Rock Hardest (Bad Boy Bandmates & Babies)

It was worse than I thought. Ana was on the floor, soaked in gas, Bevis and Butthead adding even more as she screamed.

The can dropped with a thump, Bevis’s skull leaving quite a hole in the old plaster. Butthead tried to run yet was caught by his hair. The long Jesus-like locks acted as the perfect handle.

Once he had been dropped like a roped calf, I got on top of him, pounding his head into the carpet like a UFC take down, only stopping when the sirens started. I realized Ana had called 911 and I was glad. My arms were tired, anyway.

Once the cops were there, I was handcuffed, as were the other crusaders turned martyrs—at least the ones who weren’t taken to the hospital— as the uniforms drilled Ana for an account of what really happened.

Then they took me down to the station and put me into a small, sterile room without so much as a cup of water. Pettiness was their prerogative, to be fair, though cuffing me to the chair seemed like overkill.

With a click and a clack, another duo trooped in, moving in lockstep to the other side of the table. A tiny camera on the ceiling was recording it all, and it seemed as if that was for their security as much as mine.

The storm had subsided, and the danger had passed. Those who would do harm to my dear friend had been dealt with, leaving nothing but a controlled calm.

“Quite a mess you left back there,” Good Cop said, her tone chummy.

“Except for the gas; that was them,” I replied. “Tell me, detective, which is worse: self-defense or arson?”

I had them there. Good cop and Bad Cop exchanged a glance, clearly not sure where the question had come from.

“You didn’t ask for legal counsel; why is that?” Bad Cop asked.

“Don’t need it,” I said with a shrug.

“Why?” Good Cop asked, genuinely.

“Because I didn’t do anything. Under state law and according to the security tapes, I could have legally shot them all through the head and claimed self-defense. In comparison to what the law allows, what I did was lenient.”

“Lenient?” Bad Cop demanded, slamming down a file.

“Uh, a little help here? My hands are kind of occupied.”

After another moment of amusement, at least for me, he flipped open the file and spread out the photos. How he got them so fast was anyone’s guess. He’d probably paid off some folks in forensics.

“Looks like it hurt,” I said, feigning empathy.

“You could have killed them,” Good Cop said, stopping Bad Cop as he opened his mouth.

“Right, I could have but I didn’t. Am I in trouble for not being violent enough? I’m originally from Norway and still not quite familiar with all your American customs.”

Bad Cop was halfway across the table before Good Cop pulled him back, his ham fists still flying impotently. Once help had been called, he was escorted from the room, his raging rants still audible in the hall.

“Not too familiar with irony, is he?” I asked.

“Nope,” Good Cop agreed, retaking her seat. “He also doesn’t like foreigners, musicians, or people who are smarter than him.”

“Wow, I’m a triple-threat. So, are you going to let me go, or is there going to be bail involved?”

“No bail; you’re considered too dangerous. You really savaged them, man. The fact you didn’t use a conventional weapon only looks worse for you. You really could have killed them with nothing but your body and a hefty record album, with six against one odds. That’s some John Wick shit. I’ve got to put you in holding, then probably remand.”

“Can you take off my handcuffs?” I asked.

“I’ll have to ask.”

I sat tight until she came back a few moments later, silence reigning in the hall, Bad Cop probably haven been taken away to a safe, happy place with fluffy plushies and Disney movies.

“Okay, the brass says I can uncuff you, but you have to promise you won’t do anything stupid. One foot out of place and the uniforms will tase you into a coma, clear?”

“Crystal.”

My wrists popped free with a wave of relief. Keeping my hands where she could see them, Good Cop took me down the holding cells, the door clanking shut behind me.

The irony really wasn’t lost. With the goons in the hospital, one of them close to critical, I looked very much like the villain of the drama. Whereas, had I not been there, Ana would have been dead and no one would know why or how— least of all the police department.

The goon squad had clearly planned it all out. Their shoes were covered with shower caps and the firebugs were wearing gloves as they handled the gas cans. There would be no evidence to be found. Fate was really funny sometimes.

As I sat in my human cage, my thoughts turned to those I loved. Ana was likely still being questioned. The story she told, while perfectly true, was not the one they wanted to hear.