Charlie holds up a finger. “Actually thatwasthe first time. The duct-tape scenario was the second time.”
Karson rubs his temples. I may be giving him a headache, but that’s not illegal.
“Isn’t that why there’s a warrant out for my arrest?” I hope. What else could I have done? Unless my amnesia is so bad that I’ve forgotten I have it.
“No.” Karson huffs and crosses his arms.
I straighten to hide behind Charlie once again. My feet and hands tingle. I assume this is the start to a panic attack and take mental notes for writing about such emotion in the future. At least I’ll have lots of time to write in jail. Would I describe this sensation as pinpricks or as the feeling one gets when a limb starts waking up after falling asleep? The wake-up description is accurate but kind of verbose. I’ll go with pinpricks.
Drew whistles for the group’s attention, as if the class isn’t already hanging on his every word. “We’re going to head back to the briefing room now. I’ll be taking everyone else’s fingerprints with ink, the old-fashioned way.”
I close my eyes and cringe. Because I have the feeling “everyone” doesn’t include me. I’ll be staying here to smile pretty for my mugshot.
I open my eyes to find Charlie has removed himself from being my human shield, thus giving Karson a clear view for trying to read me. Exposed, I make the rash decision to fake a grin and hope it doesn’t look too Joker-ish. “I guess I’ll be getting my hands dirty after all.”
“You’re not going.” Karson confirms my fears.
Charlie is already to the door. His instinct to be first in line has overridden his protective nature. At least he calls back, “We’ll wait for you, Gemma.”
I pray he isn’t waiting too long.
Kai follows after him, hands shoved in pockets and lips pressed together. He’s probably afraid of getting on Karson’s bad side again. He shrugs a shoulder when he passes me as if to say,I tried to warn you.
I should have listened. I don’t want Karson’s attention anymore. I want to go on the run and start life over in a small Canadian town where I will work at a bakery and own a labradoodle. Okay, maybe I am more suited for romantic comedy than I’d thought. Had I written about Jason Bourne, his film would have aired on Hallmark instead of being advertised during the Super Bowl.
All too quickly, the door thunks shut, and I find myself alone with Karson. Ever since I met him, I’ve dreamed of this moment. But never in this way.
My pulse throbs in that spot between my throat and earlobes. “What did I do?” I have to know.
His gaze roves over my face, then lifts to the ceiling.
I look up too, as if seeing what he sees will clue me in as to what he’s thinking. But there are just ceiling tiles. The kind that can be pushed up for access to the air ducts. Is he giving me a hint on how to escape, like inThe A-Teamwhen Jessica Biel passed Bradley Cooper the key to his handcuffs through a kiss?
No, he’s not. He’s too real for that. While I’ve watched too many movies.
“I want you to know this is my least favorite part of the job,” Karson says.
“What? What part?” I could not be more lost. Wouldn’t Karson’s least favorite part of the job involve some kind of life-threatening altercation, like a shootout or riot? How can talking to me be worse than that?
He crosses his arms and levels his eyes on me. I can’t quite tell if they flicker with condemnation or apology. “Getting involved in domestic disputes.”
I hit pause on the story of my life to do a mental dictionary search for the word “domestic.” It could meanhouseholdornational. I come up with crimes like domestic abuse and domestic terrorism but still can’t make sense of how this relates to me.
I decide to play along. “Okay … ?”
There’s that gaze once more. The probing kind. If only I knew what he’s looking for. “You owe your ex-husband back child support.”
Relief sweeps through me and pours out in laughter. I have no ex-husband. I have no child. Unless, you know, amnesia.
Or …
My laughter sputters and dries up. I cover my face.
“You must be making quite a bit of money with your acting if you have to pay your ex. Or is he simply a deadbeat who refuses to work?”
Does Karson really think I’ve been married and have children? Will that affect his desire to date me more or less than if I was truly a criminal? Okay, that’s not what I should be worried about at the moment.
How to explain? This is even more complicated than the fake-gun thing. Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes around the room looking for answers.
