Confusion makes everything sluggish. As if my thoughts can’t catch up to real time. But nothing matters except soothing Shy.
“Stop fighting, son.” I ignore the deputy and try to wrench my arms free when I’m shoved between my shoulder blades to move. “Calm down and we’ll get this straightened out.”
Nash pushes his way through the human barricade to Shyann and I breathe a little easier knowing he’s with her. He’d never let anything touch her. He swings his cold blue gaze to me and I resist the urge to tuck my chin.
I didn’t do anything wrong, at least not that I remember.
Last I remember was that Trevor guy making comments about Shyann and then Gage shoved me into the dark.
Fear ripples through my veins as a thought hits me hard.
Did Gage hurt Trevor?
I do a quick inventory and my knuckles aren’t sore, no aches that would give away there was some kind of physical fight. I don’t own weapons, so . . .?
The police pull me out to the front porch and Buddy barks at me feet. “It’s okay, Buddy. It’ll be okay.” The front of my house looks like a parking lot filled with a couple sheriff’s Jeeps, Trevor’s car, a van, and Nash’s truck. “What happened?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” the deputy leading me to a Jeep says.
I wish I could.
Headlights shine as another truck pulls up, this one brown with SHERIFF written in gold letters on the side.
Just then, Shyann appears in front of me and throws her arms around my neck. “It’s gonna be okay, Lucas. I promise. I’ll figure out a way to get you out of this.”
If I had the use of my hands, I’d hold her to me, but I don’t, so I nuzzle her hair at her neck and breathe as much of her in as I can.
Nash pulls her away, but she rips her arm free. “Stop, I just want to say goodbye.”
I look between Nash and Shy, hoping to decipher her meaning. She pulls my face down to hers.
“Why goodbye, Shyann?”
Her lip quivers, but she’s strong and fights back the tears. “Don’t worry, okay?”
I shrug, but my body screams I should be more than worried. “Okay.”
“Do you trust me?”
The twitch of a smile tickles my lips. “Yes.”
She sighs and pushes up to her toes. “I love you.”
My eyelids drop closed as the warmth of her words spread through me and breathe life into my soul. The soft heat of her lips brush against me in a slow kiss before she rests her forehead on mine.
“I love you too.”
“Lucas Menzano?” Sheriff Austin steps up to me, his face grim. “You’re under arrest for the assault of Samantha Crawford.”
The sound of Shyann’s roar slices through the night and straight to my chest.
THIRTY-EIGHT
LUCAS
“You’re telling me you were home the night in question?” Gary, the deputy interrogating me, stares with disbelief.
We’ve gone over this multiple times already, and no matter how many creative ways he tries to ask it, my answer is still the same. “Yes, sir, as far as I can remember.”
He leans across the table, his forearms bracing his weight. “And you don’t have anyone to corroborate your story?”
“No, sir.”
He falls back into his chair with a huff and shakes his head. “Witnesses say you were seen leaving the victim’s house just after six in the morning.”
“No, I’ve never been to Sam’s house.” Nausea crawls through my gut. Someone saw me, or rather Gage? After the blackout receded, I didn’t feel any different. My muscles weren’t weak or sore; there wasn’t evidence of a fight left on my body, no blood on my clothes, but I was in the shower. I suppose any evidence could’ve been washed away.
“Is it true that you and the victim had some kind of sexual relationship?”
I drop my head and search for the courage it’ll take to be honest. If I want to stay in Payson, have a shot at being a good man, the kind of man Shy deserves, I need to own who I am. I peer up at him and hope what I’m about to say doesn’t get me locked up in prison, or worse, an institution. “Yes and no.”
“Care to elaborate?”
I shift in my seat, my hands completely numb from the handcuffs and my arms well on their way. “I . . . um . . . I was abused as a child. My mind isn’t like most people’s and because of that I black out. It’s like sleepwalking, only I’m awake, but I’m . . . not there. So I myself can’t remember having any kind of a sexual relationship with Sam, but I’ve heard we . . . hooked up.”
He doesn’t say anything but I sense shock in his silence.
His eyes narrow. “Employees at Pistol Pete’s who saw you together, they said the two of you got into some kind of fight and that you”—he flips through a few pages on a small spiral notebook—“threw her to the ground.” He makes eye contact, daring me to lie. “Is that true?”
I swallow, knowing how bad this must look. “Yes, sir, I think it might be.”