Make You Mine by K.T. Quinn

46

Charlotte

The car that drove up from the south was a Honda Accord, the definition of a sensible purchase. Affordable, safe, and boring. Even the shade of grey was about as exciting as a trip to the DMV. It drove up the road, slowed down as it neared us, and then stopped on the shoulder in front of Mindy’s diner. The driver even turned on the emergency blinkers before climbing out.

Scott looked like he always did, whether he was working on the food truck, lifting weights at the gym, or going to church: a button-down shirt tucked into slacks, with a belt and shoes that matched. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbow. He looked like the phrase business casual come to life, and had the boring, formal voice to match it.

“Hi, Charlie,” he said as if we had never broken up.

I had to force my tongue to move. “What are you doing here, Scott?”

Jayce tensed when he heard the name. He turned and watched quietly, eyes now a little more alive than they were before.

Scott jerked his thumb. “The kid at the motel said you were up this way, with the sheriff. I did not expect to see you in the middle of the road, though.”

“I meant what are you doing here, in Eastland?”

“Ah. Yes, well. We need to talk.” He seemed to notice Jayce and the sheriff then. “Can we go somewhere private?”

There were a hundred angry things I wanted to say to him. I settled on, “I’ve got my own issues right now, Scott. I don’t have time to argue about the magazine spot for the food truck!”

Scott gave me a scowl which would have made a college professor proud, especially with the condescending tone that followed. “There were multiple ways you could have handled that situation without causing irreparable damage to our business.”

“Scott…”

“If you had merely discussed your concerns with me rather than doing the most vindictive thing possible, we could have come to an agreement.” He shrugged. “I’m the one who is here so we can discuss it like adults. But if you would rather—”

“Scott, shut the hell up!” I snapped. “I don’t want to hear about the food truck. Go back to Savannah and I’ll call you tomorrow.” If there even is a tomorrow. If Jayce was right and the Copperheads were on their way…

Scott coughed and fiddled with his rolled-up sleeve. “Well. Um. Actually, that is not why I am here in Eastland.” He said the word as if it were a distasteful spice he did not care for. “I want to talk about us.”

“Us?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Us?”

He gave up on his sleeve and took another step forward. “I have made some mistakes. I am man enough to admit that.” The humbleness was ruined by the way he stuck his chin in the air and looked down his nose at me. “I wish I could take back what I have done, but seeing as though I cannot, I can only apologize.”

He nodded, then stepped closer and tried to wrap his arms around me as if all was forgiven. I put a palm on his chest to keep him at a distance.

“You’ve apologized,” I said, even though he hadn’t actually apologized. “I’m still not paying for that magazine spot.”

“No,” Scott said, blinking with confusion. “You are not listening. I am saying we should get back together.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I laughed right in his face, which summoned that first-class scowl again. “We are not getting back together,” I said.

“Charlie. Perhaps you should take some time to think about what we—”

“I’ve done nothing but think about it,” I interrupted. “That’s all I’ve been able to do in this stupid town for the past three weeks. I’m fine with everything, Scott. I’ve moved on.”

Scott stared at me as if I was speaking Greek, then looked around for another answer. His eyes settled on Jayce, and then narrowed. “Is this your new boyfriend?”

“This isn’t about him. Or anyone else. It’s about you and me.”

But Scott was focused on Jayce, now. “You know, I used to think you had a type. But I have to admit you really swung toward the other end of the spectrum with this rebound.”

“Other end of the spectrum,” Jayce repeated deadpan. “That’s funny.”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Scott muttered, looking sideways at me. “You always did have low self-esteem, and a tattooed biker is exactly the kind of guy who—”

Jayce’s fist clocked Scott on the side of the face, sending my ex flying to the pavement. He scrambled to his feet and brushed off his shirt.

I’ve been waiting years to see someone do that to Scott, I thought with a smile.

“You punched me!” Scott said, voice quivering somewhere between shock and outrage. “You punched me!”

“Damn that hurt,” Jayce said, wincing and rubbing his knuckles.

“Was that really necessary?” I asked.

“I told you I’d punch him if I ever met him, Peaches.”

Jayce made no attempt to hurt him any further, but Scott backed away as if he was about to be assaulted again. When he reached his car, he turned to the sheriff. “That man physically attacked me! You saw it! There are witnesses!”

The sheriff snorted and said, “Son, you brought that on yourself.”

“Go home, Scott,” I said with a modicum of sympathy. “We can talk about everything later.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Scott announced. “Not until that man is arrested for battery!”

“Son,” the sheriff said calmly, “I suggest you listen to the nice young woman and leave town before I write you up for that broken headlight.”

Scott’s eyes were wide and furious. “What broken headlight?”

The sheriff tucked his thumbs behind his belt. “The way I see it? Looks to me like it’ll be broken here in a few minutes. Unless, of course, the car is gone by then. If you catch my meaning.”

Scott finally realized what he was being told. He looked from the sheriff, to me, to Jayce, then back to me as if searching for the justice he thought he deserved.

You won’t find it in Eastland, I thought.

Judge Benjamin chose that moment to drive up in his shiny white Cadillac. He was still wearing his fishing gear as he got out of the car with a dark expression on his face. He spoke softly to the sheriff, then rounded on us.

“I should not be surprised you would attempt to shirk your hours,” he declared, as if he were in front of a courtroom audience. “But it does disappoint me.”

“Who is this?” Scott demanded. Everyone ignored him.

“I worked every hour!” I told the judge. “All hundred and twenty of them!”

“And the last eighty were accomplished with unwarranted assistance. This negates the entire penitence aspect of the work that we discussed earlier today.” He shook his head. “Clearly, you learned nothing these past weeks.”

I opened my mouth to tell him I’d learned this town was as corrupt as they came, but Jayce spoke before I could.

“Judge Benjamin,” he said in a deferential voice. “Charlotte is completely blameless in this matter. I continued working community service after my hours were complete, but Charlotte was unaware. In fact, I lied to her. If anyone deserves blame, it’s me. Don’t punish her for my mistake.”

The judge listened with an expressionless face, then turned to me. “Is this true?”

I could feel Jayce staring at me, willing me to agree. “I thought Jayce had two more days of community service after I finished,” I said.

The judge thought about it for three heartbeats, then nodded. “Then I hope your conscious is riddled with guilt for deceiving this young woman.” He turned back to the sheriff. “Eighty additional hours of community service for Charlotte Owens. And charge him with title sixteen, chapter ten, article two of the Georgia Code: obstruction of justice. One count for each day he interfered. Send in the paperwork today and I’ll meet with him tomorrow to decide the penalty. He can sleep in the jail until then. Sheriff, do the honors.”

My shoulders sank. Eighty hours. Two more weeks. I didn’t think I could handle two more days.

But as terrible as Jayce’s situation was, he only shook his head and sighed.

“No,” Jayce told the judge, and pulled out his gun.