Page 17 of Broken Halo
The clerk finally looks up. “You’re the fanciest bail bondsman I’ve seen all day.”
“I’m not a bondsman. Consider me her dark knight. I’m sure she’s going to be about as thrilled to see me as she would the devil himself.”
Her eyes widen and she looks impressed. “Wow. Not many druggies have people like you bailing them out.”
I frown. “Pretty sure she’s not a druggie. How much do I owe?”
“Three hundred dollars. She can’t leave the state, and if she travels, she needs to check with us first. We’ll contact her with a court date.”
“You’ll contact me,” I correct and hand her my drivers license along with my business card. If Ellie keeps this up, I’m going to run out. “I’m her counsel and everything will go through me.”
The clerk nods and starts to enter my information into her computer. When she finishes, she returns my ID. “Have a seat. It’s gonna take a hot minute to process her.”
I run my hand through my hair and sit back, knowing from my time as a defense attorney, their minute is more like thirty. My clients were high profile and I rarely had to spring anyone from the county jail, but from the experience I’ve had, I know they’re slow. “If they could speed things up, I’d appreciate it.”
The lady rolls her eyes with the attitude of a teenager in detention. I would know since I spent my fair share of time there back in the day. “Wouldn’t we all.”
Since I have no pull here and haven’t made many contacts in local law enforcement since I moved back, I do my best to hide my irritation and pull out my phone to text Jen.
Me: Just posted bail and waiting. Anything your fiancé can do to hurry this shit along would be good. I had to cancel two meetings.
Jen: He’s on surveillance but already made some calls. His contacts at the PD assured him she’d be out quick.
With nothing else to do, I slide my phone into my breast pocket and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and wait. The minute hand creeps around the clock forty ticks as I watch one so-called criminal after another released while others are brought in. I’m getting wound tighter than ever as I sit here, useless and helpless, becoming more fucking irritable than I could imagine.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice cuts through the chatter, phones, and foot traffic of the lobby where I’m sitting and I’m pissed I’m just as attuned to her as I was a decade ago.
My head pops up, and there she is, in a pair of skin-tight jeans and a T-shirt that proves she has more curves than she used to. That’s not saying much since she hardly had any then. If it weren’t for her bloodshot eyes and her shoe laces that she’s white-knuckling in her hand, you’d never know I’d just sprung her from the county jail.
I stand but don’t go to her and tip my head. “I just posted your bail. You’re welcome.”
“But…” She hugs herself and looks to the side before piercing me with deep blues that, today, are cold and wounded. “I called Eli and he said he was taking care of it. I thought that meant he was coming.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. Your sister called me. She’s at your house with your son. Your parents are out of town and Eli is busy on a case. If you’d rather sashay your ass back into the slammer, feel free to make yourself comfortable until he can get here.”
Her bloodshot whites disappear as her lids fall slowly and she brings her hand up to roughly brush her face where she’s already rubbed all her makeup away. She takes a breath so big I’m surprised her lungs don’t burst when she nods and moves my way. You’d think I have the plague the way she side-steps around me as she heads toward the elevator with her heels slipping out of her Vans with every clip she makes.
I stand behind her as she jabs the elevator button with anger and spite, her laces still dangling from her hand—a reminder she’s been officially slapped by the prison system that doesn’t want her to hang herself on their watch.
The doors open and we take our opposite corners in the empty elevator.
But instead of turning to the front, I shift to face her and cross my arms.
I don’t pretend to look away or try to make her comfortable or pretend that any of the shit that’s between us isn’t right fucking here in the middle of the elevator.
She fidgets, wrapping those damn shoe laces around her fingers, over and over and over again, like she’s facing death row and wasn’t even offered her last favorite meal.
The digital numbers, telling us which floor we’re on, count down, one-by-one, holding us prisoner in a different kind of cell—painfully with each other.
She stares at the numbers.
I stare at her.
Unabashedly.
“Stop it,” she spits.
“Stop what?” I spit back.
