Courtney Cole - Before We Fall

“Jacey Vincent! Time for your phone call!”

Thank god.

A cop unlocks the door and I rush for it, thankful for a chance to get out of this cell.

He leads me back to the booking desk, where I’d been fingerprinted earlier, back when the phone had been in use by someone else.

“You’ve got two minutes,” he tells me brusquely. His eyes skim over me and I can see what he thinks… that I’m just another used-up whore like the girls in the cell.

It makes me want to throw up in my mouth. But I don’t. Instead, with shaking fingers, I dial the only number I can think of. The first name that comes to mind when I need help nowadays.

Brand.

My childhood friend. My brother’s best friend and business partner.

Since my brother Gabe married my best friend Maddy and they moved to Connecticut a couple of months ago, I don’t have anyone else to call. But that’s for the best. Both Gabe and Maddy would kick my ass for this anyway, although I’m not a hundred percent sure that Brand won’t either.

Regardless, he’s the only one I can trust to come get me out of this godforsaken shit-hole. Just like he was the only one I could trust to come pick me up off the freeway when I’d had a flat tire a couple of weeks ago.

He answers groggily on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“Brand?” my voice quavers. I steel myself and swallow hard. “I need your help.”

“Jace?” Brand’s at attention now, his voice sharp. “Are you okay?”

I glance around at the police station, at the yellowed walls, the stern cops, the criminals waiting to be booked. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Yeah. No. Maybe. I was arrested. Can you come get me?”

There’s a brief, loaded pause.

“You’re at the police station?” Brand finally asks, and I have to give him credit. His voice is calm and even. “What were you arrested for?”

“Possession of marijuana and assaulting a police officer.”

Brand’s not calm now. He erupts into a storm of profanity.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he finally demands. But before I can answer, the cop next to me taps my shoulder.

“You’ve got twenty seconds.”

My heart speeds up. What if Brand won’t come?

“Brand, I’ve only got twenty seconds. Can you please come get me? I don’t have anyone else to call. They weren’t my drugs. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“Time,” the cop says firmly, taking the phone from me and replacing it in the cradle. I stare at it, aghast.

“But I don’t know if he’s coming,” I tell the cop limply.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” he answers, gripping my elbow and guiding me back to the cell. Every fiber in my being fights against stepping back through the bars, but I’ve got no choice.

The cop shoves me in and locks the door behind me.

I stand alone and dejected, and the women all erupt into howls and catcalls, and for a confused moment I think it’s because of me, because I got thrown right back in here and they think that’s funny.

But then I notice that they’re all rushing to the bars, pressing their faces against the metal to get a good look at something.

I take the opportunity to grab a seat on one of the empty benches, but I do strain my neck to see what the hell has them crowing like banshees.

I quickly see that it’s a who, not a what.

Specifically, it’s Dominic fucking Kinkaide.

Dominic will do. I tend to drop the “fucking.” Unless of course, I’m actually fucking.

The memory of his husky voice causes my breath to speed up a little as I watch him being escorted down the hall through the cells.

Even with his face scraped up, he’s sexy. His hands dangle freely at his sides, no handcuffs, so he’s been bailed out. He pauses in front of my cell, standing in front of the bars, ignoring the frenzied women who are reaching out to him.

Dominic, will you sign my arm?

Dominic, can I kiss you?

Dominic, touch me, touch me.

“Just a second,” Dominic tells the cops. One nods and the other barks at the women, “Get back!”

Dominic steps to the bars, staring at me. Unbidden and unconsciously, I get to my feet.

His gaze is locked with mine, the arrogant green gaze that he’s famous for.

He’s going to help me. He’s going to tell them that it’s all a big misunderstanding, that the drugs were his after all, and he’s going to get me out of here.

I smile in relief as I approach him.

But he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at my face, at the bruise that is forming on my cheek. He reaches through the bars and touches it lightly, his thumb just barely touching my skin.

“Uh-uh,” one of the cops says. “No touching.”

Dominic pulls his hand back, letting it fall limply to the side.

The look on his face turns my stomach into knots… so vulnerable. So tired. So weary. World-weary.

Everything about him is striking, though. Those cut fucking cheekbones… god, in spite of everything, I want to reach out my finger and trace the edges of them. His chiseled jaw covered with the sexiest of stubble, the dark hair tousled in an I-don’t-give-a-shit way. Unlike other wannabes, it actually seems like Dominic doesn’t give a shit. About anything.

But most striking of all are those fucking green eyes, dark, dark, dark, but still somehow rimmed in golden hazel with interesting gold flecks in them. As his gaze stays locked with mine, it’s like he’s burning me, like I’m on fire. And he’s the only thing that can put me out.

I know it’s stupid to say. But his gaze is that intense. It’s like he can see inside of me, deep into my most private thoughts, into where my secrets lie. But then his shoulders drop and his face turns expressionless.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply.

He looks away, like a camera lens shuttering closed. Like I don’t even exist to him, like I’m beneath him and not worth a second glance. The fire has been extinguished.

He nods at his escorts and they continue on, walking toward freedom while I’m still stuck in here.

Because of him.

“Wait,” I call out after them. “Just a second. I don’t belong here!” But they ignore me and keep walking, and I shut the hell up because I’m not going to beg.

Dominic fucking Kinkaide got us both arrested and then he gets bailed out within half an hour, just because he’s a freaking celebrity. And he left me here to fucking rot.

I roll my eyes at his arrogance, at this situation, at my horrible luck. Life sucks so hard sometimes, and it gets suckier by the minute.

As I slump against the cement wall again, I ponder my rotten luck. And my poor decisions which lead to my rotten luck. That, of course, brings me to thoughts of something else, my poorest decision of them all.

My ex-boyfriend. Jared.

He’d killed someone because of me and is currently in prison for vehicular manslaughter. I can’t help but marvel at the irony that we’re both cooped up in jail cells at this very moment.

I swallow hard at the thought. I’m seriously in the same position as that little psychotic fuck. Oh. My. God.

After everything I’ve done throughout the last couple of months to put him behind me… I’ve gotten counseling, I make conscious decisions every day to not be reckless or wild (both things are fundamental building blocks of my nature), and yet here I am… in the same situation as he is.

Locked away.

I gulp. Maybe it’s poetic justice. After all the trouble that he wreaked on my family and friends, maybe I deserve this. Maybe I’ll never get away from it no matter how hard I try. I sigh and watch the clock on the wall outside of the bars ticking down the minutes.