“Lo,” I say, instinctively trying to walk over to him, to reach him, to pull him in the right fucking direction. Which would be very far away from me. I jerk to a stop, being held by the first officer, his hands on the cuffs that detain me.
“I guess you’re just going to have to take me in then,” Lo says, his eyes pulsing with rage. “Because I’m not fucking moving.”
Fucking hell. I rip out of the first officer’s hold. “Lo, fucking stop!” I shout. Our dad reaches him before I do. He takes Lo by the arm and tugs him to the side, out of the way.
And then the first officer forces me to the fucking ground, my face hitting the pavement hard. Pain shoots through my body.
“Resisting arrest,” the first officer says.
“Don’t be so stupid!” our dad yells at my brother.
I grit my teeth, and the police officer puts his knee on my back. He says something to me about settling down, but I’m not even fucking moving anymore. Loose gravel embeds in my cheek, and I look out and see Daisy on her knees, Connor crouched behind her, whispering in her ear.
She’s crying like this is the end of us. Her grief is like a thousand knives inside my stomach. The police officer jerks me to my feet with unkind force, and he pushes me towards the car. I pass my father and my brother.
Lo takes a step forward to intervene again.
I shake my head at him.
“You didn’t do anything,” he says, his eyes reddened, his cheekbones sharpened like fucking ice.
I nod at him, forced to keep walking to the white and blue vehicle. I can’t speak. I can’t say a fucking word.
Not until I climb into the backseat of the car, not until the door slams and the tires roll down the road—do I scream.
All the emotion I restrained for my brother, for Daisy, comes pouring out of me. I could kick the door. I could punch something if I had use of my hands. But instead, I just scream, releasing the anguish that rips apart my insides.
I just completed the Yosemite Triple Crown.
I just accomplished a lifelong dream.
I had Daisy.
I was fucking happy.
And now I’m here.
Cuffed.
Arrested.
Going to jail.
I’m going to jail.
< 59 >
RYKE MEADOWS
They haven’t booked me yet. I sit alone in a holding cell, my nerves jumping every time a cop walks by, expecting them to usher me out for a mug shot and fingerprints.
Statutory rape.
Rape.
It’s something that makes me physically ill. I’d rather be falsely convicted of murder. My throat burns, and I rest the back of my head against the cement wall, silent and trying to be numb. I don’t know what happens from here. I don’t know how much evidence Samantha could try to use against me. What witnesses can she pay to lie for her? I’ll be tried criminally. It’s not like I can settle this fucking case by paying someone off. I’m looking at fucking jail time.
I remember all the cameras flashing as I climbed out of the cop car, all the questions yelled at me.
“Ryke?! Are you innocent?!”
“Ryke?! Are you guilty?!”
“What kind of evidence do they have against you?!”
And then I entered the police station, cuffed. I fucking hate that ‘rape’ is going to be beside my face on headlines of magazines. Nausea barrels through me, but I already puked once. I shut my eyes and take a deep fucking breath.
Everything will be fine, my friend.
Not even Connor’s magic fucking words can unknot the ball of pain inside my chest.
“Ryke Meadows?”
My eyes open. An officer stops by my cell, cutting into my thoughts. My stomach still flips. I don’t move off the bench, but he unhooks a set of keys on his belt and sticks one into the lock. They’ve come to officially book me.
He swings the cell door open. I’m about to stand, but he says, “There’s someone here to see you.”
I stay fixed to the bench, my limbs solidifying into stone as soon as the person saunters down the hallway, buttoning his suit jacket. My father stands there.
My fucking father.
With a hard gaze like mine.
With a severe jaw and dark brown hair and my fucking eyes.
I look more like him than my brother. But Lo would say it’s better to fucking look like Jonathan than to be him, to act like him, which Lo wades into on occasion.
But if Lo was here, he’d want me to make nice. He’d want me to bury the resentment. Back in Utah, he asked if I could do that. I told him the truth. I don’t know. A part of me wants to try. The other part just wants to push Jonathan so fucking far away.
One side is stronger.
“You can close the fucking door,” I tell the officer.
My father cocks his head. “Don’t be a little shit. You’re sitting in a cell right now.”
“I never asked you to fucking be here,” I retort.
“But I’m here, Ryke. And I’m not going anywhere. Whether you want me to or not, you don’t have much of a choice.” And then my dad steps into the jail cell. “Can you give us a few minutes?” my dad asks the officer.
“I’ll have to lock you in.”
I expect my father to pull out a wad of cash, to threaten or bribe, but instead he just nods and says, “That’s fine.”
I frown, watching as the cop shuts me in a cell with my father, and my dad doesn’t balk, not fucking ashamed to be here. He just stands opposite me, hands in his black slacks.
After the loud bang of the door shutting, the cop disappears down the dark hall.
Why are you fucking here? I should ask him. But I’m back at that country club, quiet, seventeen and hateful, no matter how much I just want to let it all go.
“I have my team of lawyers sorting through this mess,” he says. “It’s being taken care of. You should be out of here in fifteen minutes.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I don’t want his help, but he cuts me off.
“You are my son. I don’t know how many times I have to fucking remind you of that—it’s like Sara fucking burned my name out of your head.”
My jaw locks tight. I don’t want to reignite all of those issues. I don’t want to hear him call her a bitch or shout about how she’s brainwashed me. I just want to sit here in fucking peace and deal with the charges myself.
“Ryke,” he says my name like it means something to him. “What do you want from me?” He extends his arms, his palms flat like he’s opening himself to me, like he’s trying so fucking hard. “Or am I just swinging at an invisible ball, here? That’s it, right? There’s nothing I can fucking do. You’ve made up your mind that you don’t want to have a father anymore.”
Something snaps inside of me. “Stop acting like this is your noble way of getting your son back,” I growl, rising to my feet in hot anger. I point at him. “This has never been about just wanting me in your life.”
He frowns with clear confusion, not contrived. “Then what has it been about? Please, fucking tell me.”
My stomach hurts. I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t even want to look at him. “Just get out of my fucking life!” I run a hand through my hair, pulling at the strands. “Fucking leave!”
He doesn’t even flinch. “You’re angry at me. I understand that.”
“Oh, do you?!” I just keep shaking my head, my neck aching. “You shit on me for years. You shit on Lo. And now you want to be my father? How fucking convenient. My mom blows your cover, the world knows my fucking name and my relations to you, and now, now you want to say, that’s my son, right there. Look at him. He’s mine.” I point. “Fuck you!”