Dublin Ink by Sienna Blake EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Sienna Blake
- Language: English
- Genre: Women’s Romance Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Aurnia
The red and blue lights flashed wildly on the narrow brick walls of the
alley, exploding against the thick layer of clouds that hung heavy above me,
threatening, as always, rain. If I had been a typical seventeen-year-old—
Christmases split between Ma’s and Da’s, homework copied from a friend
against a locker before class, college brochures piling up in the perfectly
suburban mailbox—the red and blue lights might very well have been
fireworks. A family reunion with frozen hamburger patties and screaming
toddlers. Some public holiday, a three-day weekend spent at the shores of
Rossbeigh Strand in County Kerry with only slightly pervy uncles. A
Saturday night with friends pretending to be drunker than we were off weak
beers stolen from our fathers’ garages.
But I wasn’t a typical seventeen-year-old.
The flashing red and blue lights weren’t fireworks. They were the lights
from a cop car, a cop car I was handcuffed in the back of.
I knew enough of the law, them being more consistent visitors to my
father’s house than dear old Saint Nicholas, to know that they needed very
little excuse to turn things from bad to worse. I’d dropped out of high school
a year earlier, but I honestly don’t think that would have made much of a
difference: it’s not like my Algebra teacher (a big-bellied man whose “oneon-one guidance” involved explaining a problem with his sweaty hand on the
side of your neck, his hot breath against your cheek, and his eyes down your
shirt) was going to go over the negative impact of resisting arrest between the
quadradic equation and solving for “y”. Besides, it was pretty much common
knowledge, right? If you get arrested, ask for an attorney, keep quiet, don’t
make things any worse.
Just a few problems: one, I didn’t have enough money for food most
nights, let alone an attorney. Two, I didn’t exactly do quiet. And three—and
this one’s the kicker—I wanted to make thing worse.
A radio cracked and popped in the front seat, but whatever message was
related about jewellery missing or searched side streets or incoming backup
was inaudible over the slamming of my heels against the hard plastic divider.
The metal of the cuffs cut painfully into my wrists. It was only made
worse when I slid down on the bench to lift my legs, but my rage served as a
kind of shot of adrenaline: all I could really feel was the pounding of my
heart, fast and erratic and showing no signs of slowing down.
I couldn’t feel the strain of my shoulders from my arms being wrenched
behind my back. I couldn’t feel the scrape on my cheek where I’d been
slammed by the officer roughly against the brick wall. I couldn’t feel the
bruises from being tossed, with nothing to catch my fall, into the backseat,
riveted plastic as hard as concrete.
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