Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67496 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67496 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“And you trust me? You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t I? I feel like I know enough. You’re the kind of person you call when you need help.”
The quiet of that stupid closet. His voice in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” his world-famous voice said, and in the dark of the room that voice settled in a breathless place in her body. A lonely place full of cobwebs and broken dreams and heartache. “But…I kind of need you, Helen.”
Well, it was going to take a seriously stronger woman than she was to resist Micah Sullivan saying he needed her.
She glanced at the clock in her room. Three a.m.
“I’ll be there in a few hours.”
“Thank you, Helen.”
“You’re…” She blinked. Shook her head. Wondered how everything had come to this. “You’re welcome, Micah.”
She finished getting dressed and made a travel mug of coffee before going up into her parents’ room
“Hi, Mom, sorry,” she said and crept to Mom’s side of the bed. Mom woke up right away.
“Is everything okay? What’s happening?” She pushed her silvery hair off her face, squinting at the clock, a red line from the pillow across her face.
“Everything is fine. Totally fine,” Helen said quickly, deeply sorry she’d given her mom even a second to think the worst. They were too familiar with the worst, and Helen knew better. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “But I’m going to Rochester.”
“Now? Why? Honey, what happened?”
“I’m picking up Micah Sullivan from jail.” The words sounded totally ridiculous.
“The singer?” Mom asked after a second.
“What’s going on?” Jonah said, rolling over to face them, blinking up at Helen. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” She’d really screwed this up. “Everything is fine. I’m sorry. Actually…” Jonah would get a serious kick out of this. “I’m going to Rochester to pickup Micah Sullivan from jail.”
Jonah looked like she’d smashed him upside the head with a frying pan. “The singer?” Helen nodded. “Wow.”
“I know.”
He pushed off the blankets. “Gimme a sec and I’ll drive you—”
“No,” she said and held out her hand, the keys to the truck dangling from her fingers. “I’m…going to do it. On my own.”
Mom and Jonah had one of the silent conversations that they were so good at.
“You sure?” Jonah asked, lying back down in the bed. He put his hand on Daphne’s shoulder and pulled her down, too, though she went stiff as a board.
“I’m sure. But Bea—”
“We’ve got Bea,” Jonah said, still pulling Daphne down. They lay there like they’d never been in a bed before.
“Do you want a sandwich or something? For the road?” Daphne asked, unable to keep the worry out of her voice.
“Mom. I’m fine. I…got this,” Helen said and then turned from her parents and walked out of the house to the truck in the driveway. The night was cool and clear, and she took a second to pull up directions to the Monroe County Jail, and another second to pull up a podcast, and then, with a deep breath, she pulled out of the driveway and onto the asphalt highway toward Micah.
Chapter Eight
Micah
The Monroe County Jail was, thank fuck, mostly empty. There was a drunk in the holding cell next to his who, after throwing what was a pretty good fit when he arrived, immediately passed out, pissed his pants and started snoring.
The cops, though, took their opportunity to walk by at more than regular intervals.
“If my people find a picture of this on social media,” Micah said, his legs stretched out in front of him, “we’ll hit you with a lawsuit so big you’ll never work in law enforcement again.” His arms were crossed over his chest. He’d been wearing a baseball cap, one of his favorites, but it had been taken from him at processing. He wished he had it now. It was hard work hiding under these impossibly bright lights.
The young cop who’d been pretending to look at his phone as he walked by, but was holding it at an angle that would imply he was taking a photo, nearly dropped the phone while shoving it back in his pocket.
“You know, you’d think a guy like you might figure out how to stay out of jail,” young cop said. Weird flex, but it wasn’t new. Micah’d been getting this from cops since he was fifteen years old when his brother, at eight, shoplifted a remote control car that ended up being worth a stupid amount of money. When they got caught by the mall cops, Micah took the blame. It had escalated quickly and he was taken to the station in the back of a police car.
And being arrested that young, being handcuffed, being scared and vulnerable and alone–it was the worst.
But once the worst thing happened, it was over. And it wasn’t the worst anymore. It was just a thing. And it was a thing that happened a lot.