I start to turn back to the right, begging my body to let go of all my worries so I can sleep, but my phone rings. I’m so startled by the noise—no one should be calling me at four a.m.—I don’t automatically reach for it.
Nothing good comes from a call at this hour.
But I lift my head, glance at the screen, and frown at a number I don’t recognize. It’s a New York area code.
Telemarketer?
Maybe.
Something more serious?
More likely.
I nab the phone and answer. “Hello?”
“It’s Coen.”
I blink into the dark. Did he lose his cell phone? Why is he calling me from an unknown number since he, along with the entire team, is programmed into my contacts? “What’s up?”
“I’m in jail. I need you to bail me out.”
“What the fuck?” I growl, sitting up in bed and reaching for the bedside lamp to switch it on.
“I got drunk,” he says flatly with no remorse. “Might have started a fight in a bar.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, scrubbing my hand through my hair. Why in the hell is he calling me? I’m just his damn hotel roommate and nothing more.
Well, I’m also his linemate, so maybe that’s why.
“Stone,” Coen snaps irritably. “Will you come get me?”
No need to think about it. Of course, I’ll go get him. “Yeah… let me grab a shower and I’ll head out. Where are you?”
♦
It’s no fun trying to get an Uber and finding a police precinct in a completely different borough from where the team is staying in Manhattan. I arrive at the Brooklyn precinct just after five thirty a.m., but Coen didn’t bother to tell me he wasn’t exactly ready to be released.
I guess the wheels of justice need a lube job, because I sit there for two hours before they’re ready to even start processing the paperwork and accept my payment for his bail. Turns out the charges are drunk and disorderly and assault, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he’s in deep shit with the team.
It’s another hour until he’s brought up from wherever they were keeping him, and while he does offer a “thanks” as we go to an area to collect his belongings, he looks in no way repentant for either the actions that landed him here or the fact I’m on hour four of this fun trip to bail him out.
I order an Uber from my app as we head for the lobby, but just as we’re approaching the doors, I see reporters with cameras outside. My first thought is there must be some big criminal case occurring, but then it hits me… they could be here for Coen. High-profile people in custody get tipped to the media all the time.
“Shit,” I grumble as I hold out an arm to stop Coen from reaching for the door. “Reporters outside.”
He glances through the glass curiously but doesn’t appear to care.
“Let’s wait until the Uber arrives,” I say, and we move off to the side.
I watch the driver’s car on the app and as it’s pulling up, I say, “Let’s go.”
The minute we step through the doors and Coen is recognized, they swarm in on us. Questions are hurled at Coen, and then I’m recognized and my name is yelled too.
Lowering my head, I push through the small mob toward the Uber, and Coen follows. We slide into the vehicle as the cameras roll, and I know there’s going to be hell to pay.
Fifteen minutes into our drive back to Manhattan, my phone dings. It’s Gage. Heads up. You were both on the news.
I grimace, hating how fast word travels.
Coen’s phone starts chiming, clearly a flurry of texts. He looks at them, shrugs, and tucks his phone back in his pocket.
“Keller?” I guess, figuring he would be the one most likely to contact him at this point.
“And Derringer,” he says, leaning his head against the seat. He looks terrible, now that I have a chance to study him. Face is pale, eyes bloodshot, and clothes rumpled. He has an abrasion high on his cheekbone near the temple and cuts along his right knuckles.
“What happened?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“Some guy’s face connected with my fist,” he drawls nonchalantly. “He was a bitch about it and insisted the police get involved.”
I don’t even know what to say. I’m getting the vibe he was looking for trouble. I’d bet a hundred bucks Coen probably instigated it—I’ve heard he’s been quite the dick when he’s drinking. Such a dick that no one wants to go out with him, and I know for a fact he was specifically not invited tonight.
When he didn’t show up in our room, I knew he’d gone out on his own, and I didn’t think twice about it. Now I’m thinking the guy needs a damn babysitter.
“You’re going to face some consequences, you know.” An ass-chewing, for sure. I’d guess a hefty fine, too, most likely by the league, but I wouldn’t put it past Derringer to fine him as well. Suspension is just as likely.
“I have no fucks to give.” Coen’s tone is one of absolute disregard. He truly doesn’t care what they do to him. Doesn’t even attempt to justify his behavior, and there is no brash claim that he’s too valuable to the team to suffer a consequence.
It’s almost as if he wants to be punished, and it doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out he’s probably grappling with some survivor’s guilt. I wonder if they’ll take that into consideration when dealing with him.
I settle back into my seat and look out the passenger window. Nothing left to discuss with Coen, and whatever happens to him isn’t my problem. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want any commiseration, so I, too, have no fucks to give about the guy.
What happens, happens.
It’s silent the rest of the ride back to the hotel, and when we arrive, more reporters are camped on the sidewalk. Coen walks in with his head held high—not that I think he’s proud of what he did, but because I don’t think he really cares.
Inside the lobby, a few of the guys mill about. Coen walks without breaking stride to the elevator. I have no clue if he’s heading to our room or straight to a meeting with Keller and Derringer. Regardless, I’m not going up with him.
I see Gage by the small coffee kiosk across the lobby talking to Baden, and I head their way.
Their conversation halts when I approach.
Gage attempts some levity by playfully backhanding me in the stomach. “In case you were wondering, the camera really does add fifteen pounds.”
“Christ, what a nightmare,” I growl, stepping up to the counter and ordering a large black coffee.
“Did he say what happened?” Baden asks.
I shake my head. “Not true details. Just that his fist connected with a guy’s face. Completely flippant about it all.”
“Keller’s about ready to explode,” Baden says quietly, and I can tell he’s worried about Coen. Good thing someone has some fucks to give.
I grab my coffee, handing over my credit card. “What do you think’s going to happen?”
Gage shrugs and Baden shakes his head. “Nothing good. Probably just a fine if Coen is appropriately apologetic, but somehow, I don’t think Keller’s going to get the good little boy routine from him.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Coen takes a swing at him,” Gage muses.