in the rearview mirror. “Do you want to wait here for us, Bonnie? Hopefully, it won’t be too long.”
“And miss all the action?” she answered. “No way.”
“Okay, but how are we going to get inside?” Zena asked, eyeing the throng of people in front of the entrance. “I doubt they’re letting many people in.”
I shrugged. “It’s simple: We’re the ones bailing out Mitch.”
We pushed through the throng of reporters, their questions a dull roar in my ears as we made our way inside. Security was a slew of metal detectors and pat downs, but luckily, there were no complications and no signs of Mr. and Mrs. Dalton. Finally, we reached the reception desk.
“Can I help you?” the officer asked.
“We want to bail out Mitch Redding,” I stated, trying to keep my voice steady since I had no idea if I could or how the process worked.
The officer behind the counter nodded, glanced at his computer, then put his mouse and keyboard to good use.
Scrolling, clicking, scrolling, clicking …
I drummed my fingers on the counter, wondering what was taking so long. Surely Mitch hadn’t been here long enough to get lost in the system. Soon, my fingers were tapping out a rhythm so frantic, I half-expected the officer to ask if I was secretly morse coding a cry for help.
Instead, he blew out a frustrated breath and glared at my hand.
I sheepishly stilled my impromptu percussion session and hid my hand behind my back. “Sorry.”
A minute later, the officer glanced at me. “Here we go, Mitch Redding. Okay, bail is set at three thousand dollars.”
My eyebrows shot up so fast I was surprised they didn’t fly off my forehead and stick to the ceiling. “Okay …”
“You can pay the cashier to your left.” He gestured to the man sitting behind the glass window. “You’ll need to sign in before you go to the waiting area.”
With sticker shock on the brain, I thanked the officer and stepped up to the cashier, opening my wallet.
“Use Dad’s credit card,” Zena said.
“This time, I have no problem with that.” I slid the credit card toward the cashier, then signed the receipt.
As the three of us entered the waiting room, Belle looked up from her phone, her face lighting up as she jumped up to hug Bonnie.
“Thank goodness you’re okay!” Bonnie exclaimed.
Belle waved off her concern. “Oh, please. Mitchy’s an amazing driver. As good as anyone on the NASCAR circuit. I was having such a blast until we got pulled over.”
Did she call him Mitchy?
I glanced at Zena, who looked equally perplexed.
“What happened when you got pulled over?” Zena asked Belle.
“They impounded the Ferrari and arrested him for speeding,” Belle shrugged. “The officer mentioned something about reckless endangerment, or something like that, but I don’t see the problem. Mitchy said that Ferrari could go over two hundred miles per hour, and we barely hit a hundred and forty.”
“Yeah, only double the speed limit,” I muttered.
“Exactly!” Belle beamed, missing my sarcasm entirely.
I kept eyeing the entrance, dreading the Daltons’ arrival. Mitch needed to come out first, or we’d be in deep trouble. Beside me, Zena’s leg bounced nervously. I squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“Everything will be fine,” I said.
Coach Quinn walked in, which meant the Daltons were close behind him. My anxiety kicked into high gear, and I was grateful a racing pulse wasn’t a punishable offense, or I’d have been sharing a cell with Mitch.
