Curvy Girls Can't Date Bad Boys - Kelsie Stelting Page 0,74
was enough to distract some of the officers. Plus, I confessed to the crimes DP had “committed.” They didn’t need more evidence than that, did they?
I leaned my head back against the cold metal bars. I felt like a colossal failure. I'd gotten Ronan into this publicity mess, and I felt like I’d made the world's most feeble attempt at getting him out of it. Talking into a microphone? Writing on the dock with what basically equated to a Magic Marker? Weak.
Not only had I done so little, but this would surely land me a one-way ticket to expulsion. I could only imagine the heyday Birdie would have with my psychological state and blatant disregard for my future. Clearly not all the decisions I made would be the right ones.
Time seemed to pass slowly, especially since I could feel the eyes of the other women on me. Someone tried to talk to me, but I kept my face straight ahead. I didn't know these people, and I definitely didn't trust them. My own father had basically sold me into marriage, and he wasn’t a criminal.
Familiar shouting reached my ears, and my eyes widened.
“GET MY DAUGHTER OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW... NO, SHE WILL NOT BE SPEAKING TO YOU WITHOUT AN ATTOURNEY.”
My dad was here?
The officer spoke dulcetly in response, but clearly it didn’t work because my father yelled, “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I COULD BURY YOU WITH MY POCKET CHANGE!”
“Oh damn,” a woman across the cell muttered.
They burst into the room, the officer right behind my dad, and I saw anger and worry in his eyes. “Zara!” he cried, rushing to me. “Get her out of here,” he said in a deadly voice. “Unlock this, now.”
The cop took his sweet time putting his key in the lock and twisting it so it made a heavy clicking sound.
Dad shot the gate open and held me in his arms tighter than I ever remembered him holding me. He ran his hands through my hair. “Zara, thank God you're okay.”
I reflexively hugged him back. This was my dad. The man I'd cried with and grieved with after my mother died. But then, as I stepped out of the cell, all of the feelings of betrayal came right back.
I stepped away from him distrustfully. “What are you doing here?”
The old lady cackled from the cell and said, “You tell him, sweetheart.”
I glanced over my shoulder at her and marched out of the police station. He followed behind me, quietly for once. When we got outside and into the open spring air, I whirled on him. “What are you doing here?” I asked again.
He slowly licked his lips, a sign that he was thinking of something. But there was no way to just explain away his behavior—his utter absence and then utter presence.
“What did you expect me to do when they told me my daughter was in jail?” he finally said.
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know, maybe turn your back on me like you did when I didn't accept your arranged marriage to further your career?”
His eyes shined in the streetlights. I almost thought I was mistaken, because this man didn't cry. The only time I've ever seen him cry was the day my mother died, and then after that, it was back to business. The business of his production company, the business of being a father but not a caregiver. But right now, his eyes were red, and he whispered, “You were right. Your mother would be ashamed of me.”
“Why did you do it?” I asked. I had to. His actions just didn't make sense. The father who raised me never would have signed a deal with the Alexanders like that. I think that’s what hurt the most.
He looked around us, like he was worried someone might overhear, but when he realized there was no one outside the police station, not at this hour, he whispered, “I'm losing the house, Zara.”
My eyes flew open. “What?” There was no way I had heard him right. How did this align with him paying the Alexanders for Ryde to marry me?
He hung his head, hardly able to meet my eyes. “The business has struggled the last two years, we took some risks we didn't need to, and we passed on some things that would have been sure money. I was ashamed, and I hated the thought of you not having everything you deserved in life.”
This still didn’t seem right. “If we’re running out of