Part 19 (1/2)

Asher is still cursing. He has his camera in the hand that isn't pressed against his face, and from the way he's holding it, I can tell he's still trying to snap a picture. Apparently not even a busted nose or a cracked lens will keep him from going after a story.

”Ma'am?” the officer says. ”I need you to answer my question.”

Reporters are still trying to get to me and Ward. Other policemen have arrived from down the street, and they're trying to hold everyone back.

Now would be the time for the funeral-goers to make their escape, I think wryly. Maybe I wrecked Huntington Manor, but I can give the family this, at least.

”Ma'am,” the officer repeats, ”I'm going to need you to answer me or I'll have to take both of you downtown. Did your boyfriend attack this man?”

”No. No, I did.”

The officer blinks. ”Ma'am?”

”I did,” I say, a little louder this time. I could probably say it was in self-defense or something. But I'm tired of lies.

For a moment, the cop doesn't seem to know what to do with me. Frankly, I don't know what to do with myself. I want to run to Ward. To hold him close and promise him we'll figure this out. To whisper to him that I love him and I might be carrying his baby and that I'm so, so sorry I got him into this mess in the first place.

The officer is talking to me now, but I'm not listening. He's probably just rambling off my very long list of crimes. Has he realized who I am yet? Does he realize what I've done?

He knows enough to put me in handcuffs. They're cold. Otherwise, I don't feel much as he helps me into the back seat of his car. All I can think about is Ward. I pray that he's okay. That he's controlling himself.

I turn my head, try to spot him through the tinted window of the cruiser. I can't find him in the crowd. Maybe he's in a second cruiser by now. Maybe we'll see each other again at the station in a few minutes.

The police have started to be more forceful with the reporters, and the crowd has started to fall back. One officer is talking to Asher Julian, and by the way the reporter is gesturing, I can tell he's giving the woman a heck of a story. I glance past the crowd, back toward the church, but I see no sign of anyone on the steps. I'd hate to think the mourners will miss this opportunity to escape.

At the same time, I'm grateful my brother didn't see this. He'd kill me.

But that's the only thought I have for myself. I'd risk my brother's anger a hundred times over if I thought I could help Ward in some way. I hit Asher Julian. I am the one who should be in trouble here. I only hope Ward hasn't lost his temper and done something reckless. My eyes continue to scan the crowd, but I don't see his auburn hair anymore. I don't even see the officer who pulled him away from me.

The officer who handcuffed me slides into the driver's seat of the cruiser where I'm sitting, and before I can even ask him what's going on, he's taking me away.

The thing that surprises me most about jail is how absolutely frigid it is.

I've been here four hours and twenty-seven minutes. My fingers started to go numb about two hours and three minutes ago. I know because there's a clock hanging over the holding cell. It looks ancient. In fact, it reminds me of the ones you see hanging on the walls of high schools in cheesy '80s movies.

I wrap my arms around myself and s.h.i.+ver. They must make it this cold on purpose. Maybe it's an intimidation tactic. But as I glance around the other women sharing the holding cell with me, I suspect I might be the only one.

The cop who put me in here said I was lucky. He said if I'd been arrested last night, or the night before, it would have been a lot more crowded in here. There are still almost a dozen women. About half of them appear to be sleeping. At least a couple smell like booze. One girl-who looks several years younger than me and has a bunch of tattoos and a nose ring-just looks bored.

She catches me staring at her.

”What are you looking at, princess?” she snaps.

I mutter an apology and look away. I guess I deserved that.

I look down at my hand. The throbbing has started to dull, but my knuckles are swollen and the skin is starting to bruise. I probably deserve that, too. But honestly? It was totally worth it. I'm glad I punched that a.s.shole. Someone needed to.

I flex my hand, trying to get the blood flowing, and my eyes wander across the cell. There's a pay phone on the far wall. They told me I could make a collect call if I wanted someone to come post my bail. I want to call Ward. But even if I knew for sure that he wasn't sitting in the men's holding cell on the other side of the station-which I don't-I know he doesn't have the money to get me out of here. And his phone's been dead for days.

I should call Calder. I know he's in Los Angeles, and I know he'd get me out of here. But I can already envision his reaction to hearing where I am and what I've done, and it isn't pretty. It definitely won't improve things between us.

Besides, childish as it is, I always a.s.sumed that when he and I spoke again, it would be because I was ready to speak to him. That I'd have figured out my mess. That I'd be ready to rebuild our relations.h.i.+p again.

I'm not ready for anything. Not ready for my adventure with Ward to be over. Not ready to deal with the things that stretch between me and my brother. Not ready to go to jail. Not ready to be a mother.

I close my eyes. I should be thinking about this baby, shouldn't I? It can't be good for him or her to be here in this holding cell. How long will they keep me here if I don't call anyone? Should I tell them I might be knocked up? Maybe they might give me a blanket or something.

I s.h.i.+ft on the hard bench. I keep replaying the scene in my head: our beautiful, desperate love-making. Asher's intrusion and blackmail attempt. My fist flying through the air. The cop dragging me away from Ward.

If I'd held my temper, Ward and I might have walked away from that situation. But what would we have lost? Asher played it brilliantly. We either had to bind ourselves and our relations.h.i.+p to him forever or risk him destroying one of the most special, private moments of my life.

I look down at my hand again. I wish I'd punched him a second time. Or even a third.

Especially since with every pa.s.sing second, it seems ever more likely that those pictures will be published. I can't imagine Asher trying to strike a deal with us now. On top of that, I've just handed him his next headlining story: ”Crazy Ex-Heiress Attacks Poor, Innocent Reporter!” I can only imagine how many photographers got shots of that cop dragging me off in handcuffs.

Some ending to my little adventure with Ward.

No, I think, reaching for my belly again. Not quite the end.

In a way, I'm grateful that Asher interrupted us before I told Ward about the possibility of a baby. If Ward thought I was pregnant when the cops yanked us apart... well, I have no doubt he would have gone insane. He would have done anything to protect me.

I keep rubbing my stomach, trying to sense something. When should my body start to feel different? My period isn't even a full week late yet. There's still a chance that this is just a fluke. That this child only exists in my head.

That thought saddens me more than I want to admit. I'm not ready for a baby, but the thought of losing this one, even the idea of this one, makes me ache. If I close my eyes, I can see him or her-tiny round cheeks, large eyes, red-brown hair...

But I sit up and push the image away. I have more immediate things to deal with. When I get out of here, I'll take a pregnancy test. Until I know for sure whether or not I'm going to have a baby, I shouldn't let myself think about it too much.

The woman next to me on the bench lets out a snore. I wonder how long she's been in here.

My eyes drift back to the phone. I should do it. I should call my brother.

I stand up before I can change my mind. Walk over to the pay phone. Pick up the receiver. My finger hovers over the ”0” key.

Just do it, Lou. Stop being a coward and call him.

I hit the b.u.t.ton. The operator comes on the line, and after a couple of minutes, I'm waiting for him to pick up.

It rings once. Twice. Three times. After the fourth time, it goes to his voicemail.

I hang up. I have no one else to call. Maybe after the story goes up on all the gossip sites, my brother will take pity on me, but until then, it looks like I'm on my own.

I go back to the bench. I draw my knees up to my chest and lean back against the wall. It's strange, being on my own. Since my father's death-before that, even-I've kept people at a distance. It's why I had so much trouble connecting with Calder, even though we were dealing with so many of the same things-facing him meant facing the grief and the fear I tried to keep buried. At the same time, I was terrified of being alone with my feelings. That's how I ended up in that mess with Ian.

But it's different with Ward. Ward has changed everything. He was right when he whispered to me in that alley. This is real. This is ours.

Oh, little one, I think to the possibility-of-a-baby inside of me, even though I'm not supposed to be thinking of him or her. Maybe there's hope for your mother after all. Little by little, I'm beginning to figure things out.

As the minutes tick by-marked by the clock on the wall-I drift in and out of my thoughts. I'm pretty sure I doze some, too. Whenever I start to feel too crazy, I find myself talking to the baby.