Wanting by Lynn Burke

Gideon

Iknew the second that cop said, “…against my son,” that I was fucked. The sheriff shouldn’t have been allowed to be the arresting officer or even present for that matter. Him being the one to handcuff me meant he was above the law.

And I was nothing more than an angry punk from the lower forty-eight who hurt one of their own.

Fucked, I told myself again as he led me across the precinct’s parking garage in silence. Someone buzzed us through a metal door, and it clanged shut behind me with a finality that promised freedom was a thing of my past.

Assault in the first degree would probably stick, even though all I’d done was bloody Devon’s nose. Prosecutors would convince the jury my fists were dangerous instruments—which they were—and I’d get the maximum penalty.

At least the fucker handed me off in prebooking to a different cop who asked me a few questions about my identity. My information went to records to check for warrants, which I knew would come back clean, thanks to Dad.

After getting patted down, my personal shit bagged and taken from me, I wound up standing on a blue X for my mug shot. I kept my chin up, expression hard, eyes cold as hell—my “fuck you” face even though my gut clenched like a kid locked outside after dark.

Being seventeen, I should have gotten a DJJ risk assessment, but that got nixed. No doubt, they planned to try me as an adult, but I didn’t say jack shit, didn’t ask questions. I would wait for my lawyer.

I got fingerprinted for the third time in my life, and my one request to obtain a bond got ignored.

So did the phone call legally owed me.

My juvenile ass landed in a hard chair at a steel table—and that goddamn one-way window made me want to squirm. Face passive, I sat in silence.

Waiting.

Knowing what was coming.

I’d been through the drill twice before. Did you beat up that shithead? Who started it?

They kept my hands cuffed behind my back like the asshole cops thought I was some threat. Dangerous instruments that they were, probably a good fucking idea.

My gut churned with rage, red lust for blood. Hands fisted, I counted every ticking second. Thinking of Addilyn, the terror, the pain on her face.

That connection I’d felt to her—I’d never even imagined such a feeling. I prayed like fuck she obeyed me—stayed away from him.

Stretching my neck side to side, I considered the consequences for that bastard if she didn’t. I would end him. Spill his blood, spit on his lifeless body—

The heavy door squeaked open. At least it wasn’t the fucking sheriff who finally came in, a folder in his hand.

“Not saying jack shit until I see my lawyer,” I stated and clamped my lips shut. While I didn’t have a lawyer, I knew Dad would get me one.

The fucker pulled out the chair across the table from me, the metal base scraping over concrete.

Questions got tossed my way one after the other, but I did exactly as I’d said—didn’t speak a goddamn word.

Was I at Devon Bradshaw’s house the night before?

Dumb fucker knew I’d been—while leading me to the cruiser outside our home, Devon’s dad had taunted about the surveillance system around their house. Caught fucking red handed. Literally.

Had I beaten Devon until he collapsed?

I wanted to roll my eyes. Why the fuck did he even ask? They knew the truth. Staring at the gray, cement wall, I ignored the cop’s questions, the words registering but not worthy of my answers.

Had I threatened him—twice—the day before in the school’s hallway, stating that if he touched Addilyn I would kill him? Slammed him into lockers various times.

They were definitely going all in, I realized. My insides chilled, but I held still. Unmoving as though unaffected, in a world of my own.

Where the fuck is Dad?

I refused to glance at the window but finally lowered my focus and held the damn cop’s gaze with a steady one of my own. No remorse would line my face because given the chance, I would beat the shit out of that prick all over again.

My ass ended up in a holding cell.

No Dad.

No lawyer.

Being seventeen kept me from detainment with the other adults in the county jail, and I got my own little cinder-block box. At least I wasn’t locked up with a bunch of dick-hungry pervs wanting a piece of me. Then I would have to kill a man.

Come morning, my arraignment would clue me in on the official charge and how much Ingrid would need to lend Dad to bail me out—if either intended to do so. His lack of an appearance kept my stomach in tight knots all through the night.

Didn’t sleep worth a shit, but at least a lawyer arrived in the morning, hired by my dad, thank fuck. I’d half expected him to let me rot so he’d have unhindered access to the princess. Maybe I’d read him wrong.

My insides relaxing the slightest bit, I allowed my shoulders to sag as the lawyer sat down across from me.

“I would recommend a plea bargain, Mr. Destil.”

I stared a few seconds, processing. “What?”

The lawyer folded his hands and leaned onto the table, not even bothering to open the briefcase he’d brought along for our meeting. “A plea bargain. They’re going to charge you as an adult, and the cards are stacked against you, young man. Plead guilty, and you’ll get ten max. Maybe be out in five if you behave yourself.”

“The. Fuck.” I stared at him, but he held my gaze. “Over a goddamn bloody nose?”

“A broken nose, fractured cheekbone, swelling of the brain—he hasn’t woken up yet, Gideon.”

Christ, I must have hit him hard as fuck. I let out a steady, shaky exhale even though I didn’t feel an ounce of regret. I’d warned the little shit—twice. My knuckles throbbed in memory of wrecking his face, and I had to bite back a fucking grin.

I’d do it all over again.

“They have the entire fight on video.”

“Grainy as fuck, I’m sure,” I tossed out, grasping at straws.

“Still—the group of young men outside at the time will all name you as the man on that video.”

“He was touching my sister without her consent,” I stated through clenched teeth. My shoulders once more hitched to my ears as that rage rushed back through me, tensing every muscle in my body.

“Devon’s friends will state otherwise.”

“They were a good fifty yards away,” I hollered, sitting back and fisting my hands again.

“She wasn’t fighting him in the video.”

“Maybe because he had her pinned against the goddamn tree! Ever think of that?”

“Mr. Destil.” The lawyer thinned his lips.

I leaned forward. “She didn’t want it,” I lied. “Ask her.”

I could trust my princess—I promised myself I could. Hadn’t she been devastated as they’d hauled my ass away? Hadn’t she come running after us, tears streaming down her cheeks? Her face as wrecked as her posture while hugging herself?

She would lie for me. I knew she would if only—

“I need to talk to her,” I said through gritted teeth.

“That won’t be possible.” The lawyer lifted his briefcase and finally seemed to do something other than talk. He slid a paper across the table toward me.

“What’s this?”

“Your plea bargain.”

“I’m not signing shit.” I lifted my chin, staring the bastard down. “We’re going to fight these charges, and with Addilyn’s help, I’m going to be cleared.”

“Fighting the inevitable could very well get you more time.”

“Fighting will earn me my freedom,” I spat back, rousing every ounce of surety I could into my voice.

My gut, however, wasn’t as confident.

We went to my arraignment, and I was formally charged with assault in the first degree as well as two other simple assault charges for those locker slams.

What the fuck ever.

I stood before the judge without a single goddamn family member in attendance behind me. Not sure what that meant, but I still pleaded not guilty.

No bail.

Big fucking surprise there too considering the sheriff standing at attention off to my right, a smug as fuck smirk on his face.

Once led back to my cell, I stared at the dark, dank ceiling, arms crossed overhead.

“My princess will lie for me,” I whispered to no one.

She had to—or my life was royally fucked, as would be hers. Dad would have unhindered access to my stepsister if what I had suspected from the first was true.

If my freedom was gone, Addilyn’s innocence would be destroyed.