Page 78 of Played
"He put his hands on you."
"I know, but—"
"In my parking lot."
"Reeves—"
He pulls away, jaw set. "Go sit in my office."
"I can handle—"
"Office. Now."
I don't argue. My legs won't hold me much longer anyway.
I sink into the old leather chair behind his desk. The room smells like stale coffee and must. Reeves' voice filters through the door, clipped and furious as he talks to the police. I close my eyes, willing my heartbeat to slow.
The door opens.
"They want us to come in," Reeves says. "Give a statement."
"I can go myself."
"Not happening." He grabs his jacket off the hook. "Greg's got the bar. We're leaving now."
"Reeves—"
"Don't." His tone softens, just slightly. "Don't argue with me on this. You're shaking, you're terrified, and that asshole's stillout there. So we're going to the station, we're filing a report, and then I'm driving you to Julian's."
My eyes sting. "Thank you."
He nods once. "Come on."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The police station smells like disinfectant, a sharp, sterile tang that makes my stomach tighten the moment we walk through the sliding glass doors. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, too bright, too white, like they’re trying to bleach every shadow out of the room. I wish they could do the same to my thoughts.
Reeves stays close to me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel his steadiness like a hand at the small of my back. He’s wearing his old leather jacket, the one that smells faintly of cedar and soap, and for a second, I focus on that instead of the way my heart is slamming against my ribs.
A uniformed officer looks up from behind the front desk. His expression shifts the moment he sees my face—pale, eyes too wide, hands twisted together like I might wring them clean off.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“She’s here to file a restraining order,” Reeves says gently, his voice low and calm. “Against her ex.”
The officer nods, already reaching for a clipboard. “All right. Let’s get you somewhere private.”
We pass a row of plastic chairs bolted to the floor, a couple arguing in hushed, furious whispers, a man slumped forward with his head in his hands. A TV mounted high on the wall plays the news. No one looks happy here. No one looks surprised, either.
They lead us into a small interview room. Beige walls. A metal table scarred with old scratches. Three chairs, and a camera dome in the corner of the ceiling stares down at us, unblinking.
“Have a seat,” the officer says.
I sit, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else. Reeves takes the chair beside me, angling his body toward mine, a quiet shield.
Another officer comes in—female this time, older, with tired eyes and a voice that’s practiced but not unkind. She introduces herself, then clicks a pen and looks at me steadily.
