48 | Speeding Ticket

MIÉRCOLES

5:25 PM

Reid Harlow

"Anything going on at home?" I prompt, strapping Dahlia behind her seatbelt. I needed something to do with my hands, and in came the conclusion of buckling her into safety, ignoring the heated gaze of her stare and the steadiness of her breath as my fingers traced the edge of the belt, grazing her skin. It was something that definitely got my mind off the cigarettes.

"What...what do you know about emotional abuse?" Dahlia asks loosely, her breath in her throat. Normally, it would take a minute or two to wrestle the information out of her, but this time, she didn't bother to wait. It was as if it was exhausting, and she no longer felt like carrying the weight on her shoulders.

That's fucking fine by me.

"Emotional abuse?" I repeat, to which she wearily nods. I'm slightly taken off-guard, and I didn't think before I replied. Fuck, she was the only thing I was thinking of. "Isn't that...isn't that in the fucking name? When someone hurts you emotionally?"

She gives me a look, one that screams she wasn't trying to mess around and play games, but her shoulder relaxes and her breathing grows steady. She's still a bit tense, but she swallows hard, drops her gaze to the leg compartment of the car, the silence deafening. I wasn't fucking dumb enough to not connect the dots between her question and her father, but the unfamiliar term stings the tip of my tongue.

Is that what's it called?

"It's probably really stupid," Dahlia begins to say, as I open my mouth to object, "but Aysa told me about that word and ever since, I can't stop thinking about it."

I pause for a second, "was it about your dad?"

She doesn't meet my gaze, but nods softly. I fucking knew it.

"Well, I don't fucking know much about emotional abuse, but from the name, I'm guessing it deals with emotions." She looks back up, her eyes narrowing down at me, and she's trying hard to conceal a smile beginning to split on her lips—and somewhat mine. My breath hitch in my throat, "let me fucking finish."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You're fucking smiling at me."

"I'm listening to you."

Fuck, Dahlia, you're making it hard not to kiss you.

I tear my gaze away from hers, settling on the dashboard, and calming my racing heart. I heave a breath, "as I was trying to say—why didn't you try searching it up?"

She responds with silence.

And in the quietest voice, she mumbles, "it makes it real."

I immediately turn back to her.

Delicacy traces across every inch of her features, with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks. She pulls her full lips together in a thin line, a silent testimony to her vulnerability and her inability to rely more on the topic. I understood her well enough—knowing her, reading her—that I didn't bother trying to press for more details.

I lean across the center console and cup her chin, reeling her back into reality. She flicks her gaze up to meet mine, lips parted, so fucking innocent and so fucking inviting. "You don't have to say anything now, alright? I'm always here for you. Whenever you're ready, whenever you want to talk." I pause, letting my promise sink in, "unless your dad wants to do some dumb shit. You tell me that immediately."

A faint smile slips on her face before she nods, her head dipping within my palm. I lock my jaw, the urge to kiss the fuck out of her and overwhelms my senses. I want to do it so fucking badly. It's almost perfect: her, here, with me, in my hand, just a couple of centimeters away.

But I don't.

"You know," Dahlia breathes softly, her breath fanning against my skin, her hand catching my wrist holding her chin, "you're quite possibly the best thing that's ever happened to me."

My heart clenches.

I don't say anything, slipping away from her touch, and returning back to the cushion of my seat. One of my hands pulled into a tight fist, so tightly, knuckles growing white and I could feel them trembling under the intensity of my grip. I don't allow her to see them.

I swallow hard, "we should begin our lesson."

I don't turn to catch the look on her face, and I'll admit that's a cowardly act, but I can't fucking choose my options right now. If I look at her, right now, I know there's absolutely nothing that can stop me from kissing her and crossing the very thin line I've been trying to draw for myself. For her.

"Oh, okay." I hear her respond softly, nodding her head once and starting the engine. She begins to reverse out of the desolated parking lot, making a turn.

And I can't stop thinking about what she said.

Because I know for a fucking fact that she's the best fucking thing that's ever happened to me.

And I could never let her know.

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MIÉRCOLES

7:24 PM

Reid Harlow

God, I fucking hate cops.

For the past couple of hours, Dahlia and I have been driving around the area, taking in landmarks and memorizing roads. It wasn't a bad lesson, especially since she managed to grasp nearly all of the functions of the car down—parking, signal turning, parallel parking—and she's been getting comfortable behind the driver seat.

She's not afraid of touching the wheel anymore and her shoulders aren't stiff when she enters the car. She watches the road carefully, she can breathe normally, and she doesn't have to worry about me yelling at her or pushing her into a panic attack.

The only fucking problem is: Dahlia was speeding down an empty road, and before I got the chance to correct her or tell her to deescalate her speed before a cop trails after us, we see a red-blue light flashing in the rear mirror with an annoying ass siren.

After giving her instructions to pull off to the curb, Dahlia puts the car in park and immediately turns to me.

She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Her chest is laboring breaths, her voice in her throat, and her eyes are wide and struck with fear. "I—" She cuts off, tears prickling the corner of her eyes. "I—"

My brows pull together—not exactly knowing what's going on—but knowing it's serious. Dahlia's hands are in her lap, and trembling. She's attempting to clench and unclench to relieve some anxiety building up, but nothing's working. Her eyes pointedly on me, waiting for a response, a help—anything.

"Harlow," she whispers, her voice cracking, "I can't—"

She closes her eyes for a second, trying to regain her composure, as I see the cop pulling up behind us and parking. I return my attention back to her, the clock ticking.

"Harlow." She calls for me, opening her eyes with fear striking her irises and her breathing growing ragged, her chest rising and falling without rhythm. "I can't—I can't breathe. I can't—"

It's a panic attack.

"Hey, hey, hey," I cup under her chin, training her eyes on me. Not on the cop approaching us from behind, or the flashing lights sitting on the back window. Just me. "It's okay, alright. Just listen to me, follow my voice." Dahlia nods once, her eyes glossy. "Where's your inhaler?"

"Po-pocket," she chokes, making no attempt to reach inside of her denim jacket. I nod, taking my free hand and maneuvering inside of her pocket, pulling out the inhaler and offering it to her. She takes it into her hands, pumps the canister when the plastic is between her teeth, and she breathes for a second.

"Alright, listen to me," I repeat, causing her eyes to shift away from the cop quickly coming closer. "Come through the back and sit there. Don't look the cop in the eyes, don't say anything, just lower your gaze to the floor, okay?"

She doesn't say anything, her eyes on mine, and I click the buckle, releasing the seatbelt. "Go."

I pull back as she tremblingly climbs through the center console, her legs wobbling on the seat before collapsing on the backseat row. Her inhaler tightly held in her left palm, her gaze on me for a second, before dropping to the floor.

I unbuckle myself from the passenger side and quickly climb over the driver seat, just five seconds before the cop begins knocking at the window. I roll down the glass. "License and registration."

Sighing, I reach into my pocket and pull out my driver license, before reluctantly reaching over to the compartment and taking out the registration for the Mustang. The cop—Marshall—takes both into his hands, flashing his little flashlight over the name.

"It said this vehicle is registered under Presley Young," Marshall comments, sparing a glance at me. "And you're not him."

"He's my brother," I explain, before pausing for a moment, "foster brother."

The cop hums in reply, but peels his eyes off of me, taking a glance to the back—where Dahlia is resting and trying to regain her composure. I follow his gaze, noticing how Dahlia is stiffening under his scrutiny. I grit my jaw. "Hey," I snap my fingers in front of him, forcing him to turn back to me. "You're not dealing with her, you're dealing with me. So could you stop fucking looking at her and tell me why you stopped me?"

I notice Marshall grits his teeth, agitated by my reaction. "You were going seventy-eight miles per hour in a fifty miles speed limit," he pauses, "and you have your seatbelt undone."

Fuck, I forgot. I clench down my jaw, "am I going to get a ticket or what?"

"You were." Marshall states, sparing a glance over his shoulder, "but I need to go to the back for a minute. Stay here."

I nod tightly, as the officer walks away and I turn back to Dahlia.

"Hey," I whisper, catching Dahlia's attention. "How you feeling?"

She swallows hard, taking another hit of the inhaler, "scared." She answers softly, sparing a glance over her shoulder. "You shouldn't have been so rude to the officer."

"Fuck that cop," I declare, "I need to know how you're doing. I don't give two shits about him."

Dahlia faintly smiles through her tired expression and the cop returns. Her expression quickly neutralized.

"I need you to come down to the station with me, Reid." The officer commands, planting a hand on the door.

I pull my brows, "for a speeding ticket?"

"This isn't the first time you got caught in a car," he declares roughly, taking another peek at Dahlia. I was this close to punching a police officer. "You have a track record with vehicles, especially stolen vehicles."

I grit my teeth, forgetting my little record of arrests. "What about her?" I nod my head to Dahlia in the back, "where does she go?"

He pauses for a second, "she can come down the station with you."

"Can she go home?"

"No—" I hear Dahlia say from behind the seat, causing both of us to turn around. Her cheeks are flush, she's trying to contain her breathing patterns, "I can...I can come down with him?"

The officer looks pleased. "Alright, come on out, Reid."

The cop originally wanted to take me to the back of his car, while asking Dahlia to follow in after him. When I told him that's not going to happen because a) she doesn't have a driving license, b) I'm not going to let her drive alone when she's already panicking—we finally compromise on letting me drive as long as the cop is trailing after us.

We got to the station and I sat in a dingy plastic chair waiting to be processed. They're collecting my information, my arrest, and giving a call to Presley and my family to check for verification before moving ahead. This entire time–Dahlia sits on the side, waiting patiently.

"Dahlia," I lean back against the chair, my ass growing sore from sitting on this uncomfortable seat for the past two hours, "go home."

"No." She shakes her head stubbornly, crushing a piece of her jacket within her palm. She refuses to budge from her spot ever since we got here. I told her to go grab some food, get a drink, anything—but she does everything but listen to me.

"Call your mom."

"No."

"Dahlia."

"No." She answers sharply, narrowing her eyes at me. I would be fucking lying if I said I didn't find it a bit hot, "I'm not going anywhere until you get discharged. Or a lawyer. Or whatever is happening." She huffs, slouching in her seat as her wild hair frames her face. "I don't care if we're here all night."

She's making me smile.

It's hard to contain a grin, staring at Dahlia, especially when her loyalty lies so deep. I'm already close to falling in love with her, and practically anything she does is interesting to me, but her, here, even when I offer countless outs means more.

"We're going to be stuck here forever," I warn, leaning back against my seat. "Since my crime is minor."

"It's just a speeding ticket."

"It's more than a speeding ticket if they're trying to book me."

Dahlia makes a face, visibly upset about the way the justice system is set up. She mumbles something under her breath in Spanish, speaking hastily and repeating the same swear over and over again. I find it kinda cute, especially since I understood about half those words.

She finishes with a heavy sigh, her brows pulled together and a pout settles on her lips. Dahlia slouches back against her seat, eyeing each officer that passes by us and makes a face at them, as if her expressions were some sort of protest. Sometimes they make me chuckle, other times they make me laugh. But all of them—made me smile.

"This isn't fair." Dahlia complains, turning to me with a frown. "I should've gotten caught. Maybe they would've just given me a speeding ticket—"

"You were having a fucking panic attack," I cut her off with a reminder. "I don't care if I'm getting booked and it's going to take me twelve hours in processing—you were having a fucking panic attack because of this, and I wasn't going to let you deal with that. Not with me."

She doesn't say anything, but her expression loosens. She couldn't exactly argue with me on the situation, and I wasn't expecting one. I've seen her in one of her panic attacks, and it fucking breaks my heart to not be able to do something about it. Now, I did.

"You never told me what your previous arrests were," Dahlia mumbles quietly, moving on from the conversation. I cock a brow at her.

I eye her, "you never asked."

"Well," she sucks in her cheeks, pushing herself up into a straightening position. "Now, I am."

I think for a moment, mentally listing all of my prior arrests. "Do you want to hear the ones related to cars, or just in general?"

Her eyes widened. "There's more?"

"I've gotten arrested seven or eight times. Four of them deal with random offenses, but at least three of them deal with cars."

"Um," she considers her options, "alphabetize them?"

I chuckle, before reciting them—in alphabet order. "Assault and battery with one of the foster family's biological kids, three grand theft auto charges—from hotwiring a car and driving it around the city, to attempting to drift with another stolen car. I pawned a couple of jewelry pieces from my foster homes to make some cash, I smashed one of my foster father's car for not giving me and a couple other kids food, and I stole from a gas station."

Dahlia's eyes are wide as I told her all of my charges, and for a split second, I thought she would think differently of me. Of the guy who's an asshole, but somewhat has a streak record of being a criminal as well. I mean, I can't exactly take back my past—it is who I am to survive—but for a second, the lingering doubt of insecurity rings to me.

She doesn't say anything, even as minutes pass, and it makes me more anxious. I need to hear her thoughts, on everything—on me. The only fucking person's opinion that matters to me, is hers.

"Say something." I urge, my voice nearly desperate. She turns to me, with a loose expression and a tilt of her head.

"You know that song from Britney Spears?" She prompts, her attention defocusing, as she tries to find the title of the song. I shake my head once. "That's what I'm thinking about right now."

I pull my brows together, because whatever the fuck I was expecting that was not it. "You're not...you don't think of me differently?"

"For what?" She asks, "your arrests?"

"Yeah. I thought—I don't fucking know, you would think of me differently."

"I trust you." She said simply, "your past—that means nothing to me. I trust who you are now, and your decisions now. Nothing's going to change that."

That made me smile. "I'm technically getting arrested now."

"Shush," she holds a finger to her lip, her eyes bright, "that doesn't count. You did that for me. Still, nothing has changed."

Dahlia is honestly the perfect fucking girl.

"Harlow!" I hear someone shout from the front, forcing me to stand up from my position to see Sebastian and Presley coming in together, their concerning eyes reading the entire room before they land on me. "Hey, that's my son!"

Dahlia stands up and pulls to the space beside me, watching how Sebastian goes to the front of the station and begins to speak fluently and quickly, his gaze fierce and burning. Almost like he's in court.

"Isn't your dad a lawyer?" She queries quietly, tilting her head to the side.

I scoff, remembering the details myself. "He is."

And this police station is about to get fucked.

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hi! thank you for the overwhelming support in assuring me my writing is actually not as bad as i thought it was. it really help, bc what i thought was bad, yall thought was actually really good. i love you for that.

last, since we're almost hitting the 50s, and you have read a majority of my story, i have a question: what draw you to Going 78 Miles Per Hour and what made you stay?