Xander ran a hand over his face as I found my voice.
The deputy shook his head and regarded Mason. “What happened here?”
“He,” the bouncer said, gesturing toward me, “threatened these men inside the bar. There are multiple witnesses to that.” He stared right at me as he spoke, and swear that his eyes turned black for a second. “His friend here,” he pointed to Xander, “escorted him out, where they apparently waited for these gentlemen to exit the bar.”
I coughed, interrupting the bouncer. “Sorry,” I said, rolling from my side to a sitting position. My entire body screamed with the effort. “I’m just allergic to bullshit. Here’s what happened. Dude here wanted a drink, couldn’t get it, cried about it like a baby-back bitch, insulted me.” I took a deep breath. “I walked over to him, said, ‘Say that to my face, bee-atch.’ Well, scratch that last part. I didn’t say those exact words, and you can’t hold me to them in a court of law. Strike it from the record. I told him to grow some sweaty balls, or something weird like that. I am a little drunk.”
“That’s enough,” the deputy said, turning to Mason again. “You saw what happened?”
The bouncer nodded.
“Can we resolve this peacefully, or are you pressing charges?”
“I’m not here to tell you how to do your job, sir,” Mason said. “But from what I saw, I believe this man,” he nodded at me, “needs to at least sit in the tank tonight. He’s drunk, and he waited on the curb for these men to exit, then assaulted them.” Mason motioned toward our Teletubby friend. “He might need stitches.”
“I’d like to press charges,” Draco said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Despite the stiffness screaming through my body, I stood and stumbled toward the deputy. “If you’re going to arrest me, can I beat this man’s ass right now, to make it worth it?” Fire burned through me. These idiots were going to get me arrested for nothing. Could I tell the officer about Mel? About Hecate and the Empousa? I glanced at Xander. “Do something,” I said. Tears stung my eyes and a sour lump formed in my throat. “You have fucking connections.”
Xander shook head and glanced at his feet. “You did this to yourself,” he muttered.
I lunged forward, not at Mason or the Backstreet Boys, but at Xander. I swung at him, and my fist clipped him across the chin, probably hurting my knuckle more than anything. The deputy grabbed me from behind and threw me to the ground. He shoved a knee into my back and cranked my arms behind me, handcuffing me.
I lifted my head and stared at Xander. “Fuck you. Fuck you.”
The deputy assisted me to my feet and escorted me to his squad car. He kindly placed a hand on my head as he guided me into the backseat, ensuring I didn’t suffer my seventh concussion of the night. After he closed the door, I saw him turn and speak to Xander, the bouncer, the other men, but their voices were muffled.
Xander kept glancing at me and shaking his head like a disappointed parent. I propped my elbow on the window’s ledge and waved my middle finger at him. The four men carried on down the sidewalk. The bouncer turned around and headed toward the lounge. Xander stood in place, staring at me with heavy eyes. The driver’s door opened to the squad car, and the deputy climbed into the cab.
He glanced back at me through the mesh barrier and grimaced, pointing at his nose. “Doesn’t look good,” he said.
“It doesn’t feel good, either.” It throbbed behind my eyes, threading together a killer migraine. “Neither do my ribs or my stomach. But, shit, what do you expect after getting jumped? Oh, wait. I forgot. I was the one who jumped those four morons. Right? You’re as fucking stupid and petty as the news makes you out to be.” I craned my neck, stretching the knotted muscles.
Deputy Asshat—I believe that was his name—smirked, turning around to adjust the rearview mirror. He started his car, and the dispatch radio chirped—a muffling, static-filled bark that I didn’t begin to comprehend. He ignored it, turned the radio dial down, and typed something on the computer built into the dash. When he finished, he asked, “You hate cops?”
“Mostly the beefy ones with blonde hair and blue eyes that pick on weaker, more oppressed citizens of society. Not quite Nazis, but, you know.” I smirked right back at him. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, was built like a tank from 1843—all box and no curves.
Deputy Aarseth shifted his vehicle into drive, and we rolled away. “You think I’m racist because of the way I look?” he asked after we had driven for a few minutes. “Or because I wear the badge?”
“I never said racist. I said you’re a power-hungry piece of shit who picks fights with people who can’t fight back.” I licked my teeth and sighed, knowing I didn’t quite mean that. It’s just… people pissed me off, and I always went for what hurt the most—their pride.
“You think this about all cops?”
“No. Most cops are soldiers fighting a war they can’t win—their own government. They’re thrown on the front lines with no resources, no reinforcements, nothing, and they are expected to flourish, to make level-headed decisions in the face of constant threat, when they have a family back home they’re always thinking about. They’re told to enforce, not to protect. Trained to suspect, not to serve. On the other side of that dirty coin, the majority of people you deal with are good people trying to survive a desperate situation.” I
