Page 15 of Bad For A Weekend

“Is that how you knew this was up here?”

“No. I was only on patrol for a year before I was placed as a school resource officer.”

“A what?”

“You wouldn’t know because your school has its own security, but in public schools, they don’t have the funds for that, so a cop is assigned to the district. Sometimes more than one if it’s a big district. I worked in five elementaries, one middle school, and one high school.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and wipe my sweaty palms down my pants. My body reacts this way whenever I start talking about my previous job. I force myself to chill out. She doesn’t know anything bad happened, so I don’t have to talk about it. I can be vague.

“Oh. What did you do there?”

“I intervened when there was a fight, worked with the principal when issues came up and a kid needed to be set straight, did crowd control for football games, and helped direct traffic before and after school. Lots of stuff, really.”

“And you didn’t like it?”

“I loved it,” I say honestly. That job was the first time I felt proud to wear the shield. My single year of patrolling was enough to make me realize I didn’t want to be a cop. I didn’t want anything to do with it, actually. When I went to my captain to quit, he asked if I’d give the resource position a chance. I thought I’d hate it too, but I immediately knew I was where I belonged.

“Then why did you leave?”

“That’s enough Q and A for today. It’s time to get back.”

“It was something bad, huh?” Her voice is so quiet, I almost miss it.

I hold her crutches for her while she scoots off the tailgate. “Why would you ask that?”

“I saw it in your eyes when we got into the car back at the house. You knew exactly what I needed when I wanted to be anywhere but there.”

Well, shit. I guess I’m not the only one who recognized the like pieces of our souls.

I close the hatch and open her door for her. When she’s inside and buckled, I say, “Yeah. It was something bad.”

As I begin the drive back to her house, I berate myself for divulging too much information. It’s like I’m incapable of keeping myself guarded, even when I know it’s better for both our sakes. But I went against my better judgment anyway. I’m a fucking idiot.

Baylor

“I’m sorry I treated you like shit earlier. I had a bad day, and I took it out on you,” I say, wringing my hands in my lap.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, his mind clearly elsewhere now. Our moment has passed.

Something between us shifted at The Grove. The mask he’s had on since I first met him slipped a little, and I saw what he was hiding. He’s been through something too. I didn’t need him to confirm it to know it was true.

Ever since I was taken, I’ve mentally separated everyone into two groups. Those who have had really bad things happen to them and those who only know of bad things happening. Everyone in my life, even Dad, is firmly in that second category because while having me go missing was scary and awful for them, they weren’t there. They didn’t go through it.

It’s an isolating feeling, and no matter how much you explain it to someone, they never truly understand. But I saw it in Owen. The moment was brief but enough to put him in the first category, right next to me.

I don’t wish for anyone to go through something scarring, but I will admit it helps to know I’m not alone in this.

Gazing out the window, I let it all sink in while taking in the city I live in. It’s equal measures of beauty and ugly. This is where dreams either flourish and come true or die a penniless death. While I used to focus on the opportunity and hope L.A. provides, the ugly side is much clearer now.

A car pulls to the side of our SUV, catching my attention. The man behind the wheel is wearing an old baseball hat and cheap sunglasses. An odd feeling grips my chest. I can’t explain it, but there’s something off about him.

We sit parallel at a stoplight, and the man lifts his sunglasses and turns to look at our car but not at Owen. His gaze is on the passenger window where I am. I know the tinting is dark enough he can’t see in, but it still sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the night I was taken. That man did the same thing.

Are the two connected? Is this man after me as well?

I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide to the middle of the bench seat before re-buckling. If Owen notices, he doesn’t comment, which I’m glad for. I don’t want to explain how paranoid I’ve become. Every stranger I see now is a potential threat.

Or maybe he does notice because, with no warning, he switches lanes and makes a sharp right turn with his eyes flashing from the rearview mirror to the road ahead. I turn to look out the back window and see that the black car I noticed before is now following us.

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