Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance (22 page)

I get up and walk to the
door.

“Hey, Mason?”

I turn. “Yeah?” I ask.

Dr. Sadler gets up,
removes her wig and sets it on the desk. Now with her natural hair showing, she
walks over to me, saying, “I know this is a troubling time for you and you’re
not used to asking for help, but if Ash feels the same way about you that you feel
about her, she
wants
to help. Maybe
it’s time to start letting her in.”

“Yeah,” I mutter and open
the door.

I leave the office,
feeling—I don’t know what I’m feeling. It’s good, though. I almost feel
lighter, more clearheaded.

Funny thing is I don’t feel
like she really told me anything I didn’t already know. It’s not quantum
physics.

Maybe it’s not the advice
itself, but just getting that motivation, some vague permission to be open,
vulnerable. It was strange that Dr. Sadler was
so
accurate about so many things before we really got talking, but
I guess she’s just that good at her job.

Whatever the case may be,
I don’t worry about calling first, I just head straight over to Ash’s place.
I’ve been holding back, but I didn’t know what to do about it before. I guess I
still don’t really have a definite plan of action, but I
feel
like talking to Ash.

Right now, that’s enough.

I knock on the apartment
door. Jana opens it.

“Hey,” she says. “She’s
not here.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry
to swing by without calling. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Not really,” Jana says.
She looks me up and down like I’m some sort of stranger and then, almost
casually, she says, “Judges do the sentencing, right?”

“Wait, what?” I ask.
“She’s in jail?”

“Yeah,” Jana answers.
“She wanted me to call you, but I never really got around to it. Sorry ‘bout
that.”

“What was she arrested
for?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Something
to do with student loans and—oh, I remember someone saying the word ‘fraud,’
but I didn’t really catch much more than that. It was kinda scary, you know,
having police show up at your door.”

“Where did they take
her?” I ask.

Jana furrows her brow.
“Jail, probably,” she says.

“County or city?” I ask.

“There’s only one jail in
town,” she says. “They probably took her there.”

“Were they local or state
police?” I ask.

“How should I know?” Jana
asks, narrowing her eyes. “Anyway, you should probably go check on her or
something. Last I knew, she’s still not talking to me after I had a perfectly
innocent conversation with her mom, so maybe it’s a good thing she’s got some
time to cool out.”

I just got back from my
therapist’s office and I really don’t want to start yelling at someone within
the same hour, so I just shake my head and walk away.

From the conversation
between Ash and her mom I overheard through the bedroom door, I already know
why this happened. Ash’s parents just used her as their fall guy.

Chapter Eighteen

The Life and Style of Johnson
B. Witherton VI, Esq.

Ash

The water in jail tastes
like sulfur. The food in jail tastes like sulfur. Everything is brimstone for
about five hours and then I’m jarred by a piercing screech from near the cell
door.

“Butcher!” a harsh voice
barks through the intercom. It’s so seldom anyone refers to me with my last
name attached, much less by surname only, that it takes a couple of seconds
before it clicks that he’s talking to me.

“Yes?” I respond.

My cellmates chuckle at
my very non-jail-hardened tone. At least that’s what I think they’re laughing
at. They haven’t really talked to me since I was put in here. They just giggle
and nudge each other at irregular intervals.

It’s kind of like high
school, but here, if you get on the wrong side of the “popular girls,” there’s
a decent chance you’re going to get shanked…whatever that means.

“Grab your stuff and come
out of the cell,” the voice commands.

I don’t know what stuff
he wants me to grab. Other than the Bob Barker soap (I’m not making that up)
and the falling-apart jail clothes, I wasn’t really given a lot.

Not wanting to offend the
two other women in this cramped concrete-and-cinderblock room, I leave the
amenities behind and just stand in front of the door to my cell.

I’m standing here for
about a minute, and I’m really starting to feel a little exposed here. Behind
me, the women, who have literally said nothing to me at all, just continue to
laugh infrequently and seemingly acontextually.

Finally, one of them
finds a modicum of mercy.

“They got the cell
unlocked for you, Porcelain,” one of them says. “You better get out there
before they think you’re tryin’ to resist release or somethin’.”

“Maybe she’s goin’ to the
SHU,” the other one says. “You peeled anyone since you been in yet, Porcelain?”

“No,” I say and, for
reasons I cannot begin to understand, much less explain, I add, “thank you.”

Apparently I’m Porcelain.
I’m not sure if they’re calling me that because I don’t really get much sun or
because I’d be so breakable if one of them decided to “peel” me. I don’t know
what that one means either, but it sounds a lot less pleasant than being
shanked, so I just push against the door, hoping this isn’t some sick joke.

It gives way.

My cell is on the second
level, but it’s an open view. Ever since I came into this block, I could just
see myself going over this cold metal railing in the inevitable riot that would
come once the people in here found out who I am. I guess nobody really cares
who
I
am so much as they’d care about
who my parents are.

Either way, I can just
see the situation devolving into me being held for ransom on a near-daily
basis.

The thick door to the
cellblock opens up and one of the guards steps through. Looking up, he motions
for me to come toward him.

This block is for people
who are either new to jail and haven’t been given their assignments yet, like
me, or are considered too dangerous to be outside a locked cell longer than to
grab a tray and go back to their cell. The guard on the way in got pretty
chatty when she recognized me from the news.

Apparently, this isn’t
going to be a quiet thing.

The point, though, is
that everyone is in their cells and, as far as I know, the only cell that was
unlocked was the one I just came out of. Still, as I’m walking down the metal
stairs, I can feel dozens of eyes on me.

It’s not rational, I
know, but part of me expects that, at any moment, those cell doors are going to
open and I’m going to become the piñata/scapegoat for everyone that’s ever been
jerked around by someone in my parents’ tax bracket.

It’s a very specific fear
to be sure. Fortunately, nothing comes of it.

“Took you about long
enough,” the guard says. “Surprise, surprise: Someone posted your bail. Must be
nice not to have to play by the same rules as everyone else, huh?”

I’m not taking the bait.
At this moment, though no tragedy other than bad food and bad water has really
befallen me, I just want to get out of here and I’m not going to do anything to
delay that.

“I’m ready, officer,” I
tell the slovenly, unshaved guard.

He lifts one corner of
his mouth into a sneer and looks down at me. “Come on, princess. Let’s get you
out of here so you can get back to trampling all over the peasantry.”

People really must hate
my parents.

Of course, right now
I’m
the one that’s in jail, and I
seriously doubt Mason has the kind of nest egg it must have taken to bail me
out of here. Right now, it’s not my parents that people hate. Right now, that
person is me.

I keep my mouth shut as
I’m walking through the halls that always seem to narrow, but never quite close
in entirely.

We get to a room and the
guard holds a card up to a black pad next to the door. There’s a quick beep and
a green light and the guard opens the door.

“Your clothes are in
there,” he says. “Get changed.”

“Thank you,” I tell him.
What do I know? Maybe the guy’s just having a bad day and I might just be able
to help him turn that around.

“Don’t spend too much
time on your makeup princess,” he says. “It’s not going to change the sucking
pit where once there dwelled a heart, now torn and immolated by the anti-social
nature of plutocracy.”

Okay, the guy just takes
politics way too seriously.

“I’ll keep that in mind,”
I tell him and go into the room.

For a brief moment, I’m
thinking that because I’m being released on bail, they’re pretty much done with
the invasions of privacy, assuming I don’t commit any crimes on the way out. Of
course, there’s a female guard in the tiny space, standing next to the clothes
I was wearing when they brought me in.

She stays in the room,
her eyes quite active while I go through the process of returning their garb.
We don’t talk.

Now dressed and ready,
I’m led down another hallway. We go through three separate passkey-locked doors
before we get to an area with an exit sign that actually means something.

“See you soon, honey,”
the new guard says, giving me what I’m hoping is meant to be an encouraging pat
on the butt.

I’m feeling pretty good
about things until someone new is telling me, “This way.”

The third guard now leads
me away from the exit and down another hallway. We get a couple of doors in and
he opens one, motioning for me to go inside.

“What is this?” I ask. “I
thought you were letting me go.”

“I was told to bring you
by here before releasing you,” the guard says. “I’m just doing my job, ma’am.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of
not
doing your—fine, whatever,” I say
and enter the new room.

No sooner am I past the
doorway than I spot the person who must have paid my bail: Johnson B. Witherton
VI, Esq.

“Ashley,” the aging
lawyer says, getting up from his seat and motioning toward mine. “If you’ll
close the door and have a seat.”

I do.

“Am I getting out of here
or what?” I ask.

“First off, let me tell
you how deeply sorry I am that you are in the position you’re in right now,” he
says.

“I’m glad
someone’s
going to apologize,” I
respond. “Did my parents tell you I was actually involved in their little
scheme?”

“I can’t talk about other
clients,” the lawyer says. “First off—”

“You already did a ‘first
off,’” I interrupt.

“So I did,” he responds
with a painfully fake laugh. “Well, second off, then,” he says. “My fees are
taken care of, and I will be your attorney throughout this unfortunate
business. Let me assure you, they have no case. All that’s happening is that
enemies of your parents are trying to hurt them by hurting you. There is
no
justification for what they’re doing
and it is absolutely criminal,
criminal
that they would attempt to hurt my clients by setting their sights on—”

“Mr. Witherton?” I
interrupt. “Is someone listening in on this conversation, or did you forget
that me and my parents do, occasionally, talk?”

The lawyer stops and
takes a breath. A beautiful smile comes over his face and he says, “Your bail
will be processed here momentarily. There was a little hiccup, but things are
all squared away. I just didn’t want to have you sitting in that cell a moment
longer than you had to.”

“One cell for another,” I
say. “Great.”

“I’m going to go make
sure everything is taken care of, and when I come back, I want you to walk with
me. There are some people I think you should talk to before we go too much
farther,” Mr. Witherton says.

“Where are my doting
parents?” I ask.

“I don’t keep track of my
clients’ whereabouts twenty-four hours a day!” he comes back, almost yelling.

I blink a few times. “Mr.
Witherton, who are you talking to right now?”

“I’m very sorry,” he
says. “It’s just stuff like this makes me so mad!”

Okay, this guy’s in on
it. I don’t know what part he played, but from the bizarre way he’s acting,
he’s got to be in this deeper than just knowing about it.

“Mr. Witherton?” I ask.

“Yes?” he returns.

He’s not inspiring a
whole lot of confidence right now.

“Two things: My bail and
my parents,” I answer. “Which one do we want to discuss first?”

“I’ll go take care of
your bail here,” he says. “Just wait in here. I had to pull some strings to get
you some privacy while I’m taking care of getting you out of here.”

My suspicions that my
parents are going to try to pin this all on me somehow are only growing. I
mean, the man ended his last three sentences with the same word. Who trusts a
person like that?

“The faster you go, the
faster I get out of here,” I tell him and he finally leaves the room.

I lean up against the
wall as there’s nowhere to sit other than the floor. Given that this room
smells unmistakably of urine, I’d like to avoid that if possible.

Okay, so the lawyer’s in
on this to some degree or another, and with as nervous as he seems to be around
me, I’d say he knows that something pretty bad is coming my way. Maybe I’m just
paranoid from being in the joint, but the world’s so much different than I
remember it.

For one thing, I’m making
jokes to myself while standing alone in a concrete box.

Johnson B. Witherton VI,
Esq. comes back into the room after a few minutes, and I’m wondering why he
didn’t just get this taken care of already. Still, I’m happy enough to get out
that I’m not going to start asking too many real questions until I’m outside
this building.

“I’m going to take you to
see some people now,” Johnson says.

Seriously, did this guy
tell my parents to just blame everything on me and he’s feeling that guilty
about it or is he just not much of a people person?

“Fine,” I tell him. “Can
we go?”

“Of course,” he says and
goes to the door of the room. “Did you notice?” he asks.

“What’s that?” I respond.

“They agreed to leave the
door to this room unlocked while we’re using it,” he says. “The chief owed me a
favor, and I felt that
you
should be
the beneficiary of it!”

“Would you mind giving me
a demonstration and then maybe showing me some more doors that you can open?” I
ask.

“Of course,” he says and
finally opens the door.

We walk back to the room
with the actual exit and we leave the building. I haven’t even been in here a
day, but I could swear the air actually does smell a little sweeter than I
remember.

Maybe it’s finally being
out of the urine room my parents’ favorite lawyer was so proud of getting for
me.

“My car is the platinum
Lexus on the third row,” Johnson says.

“You mean the silver
one?” I ask. I know my parents’ crowd well enough to know that question is
going to be going through his mind until he sells the car. Maybe it’s a mean
thing to do, but I really just don’t like this guy.

“Actually, I brought in a
friend who specializes in color palettes and he confirmed that the color was
clearly platinum,” Johnson retorts.

“Ooh,” I mock, holding up
my hands.

I’m in a bit of a mood.

We’re no less than twenty
feet away from the car when I start to make out the silhouettes of people in
the backseat, obstructed by the car’s tinted windows. I breathe in slowly
through my nose and take as close to an equal amount of time exhaling through
my mouth.

Either the people in the
back of the car are my parents or they’re hitmen. I’m not sure which I’d be
less enthusiastic about seeing.