A tension headache pounds at my temples as I speed out of the basement parking garage three minutes later. The relentless throb of frustration doesn’t let up until I reach Astor Park.
How ironic that the place I once hated now feels like a refuge.
17
Reed
Worst weekend of my life. No lie.
I spent all of Saturday with Halston Grier going over the details of my case. My lawyer maintains that the DNA—my DNA—they found under Brooke’s fingernails is the most damning piece of evidence the cops have. He admitted that my explanation about Brooke scratching me out of anger might not sway a jury if this goes to court, especially combined with the video surveillance.
I can’t even remember her scratching me. My memory of the event is her demanding money, me laughing at her, her swinging a hand toward my face and not connecting. She wobbled on her feet. I caught her and pushed her away. She must’ve grazed me then.
Which makes all of this so much bullshit. I didn’t kill that woman. Just because her fingernails didn’t break any of my skin doesn’t mean she didn’t scratch me. I’ve offered to take a lie detector test, but Grier says that even if I pass with flying colors, polygraph results aren’t admissible in court. And if I fail the thing, he warned that the police might find a way to leak those results to the press, who would crucify me.
Sunday, I wallowed around the house missing Ella, and not because I want to bone her, like Steve thinks. I miss her company, her laughter, and her smart-ass taunts. Steve kept her busy all weekend, so we were only able to text and talk on the phone a couple of times. I hate that she’s not living with us anymore. She belongs here. Even Dad agrees, but when I pushed him to talk to Steve about it, he shrugged and said, “He’s her father, Reed. Let’s just see how it goes.”
When Monday finally comes, I’m practically dying of anticipation. Even though I’m released to practice, Coach has me running no-contact drills only, and he says there’s no guarantee I’m going to see playing time on Friday. He’s still pissed at me about the fight with Ronnie last week.
Speaking of Ronnie, the asshat wanders over to the bench a few times to harass me, calling me “killer” under his breath so Coach can’t hear.
I don’t give a crap what he thinks of me, though. The only opinions that matter belong to my family and Ella, and none of them believes I’m a killer.
“You’re going the wrong way,” East says with a grin as we walk across the south lawn after practice. “Don’t you have Bio?”
I do, but I’m not going there. Ella just texted to meet her at her locker. It’s in the junior wing of the school, the opposite direction of the senior buildings.
“I’ve got somewhere to be,” is all I say, and my brother waggles his eyebrows mischievously.
“Gotcha. Tell little sis I said hi.”
We part ways at the front doors, East darting off to his first class while I march down the hall toward the junior locker banks. Several girls smile at me, but just as many frown. Furtive whispers tickle my back as I walk. I hear the word “police” and someone else says, “father’s girlfriend.”
Other guys might flush with embarrassment or cower in shame, but I don’t care about any of these kids. My shoulders are straight and my head is held high as I brush past them.
Ella’s entire face lights up when she spots me. She launches herself at me, and I catch her easily, burying my face in her neck and breathing in her sweet scent.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she says with a smile. “I missed you.”
“Missed you, too.” A groan slips out. “You have no idea how much.”
Sympathy fills her eyes. “Are you still upset about the meeting with the lawyer?”
“A little. But I don’t want to talk about that right now. I want to do this.”
I kiss her, and she makes the hottest sound against my lips. Kind of a whimper crossed with a happy moan. I slip her some tongue just so I can hear her make that noise again. She does, and my body tightens.
“Ahem.”
A loud throat-clearing has us breaking apart.
I turn, nodding politely at the teacher standing behind us. “Ms. Wallace. Morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Royal.” Her lips flatten in a severe line. “Ms. Harper. I think it’s time for you two to go to class.”
I nod again and take Ella’s hand. “On our way,” I assure the frowning teacher. “I’m walking Ella there now.”
Ella and I hurry away from the locker, but I don’t walk her to class like I said. Instead, I turn left at the end of the hall. Once we’re out of Ms. Wallace’s line of sight, I tug Ella into the first empty classroom I find. It’s one of the junior music rooms, completely dark because the heavy gold drapes are drawn shut.
“What are we doing?” Ella hisses, but she’s laughing.