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Authors: Erika Masten
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important by hauling Shane in for a break-in he knew a council member’s son had
committed. I’m not going to point out that neither Shane or Austin ever slapped me for resisting an unwanted, drunken groping in a bar
parking lot. Unlike Bud.
“I need to get back to
the diner, Bud. You’re right about it being too hot out here.” I’m hoping that
throwing in the remark about him being right will head off his temper, but he
grabs my arm as I try to walk past him.
“You’re not going out
with Austin Sully. We’ve just started to get to know each other, and you’re not
giving us a chance.” Bud has that tone of voice that could go either way, sweet
and contrite for smacking me, or angry and threatening.
I try to pry his hand
gently from my arm. “It’s not a big deal, Bud, really. Just a
bite to eat while we catch up. We grew up together. It’s not like I’m
his girlfriend.”
Bud jerks me hard
against him, twisting my arm. “I said no, Trina.”
Right, angry and
threatening it is.
He starts pulling me
toward his police car, parked a couple of shops down. Maybe it’s the memory of
the wild rage in his eyes the night he slapped me or the fact that there’s
nothing an Orrin couldn’t get away with in this town. I start to panic and lean
away, to the point of trying to dig my heels into the cracked pavement of the
hot sidewalk.
“Bud, let go. What are
you doing?”
“We’re going to go
talk.”
“But I have to get back
to work. Let go. Bud, let go!”
He locks his arm around
my waist and hauls me off my feet, knocking the camera out of my hand in the
process. For a split second, that’s all I care about, not the fact that this
psycho cop is carrying me off to do whatever he wants with me, just my camera
tumbling from my grasp and bouncing along the sidewalk as it smashes to pieces.
Hot tears well up in my eyes, carrying all the frustration of seeing my hopes
of an art career die, of holding the frail hand of my father as he took his
last breaths, of being tossed out of the family home so my sister could sell it
out from under me. I flail and kick and scream.
Bud shuts me up by
slamming me against the side of his cruiser, right above the city seal that
says “To Protect & Serve” in bright blue letters. He pins me there with his
hip as he opens the rear door. If he gets me into that cage, I’m done for. The
doors don’t open from the inside.
He grabs me by the hair
and tries to shove me down on the seat. “About time I taught you some manners,
you fucking bitch.”
Despite having the wind
knocked out of me, I brace myself, planting my hands on either side of the door
and locking my arms. Bud is a hell of a lot stronger than I am, though. My arms
shake as I strain to resist. I put my foot on the edge of the seat and push
with my leg. It feels like he’s going to tear a clump of hair out of my head.
“Trina?”
I hear the voice off to
my left and turn my head just enough to see Austin Sully coming around the
corner. Oddly calm in that second, I realize it must be three o’clock. He’s
been walking over from the garage on most afternoons for an iced tea to go—and
to see me, I’d like to think. The sight of him makes my heart swell.
Austin launches himself
toward us at a run and barrels into Bud, tackling the burly officer and
dragging him to the pavement. They careen off the door, knocking me down on the
way. I roll to a stop with a collection of stinging scrapes and scuffs and
watch in frozen shock as Austin drives his fist across Bud’s jaw. Those
mirrored shades go flying off, skip across the sidewalk, and hit the brick wall
outside Conley Thrift.
It takes more than one
punch to put Bud Orrin off, and Austin seems determined to oblige. I stumble to
my feet and start pulling on Austin’s faded black t-shirt. By then, he has
smashed his fist into Bud’s nose a good four or five times, taking out a family
vendetta that goes back a lot farther than today. The fear that he
important by hauling Shane in for a break-in he knew a council member’s son had
committed. I’m not going to point out that neither Shane or Austin ever slapped me for resisting an unwanted, drunken groping in a bar
parking lot. Unlike Bud.
“I need to get back to
the diner, Bud. You’re right about it being too hot out here.” I’m hoping that
throwing in the remark about him being right will head off his temper, but he
grabs my arm as I try to walk past him.
“You’re not going out
with Austin Sully. We’ve just started to get to know each other, and you’re not
giving us a chance.” Bud has that tone of voice that could go either way, sweet
and contrite for smacking me, or angry and threatening.
I try to pry his hand
gently from my arm. “It’s not a big deal, Bud, really. Just a
bite to eat while we catch up. We grew up together. It’s not like I’m
his girlfriend.”
Bud jerks me hard
against him, twisting my arm. “I said no, Trina.”
Right, angry and
threatening it is.
He starts pulling me
toward his police car, parked a couple of shops down. Maybe it’s the memory of
the wild rage in his eyes the night he slapped me or the fact that there’s
nothing an Orrin couldn’t get away with in this town. I start to panic and lean
away, to the point of trying to dig my heels into the cracked pavement of the
hot sidewalk.
“Bud, let go. What are
you doing?”
“We’re going to go
talk.”
“But I have to get back
to work. Let go. Bud, let go!”
He locks his arm around
my waist and hauls me off my feet, knocking the camera out of my hand in the
process. For a split second, that’s all I care about, not the fact that this
psycho cop is carrying me off to do whatever he wants with me, just my camera
tumbling from my grasp and bouncing along the sidewalk as it smashes to pieces.
Hot tears well up in my eyes, carrying all the frustration of seeing my hopes
of an art career die, of holding the frail hand of my father as he took his
last breaths, of being tossed out of the family home so my sister could sell it
out from under me. I flail and kick and scream.
Bud shuts me up by
slamming me against the side of his cruiser, right above the city seal that
says “To Protect & Serve” in bright blue letters. He pins me there with his
hip as he opens the rear door. If he gets me into that cage, I’m done for. The
doors don’t open from the inside.
He grabs me by the hair
and tries to shove me down on the seat. “About time I taught you some manners,
you fucking bitch.”
Despite having the wind
knocked out of me, I brace myself, planting my hands on either side of the door
and locking my arms. Bud is a hell of a lot stronger than I am, though. My arms
shake as I strain to resist. I put my foot on the edge of the seat and push
with my leg. It feels like he’s going to tear a clump of hair out of my head.
“Trina?”
I hear the voice off to
my left and turn my head just enough to see Austin Sully coming around the
corner. Oddly calm in that second, I realize it must be three o’clock. He’s
been walking over from the garage on most afternoons for an iced tea to go—and
to see me, I’d like to think. The sight of him makes my heart swell.
Austin launches himself
toward us at a run and barrels into Bud, tackling the burly officer and
dragging him to the pavement. They careen off the door, knocking me down on the
way. I roll to a stop with a collection of stinging scrapes and scuffs and
watch in frozen shock as Austin drives his fist across Bud’s jaw. Those
mirrored shades go flying off, skip across the sidewalk, and hit the brick wall
outside Conley Thrift.
It takes more than one
punch to put Bud Orrin off, and Austin seems determined to oblige. I stumble to
my feet and start pulling on Austin’s faded black t-shirt. By then, he has
smashed his fist into Bud’s nose a good four or five times, taking out a family
vendetta that goes back a lot farther than today. The fear that he
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