First and Forever (Heartache Duet #2) - Jay McLean Page 0,85
by red and blue lights. “Trevor, stop!” I yell, and he’s too busy laughing to hear me.
I rush toward them, glaring at my neighbor. “The cops are here!”
Mom’s head throws back with her cackle. “What are they going to do, Ava?” she shouts over the rain. “Handcuff me?”
Two uniformed officers get out of the cruiser, while Trevor and I stand side by side, ignoring Mom as she continues to sing.
“Is there a problem, officers?” I ask when they approach.
They’re two males. The younger of the two is tall, a solid wall of muscle, and the other one’s shorter and rounder around the gut. The tall one says, “We had a noise complaint.”
I shake my head. “We were just out here—”
“In the rain?” the short one cuts in.
I nod, wipe the water from my eyes. “Is that illegal?”
“No,” says the taller one, and I can already tell he’s the nicer of the two. I look at his badge—L. Preston—and he must know my brother because he asks, “Trevor?”
“Hey, Leo.”
“You know each other?” I ask, looking between them. Behind me, Mom’s still singing, still blissfully happy.
“He’s one of Tom Preston’s boys.”
“Oh.” That explains the name.
“Look,” says Leo, “we have to come out if there’s a complaint made, but it looks like y’all are just having—”
“They’re disturbing the neighborhood!” my neighbor yells. I’ve never even spoken to him before, and I don’t understand what the fuck his problem is. “Look at all the people watching! They’re all scared. Who knows what that drunk bitch will do—”
“Don’t fucking call her that!” I shout.
“Ava,” Trevor sighs, shaking his head. “He’s not worth it.”
Our neighbor laughs. “Yeah, listen to that—”
I don’t hear the word, but I know what he said. It’s prejudice. Bigoted. Rage fills my bloodline as I take a step forward. “You racist piece of—”
Trevor holds me back, covers my mouth with his palm. But I’m not the one he needs to worry about. Mom screams, pushing past me. Within milliseconds, she has the guy by his collar, his face an inch from hers. “What the fuck did you call my son?!”
“You heard me, you crazy bitch.”
It seems so slow—at least in my head—the way her head tilts back… right before she slams it in his face. Blood pools from the guy’s nose, and Mom doesn’t release him. She does it again. And again. And I can hear the screams of the people around me, see the ones herding their children back into their homes. Trevor releases me, but it’s too damn late.
“I want her arrested!” the fucker orders, and fat cop moves around me, his grip harsh on Mom’s shoulders. She turns to him. “Don’t you dare touch me!” She swings at his head, and it’s the moment everything speeds up again. His baton comes out, strikes the back of her leg, and she falls to the ground with a wail of a cry. She’s yelling, words incoherent, and my heart falters in my chest. She’s kicking, and she’s screaming, and I know that she’s begging, but no one else would, because no one else knows her like I do. A flash of white flickers near her stomach—a taser—and I come to. Scream at the top of my lungs. “Don’t hurt her!” I can’t see through my tears, can’t hear through my cries as she gets picked up, dragged to the car. Leo Preston is beside me now, cursing under his breath. I rush to the car, trying to pry the officer’s hands off my mother. “Leave her. She didn’t do anything!”
“She attacked me!” the fucker of a neighbor yells, holding a hand to his nose.
“Fuck you!” I scream.
Trevor’s behind me, pulling me away, as the cop gets Mom in the car and closes the door. She sits perfectly still, her chin in the air. But when she turns to me, my blood runs cold. There’s no emotion in her expression. No life in her eyes. Another set of lights appears, this one from an ambulance. They stop in front of the cop car, on the wrong side of the road. Connor’s dad hops out first, his eyes finding mine. “Ava? What happened?”
I look back at my mother while Trevor releases me slowly. Hand raised, I hold my palm to the window, my vision blurred by the tears, and I croak, breathless, “Mama…”
Connor
Connor: Hmm. I feel like your lack of contact means maybe you hate the present… I hope you realize it’s not just an old mayonnaise container.