“Atta girl.” I peck her cheek, drawing her attention to me. “Now I want you to go across the parking lot and back to our room. When you get there, ice that bruise and catch some sleep.”
“Yeah, alright.” She looks at Sheriff Foster. “And you’re sure I can’t post bail?”
“Sorry, no.”
He leads me out into the sweltering summer night. Tally follows like a puppy. When we stop by the beat-up old cop cruiser, she gets on her tiptoes and kisses me.
“I’ll pick you up in the morning!” she says against my lips.
She kisses me again. And again. And again. I bite back a grin. I love how much she worries about me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a strange strobe in an alley beside the bar, but when I look closer it’s gone. Must’ve been a reflection or a broken light. Or a brewing concussion, most likely.
The sheriff smiles patiently. “Let’s go, son. Cell’s waitin’ for you and my bed’s waitin’ for me.” He opens the car door and puts his hand on my head as he guides me into the back seat. Mercifully, he takes the cuffs off before shutting me in.
Through the window, I make a kissy face at Tally and her lip wobbles. As we pull out of the parking lot, she looks after me as if I’m going to be executed.
Given that I’m going to jail because of some snot-nosed little boy crying for his daddy, I shouldn’t feel like laughing, but I do.
Friends with benefits be damned. Tally cares about me and that’s the best feeling in the world.
A sudden creative spark ignites in my mind. “Hey, sheriff, you don’t happen to have a pen and some paper?”
Sheriff Foster grumbles, stopping by the curb to reach into the glove box. He takes out a pen and a napkin, rolling both up together before sticking the bundle through the metal prisoner partition. “Best I can do.”
“Thank you!” Grinning, I unwrap the napkin and lay it on my thigh, bringing the pen down on it. “This is perfect…”
34
RUST
I stepout of the small police station and the morning sun assaults me like a dagger to my dry eyeballs. A headache throbs through my skull as if to warn me about consumption of alcohol over the age of thirty.
Overall, my sore body doesn’t seem to take kindly to a bar fight followed by a night spent scribbling lyrics and notes on the paper napkin in my pocket. Lying on the hard cot in my cell, I got a couple hours of sleep at best.
A cannonball of curls crashes into my bruised ribs, driving away the cloud of self-pity and exhaustion hanging over me.
“Rust!” Tally squeals into my shirt, her fingers digging into my back.
I’m pretty sure I stink of spilled beer and stale smoke from the honky-tonk, but she doesn’t mind.
I kiss the crown of her head. “Hey Trouble.”
She blinks at me with tired, red-rimmed eyes. I brush over the small bruise on her jaw and she winces.
“Did you get some rest like I told you?” I ask.
“Couldn’t sleep much. I was too pissed off, but Ichanneled my outrage into a new song.” She takes my hand into both of hers, caressing over my bruised knuckles. “You look like hell.”
“Damn, you sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself.”
“Hey, it adds to your rugged outlaw charm!”
I purse my lips. “Nice save.”
Her gaze catches on the scabbed gash on my brow. “But they could’ve at least cleaned that wound. Did they treat you alright?”
My heart dances. She’s still worried about me. Last night I thought it might’ve been the alcohol and performance adrenaline at work. But even in the sobering morning light, she cares.
