Page 47 of Bent, Not Broken

“Slater?” someone said nearby, the British accent crisp, and Evan stepped back so fast I stumbled. He didn’t try to catch me. Luck would have it, I was a well-trained drunk, so I righted myself. Frowning, I straightened the lapels on my suit jacket. Evan was gaping, a guilty look if I ever saw one, at someone…. My mind struggled as I stared across the way at the familiar man.

“Paxton?” Evan said the name like a question as he stared, brows knit, at the attractive, muscled blond man who had his arm around a tall, slim redhead. The baby-faced ginger tilted his head to the side to study all of us like we were in a bad reality TV drama.

“You’re the cop who hid my client,” I said, excited when my fuzzy braincells came together with the Hail Mary. “Officer Paxton, that was very rude.” Evan stomped on my foot. “Ouch.” I hopped away and glared at him.

“Okay, then….” Paxton dragged the man with him forward like he was presenting a prize on a gameshow. “Slater, this is my husband, Alex.” It was difficult to miss the kind tone in Paxton’s voice, but Evan’s cheeks lit up like a supernova and burned with a brilliant blush.

“Hello,” the redhead said with a small wave, still obviously confused, but struggling to be polite.

“Darling,” Paxton said, his rich British accent carrying over the late-night crowd, “this is my partner, Officer Slater. I work with him.”

Alex reached forward, and Evan gave him a very manly handshake in return that I thought was probably overkill. Paxton sent me a sort of pitying look that had my stomach flipping and my blood boiling at the same time. I’m not sure why anger worked its way to settle like a hot coal in my gut. I knew from the beginning how this would go, but seeing it play out, seeing how quickly Evan backed off from me when someone he knew was around, made me feel stupid all over again. I broke eye contact with Paxton and walked down the street away from them, dragging my phone out of my pocket to get an Uber.

“What are you doing?” Evan asked as he came to a stop beside me, easily catching up. I didn’t bother to ask what sort of excuse he’d given his work friend for following me.

“Going home.”

“Without me?”

Hurt, I stopped to look at him, and I was ready to say yes and tell him to go to hell, but instead I shook my head—no.

“I’ll drive. I haven’t had much.” He glanced behind himself, and I looked too. His partner was gone, into the club with his man.

“Was that his boyfriend?”

“Husband,” Slater reminded me offhand, and that seemed right to my fuzzy brain. He didn’t sound disgusted or upset about the husband part, just stated facts. Confused and all at once tired, I continued through the app to get a ride.

“I’m going home.”

“But—”

I stood on my tiptoes to give him a kiss and grazed his chin instead.

“Good night.” Feeling foolish, I walked away from him and sat down on a bench near a bus stop. Beginning to feel unwell, I buried my face in my hands. I hadn’t bothered to put through the order for the Uber. I didn’t want to go home without him, but I was starting to actually feel bad with the charade of it all. What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

Chapter 13

Evan

Before Madden—Polunin—I used to stare at Molly during shrink sessions. It was easier to imagine what it would be like to fuck the psych rather than listen to her drone about homework and some shit about ACT. I never understood what she wanted me to do, but apparently it was some kind of therapy bullshit about improving yourself, where she’d give me work to do at home to put myself in a better mind frame. I didn’t need it, but I had to pretend to at least be interested so she would sign me off for duty.

Today was just another one of those days, except I was in a fouler mood than usual because of Polunin and the way he had stormed off a couple of nights ago at Sinful. I’d tried to message him in that time, but the answers I received were short, and he said he was too busy with work to meet up.

I called bullshit on his excuse. It’s the same one I used when I didn’t want to hang out with chicks anymore. A lay was just that—a lay. I hated how much I’d become like one of those desperate women, so eager to hear back from the guy she had a one-night stand with. Well, fuck that. I wasn’t going to become one of them. Polunin could kiss my ass.

“Evan?” Molly’s voice startled me out of my thoughts and my gaze slid from the artwork of a bowl of fruit hanging on the wall to her face.

She reminded me of an old-school model, with fluffy dark hair and makeup soft enough that you would assume it was her natural look. She had thin red cat-eye glasses propped up on her narrow nose and a pad of paper resting on her crossed knees, a pink pen with a flamingo on the top end clutched in her hand. The dress she wore was beige, but it had the cut like those fifties-styled dresses that seemed to be coming back into fashion. I’d seen more than one woman wearing them at the clubs, although they had more color than Molly’s.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me what you’re thinking?” She tapped the tip of her pen on the paper and smiled sympathetically at me.

I shrugged and leaned back into the brown leather couch I’d propped up on. The room itself wasn’t anything spectacular, just another office in the police station with a few pots of greenery and cream walls with boring paintings hanging in strategic places where eyes could find them. When I first came to a session, I wondered if it was a psych mind game, but when I asked Molly, she merely laughed and changed the topic. One painting to the left reminded me of those crazy black inkblots they showed criminally insane people in movies.

Molly sat on a leather chair a similar color to mine, but instead of a three-seater, it only fit her curvy body. “Has your father called you again?”

“A few times.”