The cuffs are tighter than they should be, and I have a feeling he’s taking perverse pleasure in escorting me off the bus in front of my band. Elle’s already on the phone, to whom, I don’t know but she doesn’t sound happy. If I lose my gig, I’m going to sue Sheriff Foster. Not that he has much money and the last I remember, his house wasn’t much, but it’ll be mine by the time I’m done with him.
He puts me in the back of the car, making sure I’ve hit my head a few times while he jostled me in. In the front, he gets on the radio and tells them he’s out of service and returning to Prineville with a prisoner.
“I’m not your prisoner. These are trumped up charges.”
Foster ignores me and continues to talk. “Roger that. I’m in route with one.” He turns on his lights and sirens, all for show, and starts down the road. The bus is following, but unable to keep up. Hopefully Elle knows where she’s going because I don’t have a cell phone and I don’t have her number memorized. In fact, I don’t have anyone to call.
Truth is, I don’t really have anyone who cares.
3
Ajay
This isn’t how I thought I’d come back to Bailey. Honestly, I never really imagined stepping foot back into town after I left years ago, let alone coming back in handcuffs. Bailey’s as small as small gets, at least from what I remember. A few houses, some farmland, a gas station, grocery store, a few restaurants and bars, a bank or two and that’s about it. We went to school in the next town over which is where the run-down police station is, and it happens to look exactly the same as the day I bailed. As the door slams shut behind us, a familiar face pops up. The old man smiles, and I shake my head. I’m not surprised to find the same deputy behind the desk as Sheriff Foster pushes me through toward the interview room. Unfortunately, I’ve been here many times before. Stupid teenage stuff mostly, but being as he’s Whiskey’s dad, nothing ever happened to me. There were times, though, when the Sheriff read me the riot act, held up his baton and threatened to dismember me and feed my limbs to the wolves if I didn’t get my act together. Something tells me he’s about to make good on his threat.
“Looks like you have a live one there… or many,” Deputy Pate says as he leans to the side. Behind me the door slams shut again and the energy in the small reception area changes. I look over my shoulder at my bandmates. Elle’s still on the phone and has decided to stay in the corner to speak to whomever is on the line with her. Hendrix’s head is bopping to whatever he’s listening to. Quinn looks tired as fuck as he slouches down in an uncomfortable chair, and Dana’s standing in front of me with her hands on my cheeks. She’s our mother hen, always
making sure we are okay. I know she does it because not only are we her family, but also because she wants the band to succeed and not become one of the industry’s statistics. The rate of overdoses among our peers is astronomical and something we talk about often, finding other outlets for our energy.
“Only the important one,” Foster barks out as he yanks my arm toward him.
“Don’t worry, Ajay. Elle’s on with our lawyer now. You won’t be here long,” Dana yells, although it’s only for show. We are only a few feet away from her and if I remember correctly, the acoustics in here suck. You can hear everyone talking despite being behind blocks of concrete.
The interview room is nothing like what you see on television. Missing is the two-way mirror and the window letting some natural light in. What there is, though, is a table that looks like it’s been through some sort of struggle with gouges of wood missing, teeth marks and the everlasting symbol of eternal love: Two people’s initials inside of a heart. Mine and Whiskey’s are on the side of Foster’s house — at least they were when I left.
Foster takes me to one of the two chairs and parks my ass down on the hard surface. Finally, he uncuffs me. My wrists hurt. There’s a red gash where my skin has rubbed raw against the metal. I flex and rub them, praying there won’t be any lasting effects from the angle they were in for the past hour or so. It’s bad enough that Elle is going to rip me for this little detour, I don’t want to think what she’s doing to do if I can’t play in our next show because my wrists hurt. He pulls the chair out across from me, scraping its aluminum legs against the worn-out linoleum tile. The sound radiates and sends chills down my spine.
We sit across from each other. The smart ass in me wants to smile, ask him how things are going, but I bite my tongue. The last thing I need is for my mouth to write a check my ass can’t cash. I don’t care that I know the law man sitting across from me, the fact is, he’s the law and I need to behave myself. When he came onto the tour bus, I thought he was joking. Even when he put me in the back of his car, I thought he was doing it just to be an asshole. Looking at him now, I know he’s serious. But it makes me wonder why. All we did, Whiskey and I, was teepee a house, and it was really more her than me. I just drove the getaway truck.
The door opens and Pate comes in. In one hand, he has a folder and the other is resting on his gun, as if he’s trying to scare me. As far as I remember the guy can’t shoot worth a lick and is the biggest push over in the county. Whiskey and I used to joke that if we were to get caught being dumb, we wanted Pate to respond, and when he did, she would just bat her eyelashes and he’d let us walk. Too bad he wasn’t the one to come on board the bus, but I have no doubt that wasn’t ever going to be the plan.
Foster takes the folder and sets it calmly down on the table. “That’s all, Pate,” he says, looking directly at me. No, that’s not all. Don’t leave, Pate! My silent plea is met with the shutting of the door.
“In case you’re wondering, this folder is full of crimes you’ve committed over the years.”
The brown dossier is thick, much thicker than it should be. I was a punk ass kid, but I wasn’t a criminal. I never stole anything or did any serious damage, except for the one time a bunch of us played baseball with some mailboxes. We fixed those, though, and no charges were pressed. Oh, and there was a little drag racing incident but that was swept under the rug.
Foster folds his hands and rests them on top of the stack papers. “I’ve waited a long time to finally haul you in.”
“I’ve been here before,” I point out. I can’t tell if he appreciates the reminder or not. I probably shouldn’t have reminded him but there are times like this when my mouth works faster than the logical side of my brain.
“This time is different. There isn’t someone in your corner, crying in my ear to let you go. You know, I never understood what she saw in you.”
“Whiskey?” I say her name with a hint of flavor. After I adjust in my seat, I lean toward him a bit. “I could tell ya, but—”
Foster slams his hand down onto the table. “You think I’m joking around with you? You think I’m going to let you get away with what you did?” He stands, pushing the chair out as he does. “You listen good,” he says with his hands pressed into the table. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your fancy California lawyers or how much money you have in the bank. Your ass is mine.” He stalks toward the door, shaking his head.
“You can’t keep me here.”
He chuckles. “I can, and I will. Your name means nothing around these parts anymore. Judge Harvey is sitting on Monday, he’s who you’ll see.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest being as you’re charging me with decorating his house.”
“Is that what you free loving hippies call putting toilet paper all over someone’s house?”
“I ain’t no hippy,” I tell him. “About time you turn off your old cop shows and step into the real world.”
He laughs again and shakes his head while mumbling my name. “I’ll tell your little girlfriend she can come see you now before I take you to your holding cell for the night.”