14
Jameson
I’m lying down on a cot in the jail cell the cops stuck me in, staring at the ceiling. It’s stiflingly hot in this cell, and the walls are just plain cinder blocks. I’ve been here for six hours, long enough for the cops to have booked me into the system. My fingertips are still black with the now-dry ink.
I haven’t been in here long enough to be wearing anything other than my blood stained shirt and jeans, though. I reflexively touch my face, thinking of the source of most of the blood.
My nose is swollen, sensitive to my touch. I try to ignore that. It’s not hard, because I keep replaying in my mind what happened.
I open the door of the restaurant. I look to my right, and there is pretty little Emma, being slammed up against the building by that douchebag.
Then I lose con
