This is my first time in jail, and I’m not a fan. The strip-down and cavity search was the most humiliating experience of my entire life. I certainly don’t intend to stick around here long enough to be transferred to a permanent prison where I would have to form alliances simply to survive.
I stare at the barren cell’s concrete floor, unable to believe that this is my life now. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. I’m a nice guy, who works hard, pays his bills on time, and keeps his head down. I’m not a criminal who should be locked up behind bars.
The only crime I ever commit is riding my motorcycles a bit over the speed limit. Okay, it’s more than a bit, but certainly not enough to land me in prison.
When the cops arrived at my bike repair shop and took me into custody, I almost couldn’t believe my ears as they cuffed me and read off a laundry list of ridiculous, trumped-up charges including everything from tax evasion to obstruction of justice.
I tried telling them I’m innocent and that they must have the wrong person, but their eyerolls made it obvious that they’ve heard those objections many times before.
Although I have no idea what’s going on here, who is out to get me, or why, I’m going to get to the bottom of it. That would ordinarily be tough, since the crotchety, old judge set my bail at the outlandish sum of one million dollars. But I tucked tail and called my kid sister, Emmy.
That call wasn’t quite as physically humiliating as the cavity search, but I would almost rather go through that indignity again than to hear Emmy’s bewildered tone when I asked her to get her super-rich boyfriend to front the money for my bail.
As the older brother, it’s expected that I should be the sibling who has his life together. I want to be the kind of person that Emmy can look up to and strive to emulate, not the person whose calls she has to dodge because I’m asking for handouts.
It couldn’t be helped, though. Business at my repair shop hasn’t been booming lately, so I’ve been forced to take out some significant small business loans to stay afloat. I don’t have the kind of free-and-clear assets needed to provide a guarantee for a bail bondsman.
My parents could have put their house up as collateral, but I decided it was a tiny bit less demeaning to ask Emmy’s new, wealthy boyfriend for the money than to risk my parents’ home.
Emmy is disappointed in me. I could hear it in her voice during our phone call, but I’m not sure what else to do. I can’t just sit and rot in jail, while whoever is plotting against me creates more false evidence in their bogus case. I’ll figure out a way to make it up to my sister later, but for now, I need to get out of here and straighten out this mess before it gets any worse.
Proving that money really does talk, a lanky guard appears in front of my cell. His keys jangle in the lock as he says, “Must be your lucky day. Your bail has been posted.”
I’m already standing at the metal bars, ready to bolt out of here, when the man swings the door open and says, “Sounds like you have some wealthy and powerful friends.”
Not missing the irony of the situation, I mutter on my way past him, “And enemies.”
Being outdoors has never felt so good. I wasn’t on the inside long, but it was enough of a taste of being locked up that fresh air fills my lungs in a way that lights up my senses, like it never has before. The sky is a more vivid shade of blue, the grass is greener, and the light breeze smells like freedom. If I’m never caged in a tiny, stagnant cell again, it will still be too soon.
I’m savoring the warmth of the sunshine on my face when I glimpse her in my peripheral vision. Of course, I recognize her. You can’t live within a one-hundred-mile radius of Atlanta and not be aware of the Morrow family heiress. Alexandra Morrow is an icon in this region, known now for her philanthropic work almost as much as she was for her wild, party-girl ways during her late teens and early twenties.
I’m especially aware of the beautiful woman’s identity, thanks to my recent deep-dive into her family’s online archives. It can’t possibly be a coincidence that she’s here.
She confirms my suspicions by narrowing her gorgeous eyes into an angry glare at the sight of me. Her voice comes out in a sexy growl when she says, “You.”
Somehow, the normally harmless word sounds like an accusation when it slips from her full, glossy lips.
I give her what feels like an affable smile, but the gesture only serves to make her steady gaze even more fiery.
“So, it’s true. You’re already out of jail.” She sounds perturbed by my freedom.
Even though this is the first time we’ve ever spoken to each other, I have the distinct impression that I’ve already missed half of the conversation.
“I’m free, and it feels so good,” I reveal, hoping to shift gears away from her openly hostile tone.
“Not for long, if I have anything to say about it.” She looks at her perfectly manicured fingernails as if they are more important than making eye contact as she openly threatens me.
“Look, if this is about that article––” I start, but she doesn’t give me the chance to explain.
“Of course, it’s about that damn article!” Her half-shout draws attention from several passersby. Tempering her tone, she adds in a pissy stage whisper, “Do you know the damage you’ve done to my family? Do you even care?”
She bugs her lovely green eyes out at me, but before I can respond to her outraged questions, she says between gritted teeth, “This is all your fault.”
“Hold on, I didn’t disclose any information that isn’t true.” My self-defense only serves to make the spitfire angrier.
“You had no right to share anything about us. They weren’t your secrets to tell.” It’s clear that if she could shoot venom-tipped darts with her angry glare, I would be her bullseye target as she adds, “I’m going to make sure you pay for your role in this.”
“Wait… Are you the one who had these bogus criminal charges filed against me?” I’m stunned that the well-known socialite would stoop to this level, but her proud smile gives me the answer to my question.
Putting it all together, I add, “And the reason the judge threw the book at me during my arraignment.”
Looking every bit like a Cheshire cat with her wide grin, she says, “My grandfather plays golf with Judge Hardy.”
Lifting my hands to showcase my freedom, I say, “Despite all of the questionable strings you pulled, I’m a free man, Al.”
The irritation vibrates off her in nearly visible waves as she practically spits the words, “Don’t call me that. Only my closest friends and family are allowed to call me Al.”
“Okay, then, Alexandra.” Her pursed lips make it obvious that the overexaggerated way I draw out her full name irritates her even more. She’s practically fuming as she openly glares at me, and it suddenly strikes me that I’m actually having fun bickering with her.
Suddenly, she drops her top-of-the-line cell phone into her classy, leather handbag and stands up. In a brisk tone, she says, “You know what? I’ve decided that your new punishment for crossing my family is going to be that you have to help me fix the damage you caused.”
With that, she flips her long hair over her shoulder and flits away, obviously fully expecting me to jog after her and beg to do her bidding.
I hold back for a long moment, telling myself that she isn’t my boss. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of me, and I do the only thing that makes any sense in this moment. I follow the intriguing woman.