Swallowing, I nod. "Yes."
"The, the issue is" –the nervous guy cuts straight in, perhaps trying to blanket the embers flying across the room from one glare to another– "that he had a handgun on his person. That is going to be a problem. I will go see him tomorrow morning to discuss his options. Needless to say, we will get him out on bail while he awaits his trial, but I imagine the bail will be substantial. He has the means and could leave the country."
All I hear is that Max will be out on bail soon.
I hold on to that like it is my last breath.
Cassidy
The ensuing days are like one big hallucination. I'm not sure when the first day ends and the next one starts because I'm emotionally fatigued and have the curtains drawn shut to avoid the prying eyes of The District News. With our very public displays of affection at the gala and then Max's arrest mere hours later, the media are having a field day.
Who doesn't like a romantic tragedy?
Not me. And nothing is set in stone yet, so I refuse to fall into a heap until I know what we - Max and I - are dealing with. If I let myself fall, I'm not sure I'll be able to claw my way back up again. So I just can’t fricking fall, no matter how drastic the earth feels like it is tilting beneath my feet. Every day. Every second. That I am without him. . .
So I only allow myself a few hours at night to cry. It's when I feel closest to Max, knowing he's probably laying on his back, feeling the absence of me as I feel the absence of him. The rest of the time, I put up a façade for Butch and the boys.
As I hold my tears for the fifth day, I call Toni.
"I can't leave the house," I say as soon as he picks up. Clutching the handset to my cheek, I peek behind the heavy fabric at the news crew parked up across the street. "I mean, how boring is the District these days that they can afford to station a van out there night and day?"
"Well, I'm thoroughly engrossed in your epic love tale. The Ballerina and The Butcher Boy. I especially like it when Bronson goes to get the mail in the morning and forgets to put clothes on."
He doesn't forget. I scoff. "Yeah. I bet every girl in the fricking District is enjoying those posts. Clay had a heart attack when he saw the photos. It's really bad press."
"Erm, a naked Bronson Butcher is not bad press. Also, gotta tell you something, darlin, you are going to have to start saying fuck not frick. Your baby daddy is in jail now-"
"He's getting out soon," I state firmly with a nod of my head, ignoring the light-hearted teasing, not really feeling like I want innuendos and humour and silly retorts right now. "Yeah, really soon. Maybe tomorrow. Then it'll all be over."
"Oh," he says, his tone pitching higher. "So you've spoken to him then?"
"Nope." I yank the curtain shut and move back to my spot on the floor beside the Nintendo controller that has been my distraction for the past few painfully long and lonely days. "It's been five days and Butch has spoken to him, Bronson has spoken to him, Xander has spoken to him, the maids have probably spoken to him. I don't know, have you spoken to him? You probably have." I slump with a sigh, ceasing my petty comments and jealousy and ugh.
"I just need him to be out soon. That place can't be good for him." I want to say it can't be good for his darkness. A place like that feeds toxic masculinity. It stokes it. Fuels it. But I don't let that concern leave my lips.
"Golden Girl, come on." He lets out a slow breath. "He probably can't talk to you because he doesn't want to get a boner in case he ends up all Shawshank Redemption-ed."
I smirk in condescension. "I'd like to see anyone try."
Toni smacks his lips. "You think he'd be the giver then?"
Ugh! "I'm hanging up no-"
"I'm lightening the mood, darlin." He speaks gently as if he can tell I'm a few stupid comments away from either bursting into tears or hissing like an alley cat. "You know why he hasn't spoken to you."
"No, no I don’t."
"He's ashamed."
I roll my eyes even though he can't witness my silent display of derision. "Max doesn't get ashamed."
"Okay. Then he's probably just trying to keep his head in the game-"
"If you make a head job reference!"
"I wasn't going to." He chuckles quietly because maybe now he wants to. "I was going to say, you know he needs to stay tough in there. You're all gooey and sugary and he can't have that right now. . . I get that."
"Yeah." I nod sadly, imagining how exhausting it must be to continuously feel defensive and on high alert. To lack the luxury of honest expression, unable to show any form of vulnerability. "I get it too. And that is totally him." I hesitate on the next question, not really wanting to extort my best friend's boyfriend. . . Still, the need for information outweighs my uncertainties. "Have you spoken to Braidy about it?"
"Yes, of course," he states straight away, and if I could kiss him for that, I would. "The first thing I did was get all up in his grill, but he's local control, darlin. He told me this is in Australian Federal Police jurisdiction."
"Miss Slater," Carter's voice comes through the bedroom door, followed by a light tapping sound. "May I come in?"
"I gotta go," I say to Toni as I end our call and stand up. Staring down at my yoga pants and Max's oversized shirt, I cringe a little. There are Cheeto
