He rubbed his unshaven face, and dried blood flaked into his hand. Great. He needed a shower and an aspirin, but the Boston city jail offered neither. Where the hell was Peter? It had been over an hour.
The sharp edge of the narrow bench he lay on cut into his back, making his already battered body even more sore. He only hoped the other guy felt worse. The jerk had the audacity to call him washed up. For Christ’s sake, he was only twenty-two. He’d accomplished more in the last five years than that asshole would in a lifetime.
Reaching for his phone, he remembered the cops had taken it, along with his wallet and keys. Damn it.
“Garrett Jamieson,” a bored cop with thinning hair announced, unlocking the cell. “You’re free to go.”
“About damn time,” Garrett huffed, rising slowly. He tugged his shirt into place, smoothed back his hair, and followed the officer down a long corridor past several cells with other perps. He couldn’t wait to get away from this hellhole. The officer opened a solid metal security door, and Garrett walked through, relieved to be free.
In the far corner of the waiting room, studying the Most Wanted posters, his brother waited, wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt.
“Hey Peter,” he called. “See anyone you know?”
Peter turned with a smirk on his face and his hair still ruffled from bed. “Just checking to make sure your ugly mug isn’t up here.”
Garrett sneered. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Never is.” Peter sighed. “You realize this is becoming an annoying habit. You’re lucky your Jag is still in the shop from your crash last week, otherwise you might have added drunk driving to your record.”
“Stop acting like an old woman.”
“You have more to worry about than me. Dad isn’t going to be happy about this.”
“No reason Dad needs to hear about it.”
“You’re kidding yourself if you think you can keep this under wraps. A couple of photographers are outside. You’re busted. Again.”
Garrett stepped to the counter and signed his discharge papers.
“At least I know how to live a little. You’re tied down to a ball and chain.”
His brother grinned with a smile that melted millions of young girls’ hearts. “Well, I happen to have the hottest ball and chain on the planet.”
Garrett rolled his eyes as he collected his personal effects. Peter was so in love it made Garrett ill. It’s not like he wasn’t glad for his brother, but Peter and Libby were so damned happy all the time, he wanted to puke.
“Yeah, and you’re missing out on the best years of your life,” Garrett snapped.
“How’s that? I’ve been watching you drink yourself into oblivion, rack up speeding tickets, and pick a fight every chance you get. You don’t look too happy to me.”
“You ever think that maybe you’re to blame?”
“How do you figure that?” Peter asked, opening the door to exit the police station and ducking his head as cameras flashed.
“Seriously?” Garrett stopped suddenly. “You’re the one who broke up the band.”
Angie Stanton never planned on writing books—she wanted to be a Rockette. However, growing up in rural America with her brothers’ 4-H pigs as pets, she found that dance didn’t quite work out. Instead, she became an avid daydreamer. After years of perfecting stories in her head, she began to write them down, and the rest is history. When not writing, she loves watching natural disaster movies, going to Broadway musicals, and dipping French fries in chocolate shakes.
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