I wait, and nothing comes through for half an hour. My anger starts to bubble. How dare he not even acknowledge me? Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?
I angrily text back.
At least have the guts to say what you want to.
A text immediately bounces back.
Move on, I have.
I read the message and then read the message again through tears . . . what?
Just like that . . . move on?
Fucking asshole.
I get up and throw my phone as hard as I can. The screen smashes on the coffee table. I’m
so fucking furious that I have absolutely no control of the situation. I storm into the bathroom, I get under the shower, and, unable to help it, I cry . . . and cry . . . and cry. Howling sobs, and my chest is heaving hard as I hold myself up against the tiles.
Tears of anger, tears of frustration, tears of heartbreak.
I knew it was coming . . . deep down, all along, I knew it was coming, but holy fuck . . . it hurts.
Jameson
I drop my shoulders in the back of my limo as I steel myself for what I’m about to do.
“Are you sure about this?” Alan asks as he opens the door.
“Yes. It is what it is; I’m not hiding any longer,” I say as I climb out of the car. I look up at the New York Police Department sign above the door, and I walk through.
The policeman at the front desk smiles. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, my name is Jameson Miles, and I would like to hand myself in.”
The policeman’s face falters. “You are wanted?”
“I was involved in a fistfight with a man named Gabriel Ferrara and then went to the hospital. I was unaware until late last night that you were looking for me. My apologies for taking so long to get here.”
The policeman smiles. “Thank you for coming in.” He opens a door at the side of reception. “Please come this way.”
Five hours later, I stand on the pavement outside the Ferrara building and look up to the top floors. I dial a number that I’ve had for years but have never called.
“Gabriel Ferrara,” the deep voice answers.
“It’s Jameson Miles. I’m out in front of your building. Get down here now.”
I hang up and inhale deeply. I lean my behind on my limo.
After having spent the last five hours in the police station, I am not in the mood to wait for this prick, but I need to say what I need to say, or it’s going to keep festering inside of me.
I told the police that my punch on Ferrara was self-defense and that they need to check the security footage. I’m not sure if it will stick, but it will give me some time. The police were actually okay and told me that seeing he flicked the cigar at me first, I will probably only be charged with common assault and given a good behavior bond.
That, I can deal with.
Gabriel Ferrara appears through the front door, flanked by four security guards.
His eye is black and his cheekbone swollen. I smirk as I see his fucked-up face.