He doesn’t say anything right away but his demeanor changes dramatically and I know he wants to cuss. “What she saw, Gavin, was a child abuser get what he deserved. Stop beating yourself up already. Speaking of beatings, how’s the hand?”

My eyes drop to the swollen, bruised, and scabbed-over knuckles on my right hand.

“Still attached.”

Dallas frowns. “I’m serious, man. Between worrying about whether or not Dixie’s going to bail because of your bullshit or if your hand is going to be functioning by Friday night, I am stressed the fuck out.”

All I can do is give him the “sorry I’m such a major fuckup” look that I have to give a lot of people that I disappoint.

The officer standing behind me gives the two-minute warning.

Dallas appears to be doing a sort of deep-breathing thing Robyn probably makes him do.

“You okay, man?”

“Yeah, just trying to get centered,” he tells me.

“Centered, huh? How’s that working out for you?”

He smirks. “Scale of one to ten, how centered do I seem?” He rakes his free hand through his hair and my honest answer is negative fifteen.

“Five. Give or take a few.”

Dallas shakes his head. “Sometimes I think I should just call Robyn’s uncle and see if he needs me to play backup guitar for his Elvis act.”

I open my mouth to make a joke, but then I remember something important—something that kept me awake all night other than the sweat- and urine-scented mattress I had to try to sleep on in a six-by-eight cell.

“Wait,” I say when the officer taps me on the shoulder, meaning I have thirty seconds left. “I need you to do something for me,” I say to Dallas.

“I know, man. We’ll be back in a few short hours to pick you up. Your attorney said it could be as early as six or as late as eight thirty.”

I want to laugh at Dallas because, God love him, I’m not scheduling a fucking manscaping appointment. I’m in jail. They can let me out—or not—whenever they feel like it.

“Right. No rush because paperwork and all that takes a while. But that’s not what I need. I need you to tell Dixie to call Sheila Montgomery at Child Protective Services. Sheila can make sure Liam doesn’t have to go back to his abusive father even once he’s out of the hospital.”

Dallas whips out his pen and the small notebook he keeps in his back pocket for song lyrics. “Shee-La Mont-gum-er-ee,” he says as he writes each syllable. “Got it. Anything else? Need one of those prepaid cards for food or money for vending machines or—”

“Time’s up,” the officer behind me announces and there’s a click. I shake my head to his last question. I can’t hear the rest of what he’s saying but he shows me the notebook where he wrote the social worker’s name and I feel a few ounces of relief.

At least maybe that kid can get the kind of help I never could. Maybe someone will stand a chance of being better than what I’ve become.

“Garrison, you’re up,” a booming voice calls, sending my name ricocheting off the cell walls.

I fell asleep sitting up on the bed because I couldn’t bring myself to lie on it.

Having grown up with a junkie for a mother, I can handle going without food. I didn’t touch anything that was served through the slot in the cell door because I know a few guys who work at this particular establishment and they’ve told me some disgusting shit that has been done to food. But I cannot handle the feel of filth. I grew up in it and I hate it. I need a shower more than I need air right now. I also want to shave my face before I see Dixie but I know she’s going to be out there as well as I know my own name.

I shuffle in line with the other guys heading to where we pick up the meager personal belongings we came with. I give my name and Social Security number to an African-American female officer who looks tired as she practically tosses a large Ziploc bag at me. Next is the paperwork part and I have to sign that, yes, I will appear in court on the determined date that will be sent to me by mail, and yes, I understand the conditions of my release.

Next is the bathroom, where I toss this ugly orange jumpsuit into the designated bin and put back on clothes that are partially covered in dried blood. Most of which isn’t mine.

Great.

Filthy and blood-covered. Nothing says working on reformation and redemption like that particular combination. Naturally it would be my “Drummers Hit It Harder” T-shirt that I happened to be wearing when I nearly beat a man to death.

Basically I am karma’s bitch right now.

Once I’ve changed, I wash my hands, splash some water on my face, and tuck my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans along with my folded-up pink and yellow release papers and dead-as-hell cell phone.

I exit the bathroom and show my ID at the final desk.

Walking out in the dingy gray waiting area would be a relief if she weren’t standing there looking so delectable as she argues with the officer at the front desk.

“It’s after ten. His attorney said eight thirty at the—”

Dixie stops midsentence when she sees me.

“Hey. There he is,” Dallas calls out. He stands and strides over to me looking as worn down as I feel.

“Barely,” I answer honestly.

Dixie hangs back but I can see every emotion she feels playing on a steady loop in her eyes.

Happiness. Concern. Longing. Confusion. Doubt. And the worst one of all.

Fear.

I don’t know if she’s afraid for me or afraid of me.

I can’t stand the thought of it being that second one.

As the three of us walk to the exit, I give her the most comforting smile I can manage and meet her eyes when I say, “Hey, Bluebird. I meant to write while I was locked up but they wouldn’t give me a pen.”

The hint of a smile pulls at the right side of her beautiful mouth. “Got you some dinner. It might be cold, but it’s got to be better than whatever they had.” She produces a Jimmy Johns bag that I know will contain my favorite, a Vito sub, no onions, extra cheese, and heavy on the dressing. I can see a couple of bags of chips inside, too, and I want to wrap my arms around her or kiss her to say thank you but I know it wouldn’t be an okay thing to do right now.

It’s just a sandwich and yet knowing that she cared about me like that, that she took time out of her life to get my favorite one, and that she’s paid attention over the years to how I like it . . . it does something to me. They say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and they might be on to something. Whoever the hell “they” are.

“You need anything?”

“Just this sandwich and a shower and I’ll be a new man.” Or closer to being one, anyway.

We reach Dallas’s truck and I open the door for Dixie. She climbs in and my eyes drop to her ass. Blood shoots to my dick, waking him as I remember taking her from behind. I want to kick my own ass right now. Here she is being so kind and sweet to me after everything I’ve done and I’m acting like a man who just did a yearlong stint in the state pen, not an overnight at county.

Swallowing hard and trying to think of fluffy bunnies and other non-erection-inducing images, I get into Dallas’s truck and face forward for the entire drive.

“You should probably eat something, man. You look pale as fuck and like someone backed over you with their car.”

Leave it to Dallas to give it to me straight.

“Well, I didn’t win the cell block modeling competition, so you’re probably right.” I reach into the bag and pull out the chips. Once I’ve opened the bag, I offer it to Dixie and she shakes her head.

“I already ate. Thanks, though.”

Her voice sounds strange. Strained somehow.

“You okay?” Despite my self-imposed ban on checking her out, I turn and examine her for signs of distress.

She avoids my eyes and a heavy weight settles onto my chest.

Maybe I’ve finally done it. Maybe seeing what she saw has finally shown her who I really am, and I didn’t even intend for it to happen.