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COP: 6.21 p.m.
I have you on record admitting to wearing dark clothes and a mask and chasing women through the woods.
ME: 6.22 p.m.
You have me admitting my part in a decades old ritual of where I am one of over sixty men entering that forest. If you can pick me out of a lineup, perhaps I would fuck you.
COP: 6.23 p.m.
You’re disgusting.
ME: 6.23 p.m.
Says the guy allergic to fucking soap.
A knock sounds on the door, and the clerk from the front desk enters.
“I’m sorry, George, but we have some people here to collect Mr. Muir. They’re quoting statutes and legal rights. I’m not sure we want to get caught up on technicalities if this goes further and evidence is inadmissible, sir.”
“Right. We were just finishing up here. Thank you.”
ME: 6.25 p.m.
So we’re done?
I can’t wait to see who came to claim me from George’s clutches. Quoting rights could be Wyldan throwing his weight around, or maybe it’s Aspen with her hands on her hips spitting fire and brimstone with that moss-green stare down, even though she stands just taller than the desk. I figure if the professor came here, he’d lead with the “do you know who I am” rhetoric you expect from well-bred fuckheads like him with a better pot to piss in.
“Alright, son, grab your shit, you’re free to go. For now.”
“Thanks,” I mouth, pocketing my phone and following him to the door at a safe distance from his heinous waft. Particularly heinous, Mariska Hargitay.
“Aspen.” I scoop her up in my arms and breathe her in. She’s freesia and tonka bean and grassy meadow goodness.
“I thought you said he couldn’t talk,” the clerk asks, dumbfounded.
“Did you ask him, or did you assume?” Wyldan demands, his tone scathing.
“We texted the entire interview, Professor.”
“At whose suggestion? Yours, or his? To assume anything can be dangerous.”
Wyldan leans forward, his shoulders bunching as he peers down. “The next time you want to question any of my students, you alert me or the Dean as a courtesy, you got that? He’s busy with exams and a heavy course load; the last thing he needs is to come down here and indulge in a text exchange with your incompetent staff.”
“Mr. Wyldan, it’s—”
“Not Mister. It’s Professor. And I suggest you shut your fucking mouth before what tumbles out next offends me further. No more questioning students unless the Dean or I am present, or at the very least, aware. We’re leaving.”
“Yes, Professor!”
It’s the last thing we hear as we slip out of the station and into the frosty night. Eli’s black SUV is waiting in the parking lot, and I climb in after Aspen into the back seat, while the professor and doctor take the front seats.
“You’re lucky I came to get you, after what you did to my face, asshole. A little gratitude, yeah?”
“No. Fuck you,” I stammer.
“Fox!” Aspens smacks my thigh. “You hurt him!”
I scoff. A headbutt and one punch? Please. If he’s so butt hurt about that, he shouldn’t have upset my girl and sent her fleeing. He’s the problem, not the fix.
