Goddammit.
"We're at war," I say, because it's the simplest explanation I've got. "She wants me to speak to her book club. I want her to date me. She's being stubborn about it."
"And you're not?" Alexa laughs in disbelief. "You just had her arrested for trespassing, River. How is that going to get you a date?"
"Simple. I'm going to—"
"Uh-uh!" Alexa cries. "Donotanswer that. This is a recorded line, and I know damn well you're about to say something I do not need to know. Couldn't you have convinced her in a normal way, with, I don't know, flowers or something?"
"You clearly don't know Jasmine," I mutter. "Trust me. Jail was my only option here."
"It's your funeral."
"So you do know her." I'm not entirely sure if I'm relieved or disappointed that she's a holy terror to everyone. I think I wanted it to just be me.
"I've been by the bookstore a few times." Alexa laughs again. "You're playing with fire."
"Yeah, well, she started it."
"Real mature, River."
I'm acutely aware of how ridiculous this entire goddamn situation is. But I've also seen the panic on Jasmine's face anytime I bring up a date. We both know that isn't because she dislikes me. She wouldn't have melted for me the way she did today if she disliked me, and she damn sure wouldn't be hounding me like she is if she didn't like me. The problem is deeper than that.
She's refusing because she doesn't dislike meenough, and that scares the hell out of her. I don't think she wants to know me. I haven't quite worked out why, but I'm guessing it has something to do with my writing. Does she love it? Hate it? Resent me for taking up space in a predominantly female space? I'm not sure yet.
Was having her arrested extreme? Absolutely. But sometimes, it takes an extreme response to quiet the panic so you canrationalize your way out of it. She needs that right now, or we're never going to get beyond the same circular argument where I ask her out, she panics, shoots me down while insulting me, and we rinse and repeat.
Besides, an hour in jail won't hurt her, not when I'm going to make sure no charges are filed, and she's out of there as soon as they're finished processing her.
Maybe cooling her heels in a cell for an hour will keep her from stalking some other author—one who won't hesitate to have her locked up, facing real charges. God knows, with her temper and lack of restraint, that's a distinct possibility.
"Can you make sure no charges are filed?" I ask Alexa as I pull into the precinct parking lot, Davidson circling around to the bay ahead of me.
"Yeah, fine," she sighs. "But if she decides to murder you for this, I'm coming to your funeral just to tell your corpse I told you so."
"She isn't going to murder me." Probably. Christ, I hope not.
"Who arrested her?"
"Alec Davidson."
"I'll call him," Alexa sighs. "Good luck."
"Thanks. I owe you."
"Yep, you do," she says before hanging up.
I pull into a parking spot, then grab my wallet and phone before heading inside. The precinct is old, with a scuffed floor, dirty walls, and a long desk behind glass. The whole place smells like disinfectant, mildew, and stale piss. I step up to the counter, waiting for Paul Thomason to notice me.
"River!" he says, hauling himself out of his seat. "Good to see you, man."
"You too," I murmur. "I'm here to get Jasmine Knudsen. The ADA should be calling about her any minute."
"That the chick Davidson just brought in?" Paul asks, scratching the side of his ruddy face.
"Woman," I correct," and yes."
"Woman, right. Uh, give me a minute to figure out what he's doing with her."
