Darcy didn’t respond; he was too busy grabbing the arms of his desk chair—which prevented him from throwing things through the window. Is there a word for when you ask for information from someone and all the news they give you is bad? There should be.
He could only imagine the footage on cable news if he were led away from his house in handcuffs. His career would be over. His fans might have forgiven the first infraction, but a second—along with abandoning an injured woman? Darcy would probably be blacklisted.
He wished he could talk to Elizabeth. He didn’t know what she would say to him, but just hearing her voice would help soothe the ragged edges of his nerves. Probably the worst part of this ordeal was that he didn’t know how she was faring. He wouldn’t be surprised if she found herself doubting his innocence. That was only to be expected.
“Do you want to consider a plea agreement?”
“No.” Cradling the phone against his shoulder, Darcy opened his liquor cabinet and poured a generous, fortifying portion of scotch, enjoying the burn as the first gulp slid down his throat.
Burton sighed. “Okay, but you’re playing a dangerous game here, Will.”
“I’m not playing any game,” he growled at the lawyer. “I’m trying to save my butt without hurting someone else in the process.” It shouldn’t be that hard to do.
“Just so you understand, the next time we have this conversation it might be inside a jail cell.”
Darcy hung up before Burton could issue any more doomsday pronouncements.
He opened up his contacts and stared at Elizabeth’s name, his thumb hovering over her number. It would be so easy. With the tap of his finger, he could unblock her number and hear her voice within a minute. He could arrange to see her. Somehow he knew that with her hand in his, all of this would be less overwhelming.
At least a dozen times today, he had picked up the phone determined to dial her number, no matter the consequences. He threw the phone onto the desk with an oath. It wasn’t Burton’s prohibition that had stopped him from calling her. It was fear. He was better off not knowing for sure how she felt about him. Better to think that she believed in him. If he called, he might be forced to face the certain knowledge that she hated him. He knew it was cowardly. He knew he was hiding behind the legal restrictions. But it was better to preserve the possibility of hope than face the certainty of loss.
He swallowed more scotch and eyed the bottle. Enough to achieve complete oblivion for the night. Enough to forget his fear that he had lost Elizabeth forever. Even if she believed him, would she want to date the man accused of hurting her sister?
If the media learned of their relationship, they would have a feeding frenzy, haunting their every step. They would make Elizabeth’s life hell. For his sake and for hers, he should have already given up any hope of a relationship, but he didn’t have much else keeping him going at the moment.
He knocked back some more scotch and refilled his glass.
The time he had wasted! If he only he had gotten his head out of his ass earlier instead of worrying that she wasn’t the kind of woman he should be seen with. Why hadn’t he recognized earlier that his “obsession” with Elizabeth was love? They could have had months together, and Lydia’s accident might not have happened at all.
Why had fate given him Elizabeth Bennet only to yank her away?
Darcy thumped his glass down on the liquor cabinet. On second thought, he didn’t have the energy to get drunk. Why bother? His life would be a royal mess with or without a hangover. What a depressing thought.
He glanced at the clock. It was only 9 p.m. and way too early for sleep, but lethargy seemed to weigh down his limbs. Bed seemed the only sensible destination.
He hoisted himself from the chair and trudged toward the door. At least while he slept, he wouldn’t think about Elizabeth. He could only pray he wouldn’t dream about her.
***
The lobby of True Colors was a busy place. On one side, a bunch of kids were playing or watching video games, cheering or reacting to things that happened on the screen. On the other side, two girls played air hockey while a boy and someone of indeterminate gender were hunched over a computer together. Elizabeth was the only one occupying the big, squishy mismatched sofas near the door, but it wasn’t long before Garrett bounced into the room. She would swear he had grown a little taller, and he had dyed his dark hair a bright blue.
“Hey, Ms. Bennet! You wanted to see me?” He sank into the worn sofa across from hers. The color might have been green at one time, but it was now an indeterminate gray.
“Yeah.” She summoned a smile for him. There was undoubtedly trauma in his background—as there was for most of the kids at the shelter—but Garrett always had a quick smile and cheerful disposition.
“How are things going?”
A broad grin spread across his face. “Great! I’ve got a part-time gig working with the sound designer for Sonic Boom 3. The tagline is”—he held up his hands—“‘The loudest movie you’ve ever heard.’ It’s been a blast.” He shoved his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “But I guess you didn’t come all the way out here to check on me, did you?”
“No.” Garrett was the fifth person she’d approached about helping Will, and it didn’t get any easier. But she was determined. “You heard about Will’s troubles? That he was accused of hurting my sister?”
Garrett’s expression darkened. “I don’t think Mr. Darcy could have done it. He told me he doesn’t have anything to do with drugs, and I believe him. I don’t care what the police say, he’s not the kind of guy who—”
“Whoa!” Elizabeth cut the teen off. “I agree with you.”
His eyes widened. “You do?”
“Absolutely. You were on the set; you saw how he avoided Lydia.”