“Leave him alone, Ruiz,” Fowler laughed, flashing me a smile, which I reciprocated.

It worked every time.

They led me up to the bulletproof doors and we were buzzed in. The relative quiet outside was shattered by howling, screaming humanity inside. A huge fat guy with no shirt and no shoes flailed on the painted cement floor. Probably tripping on meth. Four officers dog-piled him, broiling with professionally restrained rage. Eventually, they cuffed him and zip-tied his ankles, trussing him up. They picked up the perp and carried him through a steel door.

“We gonna have to do you like that, junior?” Ruiz asked me.

“Not me, sir.” I smiled at Fowler when I said it. She liked it. Her duty face went soft, like a teenybopper on a dream date with her favorite heartthrob. I took a moment to silently thank both my parents for good genes.

Ruiz caught my exchange with Fowler. “I hope not, son.” He may not have been able to articulate what had just happened, but he sensed it, like a starving wolf. He probably had a secret thing for Fowler. I’m sure most of the squad did, by the looks of her.

Fowler placed her hand gently on my right triceps. Her touch was nearly a caress. “I don’t think you have to worry about this one,” she said warmly, beaming up at me.

I smiled back. Jedi mind tricks were the most effective form of combat, I’d learned. You can’t make my looks go away with threatening insults or manhandling. Ruiz was out of this game, benched on a technical foul.

Fowler’s eyes searched mine eagerly. I milked it.

Ruiz scowled while he scrutinized the two of us. Jaw muscles fluttering angrily, he finally cracked. With a grunt, he spun on his heel and stormed up to the desk sergeant, defeated.

I felt bad for Fowler. I’d probably never see her again and she’d be stuck with Ruiz for a partner for who knew how long.

Sometime later, I was led into a white-box interrogation room by two detectives. A round black table with a phone on top sat between us. They’d been drilling me with questions for hours.

I hadn’t said shit.

One detective, who had identified himself as Kurt Hewitt, wore a white, too-tight button down shirt. The collar dug into his soft neck and flesh spilled over the sides. He looked ready to pop. He glared at me, “The victim has positively IDed you from the mug book, Christos,” he said firmly. “We have witnesses putting you at the scene on the Pacific Coast Highway this morning. We know it was you who beat the guy up then fled.”

Beat? I’d hit the guy once. In self defense. I’d even asked him if he needed an ambulance.

“Quit stalling and give us something we can work with,” Hewitt finished, “so we can help you help yourself.”

That was a riot. He wasn’t here to pamper my ass, and we both knew it. All he wanted was for me to slip up and spill some incriminating information, that was it.

“Tell us what happened, in your own words,” the other detective, named Andy Vaughn, said calmly, “and maybe we’ll let you go home tonight.”

I knew that was bullshit.

Vaughn pushed a yellow legal pad and a ball point across the table. He smiled at me like we were best friends.

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. “I need to talk to my lawyer.”

Hewitt exchanged a look with Vaughn. Vaughn nodded at him.

“Fine,” Hewitt sneered and stood up, jamming his hands in his front pockets. “Call him.”

Vaughn slid the phone across the table and handed me the receiver.

I dialed my lawyer’s number from memory. I’d used it enough times to know it by heart. He picked up after three rings. “Merriweather.”

“Hey, Russell. It’s Christos.” I’d known Russell since I was sixteen, from the first of many times he’d saved my ass.

“Christos! Sonuvabitch,” Russell said cheerily, “whatchoo doing calling me up this late? Better be good news.”

I chuckled. “No doubt.” Silence lingered.

Vaughn stood up, seemingly to give me some space. Both he and Hewitt remained in the room, leaning against the walls, watching me like hawks, waiting for me to incriminate myself so they could get their talons in me after the call.

“You’re in the can again, aren’t you?” Russell asked matter-of-factly.

“Yup.”

I heard a long sigh on the other end of the phone. “Christos Mother-fucking Manos, when you going to learn to behave like an adult?”

“I’m working on it.”

“I oughta whup your ass, son. What is it this time? You roll your Camaro street racing? Wheelies on Garnet to impress the ladies?”

“The charges are assault. And battery. Felony battery.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Son, you lucky you locked up, otherwise I’d get in my car and drive down there and break your face myself. When you gonna learn?”

“Like I said, I’m working on it.” Russell hadn’t had to save my ass in two years. I thought I was doing pretty good.

“You want me to call your grandfather?”

“Don’t tell him. He’ll be less worried that I don’t come home than if he finds out I’m locked up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll wait until I’m out on bail or ROR, and tell him face to face.”

“I’m not a magician, Christos. You may be stuck in there until trial, depending on the evidence, and your record.”

“No way. It’s total bullshit.”

“You’re a cocky bitch, aren’t you? Shit, maybe I’ll tell the judge myself to leave you in, knock some sense in that thick head of yours,” Russell said pointedly. His voice softened. “You sure you don’t want me to call Spiridon?”

“No, thanks. He’ll sleep better tonight not knowing. If I’m not out in the morning, you can call him then.”

“Want me to call your father?”

I felt a sharp stab in my gut when Russell mentioned my dad. “He doesn’t need to know. He’s got enough problems of his own.”

“Fine. You need me there tonight?”

“No. I can handle it.”

“Remember, Christos. Don’t say a word. Not to the detectives, not to the inmates. Nobody. You hear me?”

“Got it.”

“I’ll call the court house first thing tomorrow and find out when I need to roll on down and pull your ass out the pokey. For the time being, keep your butt tight, and don’t be nobody’s bitch,” he chuckled.

I knew he wasn’t worried about me. Not my immediate safety, anyway. Maybe about my misguided youth and not-so-bright future.

“And no fighting.” His words went from warmth to clipped business instantly. “I don’t need you stacking more charges on top of the ones you already got. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. And don’t say shit about shit to anybody.”

“Got it,” I nodded to the empty air. I placed the receiver softly in the cradle of the phone.

I smiled sarcastically at the detectives and held my wrists out to them, ready to be cuffed. “Shall we?”

“Book him,” Hewitt snarled, and stormed out of the room.

In all the times in the past I’d sat in a room just like this one (shit, I was pretty sure I’d been in this room at least once), about to be locked up, I’d never felt like I really gave a shit. Whether I was behind bars or free, I was always incarcerated inside my own prison of pain. So it didn’t matter if I was walking the streets or stuck inside a concrete cell.

This time it was different.

This time I had something I was going to miss way more than I wanted to admit to myself or anyone else.

This time I had that kooky angel Samantha Smith wondering where I was and whether or not I was okay.

Guilt slammed me in the face. I was a total douche for getting myself into this mess. I sighed heavily.

Was I ever going to fucking change?

Not if I was locked up.

Fuck me.

SAMANTHA

PRESENT DAY

Someone knocked on the front door of my apartment.

“It must be them,” I said to Christos, and walked out of the bathroom to go answer. I checked the peephole and opened the door with a smile on my face. Christos stood right behind me.