He looked up, and with the kitchen lights on, he could clearly see us in the waning dusk. I forced a smile, not wanting him to worry.
“What is it?” Ila asked from my side.
“It’s this day. It’s been seriously horrid.”
“Hey.” She wrapped her arms around me. “We are here for you. You’re not alone. And you have a great guy.”
“It will take me time to get those horrible images of the jerkass pointing the gun at him out of my head,” I whispered.
“We know, Char. It just happened. That’s why it’s overwhelming.” Ila stepped back, and stronger hands turned me around. Indigo eyes met mine, then War just held me. Ila and Ray vanished outside with the containers.
“It’ll be okay. I’m right here.”
I nodded, face pressed in his shirt. “I guess it will take time to forget this.”
“That’s over now. Besides, I have one scary, hockey stick-wielding girlfriend giving me the edge I needed.”
I huffed out a laugh at his gentle teasing. He kissed my brow, his warmth and strength comforting me.
“C’mon. Let’s go spend time with our friends.”
He was right. Justin’s prejudices had put us in danger, but that was over. We had amazing friends, and I had War. He was all I needed.
* * *
We left to the police station early the following morning after a fretful night of War getting me up several times to make sure I was still breathing and had not lapsed into a coma.
He’d called Caleb earlier. Justin, it seemed, had refused to turn himself in. I wasn’t surprised. Then this morning, he appeared to have a change of heart. I had a feeling it was more Caleb’s doing than Justin having a conscience. But War didn’t want his foster father going through all that alone.
When we arrived, Caleb was waiting near his car in the station’s parking lot. He straightened and crossed to us as War parked nearby. He opened my door, his gaze settling on my injury. Remorse darkened his expression. “How are you feeling?”
Still sore and headachy, but I didn’t say that. “Better.”
He nodded as War came around and helped me down. “Justin?” he asked.
“Booked,” he whispered, looking like he’d aged overnight.
A pulse ticking on his jaw, War said, “I’ll pay his bail.”
I knew he only offered because of the fragile air surrounding Caleb.
His foster father’s lips thinned. “And help him out again? Like I’ve done his entire life?” He shook his head. “Not this time. Someone could have died. He needs to be held accountable for his wrongdoing.”
I put my arm around War’s waist, trying to comfort him, knowing Caleb’s pain was hurting him.
“I won’t be long,” he told Caleb, then he grasped my hand and strode to the station.
“What is it?” I asked.
“There’s something I need to do.”
I couldn’t make sense of his cryptic response.
As we walked into the busy waiting area, the odor of stale smoke, sweat, and cold metal made my nose twitch. A few civilians occupied the chairs, on edge, waiting to speak to the police officers. A cop strode in, dragging a cuffed, surly drunk, reeking of liquor and hauling insults.
“Detective Walter?” War asked one of the cops, reading a file. His badge read ‘Garcia.’
“At his desk.” Garcia flipped a thumb over his shoulder to the bullpen just beyond the waiting area, then he glanced up and did a double-take. “Hey, you’re…whoa, War!” He grinned. “Caught your last game. That hat trick? Man, that final goal sure was something.”
