Page 4 of No Take Backs
Yeah, I’m already planning my night.
Joshua Jason Harmon, you pull your head out of your ass and stop flirting with that woman from across the room. Go make me some grandbabies.
My mom’s voice echoes in my head, making me smile at what I know she’d say if she saw me thinking about introducing myself and asking her if she’d like to meet up after my shift.
The roller rink is a cacophony of noise and chaos that should completely destroy my thoughts. The remnants of a birthday party that left a trail of discarded paper plates, half-eaten cake, and sugared-up kids bouncing off the walls. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, casting a sterile glow on the brightly colored floor all around, where random skaters circle lazily between tables, some children clinging to the railings while others glide effortlessly across the rink.
Parents sit at the tables lining the rink, gossiping and keeping half an eye on their children, though most seem more interested in their conversations than what their kids are up to. The air smells faintly of popcorn and that peculiar, plasticky scent that seems to permeate every roller rink I’ve ever been to.
As I sit, trying to fend off the migraine that’s been threatening to explode all day, my attention drifts back to Blaine, the man responsible for dragging me into this childish hellhole. He’s talking about our upcoming fishing trip, but I can see his eyes keep drifting to one of the moms across the room. She’s pretty in that wholesome, all-American way, and I can’t help but smirk at the way Blaine’s trying—and failing—to be subtle about checking her out.
The only bright spot in this sensory overload is the fun I’ve been having giving him shit about it, teasing him mercilessly every time his gaze lingers a little too long. It’s a small distraction, but it’s enough to keep my mind off the pounding in my head—at least for now.
A scream tears through the air around us, and I turn to see Blaine surge up from the table and catch one of the kids by the back of his hoodie as he runs by.
“I don’t think so, little dude.”
The boy is just a scrawny little thing with a mop of unruly hair. He turns his head and glares defiantly at Blaine over his shoulder. He’s holding something in his hand, something that, at first glance, makes my heart skip a beat. It’s a snake—small, but unmistakably real—with its red belly flashing ominously under the rink’s harsh lights. The creature writhes and twists in the kid’s grip, its beady eyes scanning the room as if it’s just as confused about its current predicament as the rest of us.
The kid, oblivious to the fear he’s just caused, looks up at Blaine with a cocky smirk, as if he’s done nothing wrong. “Come on,” he says, his voice dripping with that teenage bravado that only comes with the certainty of invincibility. “It’s harmless. I just wanted to show her.”
That’s when I stand up, all thoughts of the woman with the gray eyes forgotten. Blaine Standish, my friend, and the only reason I stopped in Belfast on my last ever shift as a Maine State police officer, looks like he is ready to murder a teenager, and I really don’t want to have to arrest him.
“You wanted to scare her.”
The little girl in question is clutching a woman our age, while tears stream down her face.
“Not cool, kiddo. Not cool at all.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt her.”
I scoff, unable to help myself. But neither the kid nor Blaine turn in my direction. Instead, Blaine narrows his eyes at the kid he is still holding by the hoodie.
“Maybe not physically but look at her. Doesn’t she look hurt to you?” I swear I see him shake the hoodie a little, just for good measure.
Damn. Just like always, Blaine has a way of getting straight to the point and making it impossible to ignore what is really going on.
“I thought it was fun.”
I cringe at the uncouth way the kid throws the words out, and I step forward to give him the cop stare. The one I give to every single person I arrest to ensure they know exactly how bad they fucked up.
“But are you having fun now when you look at her?” Blaine’s voice cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and precise, demanding an answer.
He crosses his arms over his chest, a signal that he’s done playing games, and lets go of the kid’s hoodie, though the weight of his glare keeps the boy rooted to the spot. Blaine’s eyebrows are drawn together, his gaze hard and unforgiving as he stares down at the kid, forcing him to confront the consequences of his actions.
The silence that follows is heavy, filled with unspoken words and the uncomfortable realization that what the kid thought was fun has caused real harm.
The boy’s eyes dart back to the little girl, who is still trembling in her mother’s arms, and I can see the guilt settling in, a weight that’s new and unfamiliar to him. The kid flushes. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” My friend shifts, barely, but his chin juts forward slightly. “Now I want you to let him go—outside. And then I want you to come in and apologize to Addison.”
“Fine,” the kid grumbles and kicks a bag at his feet, drawing my attention away from their conversation.
When it hits its side, the contents come tumbling out, and the migraine I’ve been fighting all day comes roaring to life with the force of a thousand suns.
“We’ve got a problem.” The words hurt even as I say them, but I’m already making a mental list of what needs to be done and who I have to call.
Fuck my luck.