George Bell. Andy’s father. That shitbag asshole who dumped my pregnant mother after he’d gotten her hooked on drugs. A guy who never even acknowledged Andy, let alone paid one dime of child support.
“Keep talking,” I said as I sat back down on the couch.
Chapter22
Lucas
I got caught.Of course I got caught. I’d seen enough movies where the “last big heist before we retire” was always the one where they got pinched.
Usually in those movies there’s a shootout and our hero bites it.
No shootout here. But then again, I’m no hero.
It wasn’t Stick’s info—that had been solid. And the clicker to the gated community and the garage door both worked with no issues.
But apparently young Eliza Bell—the thirteen-year-old half sister to my half brother—came down with the mumps, and so the family’s overnight visit to Grandma’s had been postponed at the last minute.
Certainly something Mrs. Bell’s hairdresser would not have known about two days ago when she gave Mrs. Bell highlights.
And had then given Stick a call.
I made it out of the driveway, but not out of the gated community before two patrol cars cornered me.
George Bell was running down the cul-de-sac, his bathrobe flying around his pajamas, his cell phone in his hand.
It was almost worth it to see his shocked face when he saw me getting out of his beloved Jaguar XK (Italian racing red with the jet leather interior) with my hands in the air.
Well, no, it was nowhere near worth it. But it did give me a sick thrill to see him stop, and then cautiously walk toward me. He looked around wildly, like maybe he was thinking my mother would pop out of nowhere.
“Hello, George,” I said.
I’d been fifteen when he’d dumped my mother and gone back to the family that he’d never really left.
“Mr. Bell, do you know this man?” one of the cops asked him.
I arched a brow at him, daring him to explain how he knew me.
That cold look that he’d give my mother when she’d harp on him about staying over or being with her instead of his wife spread across his rat bastard face.
“I’ve never seen him before. Obviously I—my car—was his target. It was parked in the garage, not on the street. That must be how he knows my name.”
I snorted and saw the officers exchange questioning looks.
“Just to be clear, sir,” one of them said to George, “you did not give this man permission to drive your vehicle?”
“I did not,” George said, and I felt myself being slammed against the side of the patrol car and being asked to assume the position, which I did.
I thought about running for it. I knew I could outrun any Schoolport cop. Shit, I was a Division One wide receiver, able to outrun any defensive secondary in the nation.
But that was in another life.
In this life my hands were being placed behind my back and those zip-tie things were being placed on me.
My first thought was Stick would have seen the police cars rushing past him where he sat three blocks away, waiting for me to meet up with him so we could take the Jag to his buyer, wherever that was.
Stick would wait until he saw me in the cop car and then he’d make sure to get to Andy. He’d either get Mrs. Jankowski to stay with Andy all night, or he would himself. Then he’d bail me out—
Fuck. It was Saturday night. I wouldn’t be arraigned and able to make bail until Monday.
