October 17th, Sunday
Miles POV

His skin prickles under my hands, paired with a groan that spills out of his beautiful mouth, the sound flooding me with a feeling of power as I grab the hem of his shirt.

We're panting in unison, high on anticipation. I know it because I can feel his breath slipping over my ear as I drag my lips over his neck. I barely know him, but one of the things that I've come to discover is how he lets me know exactly what he's feeling without saying a word. The curious side-eyes, the flustered blushes, the way he moans when I bite at the soft spot under his earlobe, confirming that I found his sweet spot.

Finally, finally, his pretty little hands skim down my back and to the front side of my body—

Bzzt, bzzt. Bzzt, bzzt.

The ground shakes under our feet. The mattress vibrates next to my head.

Bzzt, bzzt.

I inhale sleepily and roll over, my skin hot with the remnants of that dream, hands cold with my empty reality. Between my ears, my brain pulses, thick and heavy with a hangover. I don't have the energy to open my eyes yet. I don't even want to if it means I'll look at the empty side of my mattress. It's cruel to wake up alone after last night.

Last night... That was real. Wasn't it?

I recall Parkers face, the freckle next to his left eye, his cocky smile as he tilted his face up to mine. His hands in my hair, my hips pressed against his. Or was that in the dream? My head aches. I'll separate facts from fiction some other time.

The blankets are soft under my hands as I fumble for my phone. It stops buzzing and I sigh, relieved as I stretch one more time before burrowing back down. Maybe I can go back and finish—

Bzzt, bzzt. Bzzt, bzzt.

"Hijo de puta. Es demasiado pronto para esta mierda," I hiss as I crack my eyes open. My brain sloshes as I force myself up on one elbow. Watery early morning sunlight streams through the blinds, but my posters on the opposite wall are still shrouded in darkness. It's still way too early for anyone to be calling.

My phone has taken residency on the other side of my bed, hanging halfway out from the other pillow. I snatch it up, more biting words building on my tongue to curse the person on the other end. Someone better be dead, dying, or on the way to the hospital.

Whatever creative ideas I came up with immediately melt away. God damn it, I would almost rather see texts that someone died.

The caller ID is lit up. Nueces County Jail.

"Fuck," I curse and scramble to sit up, nearly dropping the phone in my haste to answer it. I never thought to reach out to Parker last night and ask if he made it home safely. That part was real: the cops, escaping the party. I swear to God, if he got swept up in that mess, I'm going to shoot someone. His career will be ruined.

"Hello?" I ask and clear my throat, my mouth thick and swollen from one too many drinks last night. "Who is this? What's going on?"

Instead of the male voice I'm expecting, a cheery, robotic female voice answers. "This is a call from an inmate at Nueces County Jail. This call is subject to monitoring and recording. You have a call from—"

"Josephine Holt," my mom's voice punctures the automation. My stomach sinks so fast that I have to curl my fingernails into my palm to distract myself from puking.

"Please press one to accept this call," the cheery robot informs me as if my life hasn't been completely flipped on its head in the last twenty seconds.

"Fucking—" I inhale sharply and pull the phone away from my ear. My hands shake as I pull up the dial pad, hitting the number one so hard it's a miracle I don't crack the screen. "Fuck. Hi. Hello? Mom?"

"Miles. My god," she gasps out on the other end and immediately switches over to Spanish as her voice cracks. "Sweetheart, I am so sorry. I only have a few minutes, okay? I messed up—"

"Well, no shit." I run my other hand over my curls. "I thought this was a joke."

"No." She hesitates. In the background, voices yell and metal clangs. I squeeze my eyes shut as she keeps talking, more hurried. "I told them it's not what it looked like—okay, that doesn't matter right now. You're the only call I get, okay? They got me with possession with intent."

"Mom. You've got to be fucking kidding me," I snap. My head transitions to a throb and I press my fingers against my temple, expecting to feel my skull bursting out from under my skin. "You promised that you were done. What happened to staying clean? I go out one night and you get arrested?"

"Miles, I understand what this looks like. I do, but I don't need to hear it from you right now. I'll explain later. They will release me on bond if you get here today."

"How much?"

She curses quietly, and I throw my legs over the side of my bed, preparing to get up. When she starts swearing, that's how I know it's bad.

"Fifteen."

Fifteen thousand dollars.

"Oh, my fuck." Seriously, I'd rather drive to a funeral home and confirm somebody's dead body than shuck out fifteen bands. Why couldn't it have been a funeral home calling me?

"I'm so sorry," she chokes, her voice thick with congested tears. Fortunately, she, out of all people, knows to not let them fall in jail. She inhales sharply and I envision her tucking curls behind her ears, rolling her shoulders back as she regains her composure. "It will be okay. If we get me out today, I will miss the bus for the detention facility. I'll miss ICE, and we will be okay. Please, sweetheart."

"Okay, yeah. I hear you," I say as I find my feet and start digging through the pile of clothes on my floor between all of the taped boxes I haven't had the chance to unpack yet. "What's the minimum?"

"Ten percent. I've—" she cuts herself off and I hear the low grumble of a male voice. More voices shout, and she returns to the line. "My time is up, sweetheart. I love you. I am so sorry."

"Love you—" The line disconnects. "...too."

Well.

I throw my phone on the bed, pull on a pair of shorts, and stare at my old basketball trophies on the wall, the only thing I've gotten around to putting on a shelf. They taunt me with their shiny nameplates, engraved with reminders of home. I should've known better. We were never going to escape our past.

Unfortunately, standing around staring at my walls isn't going to help anybody, so I decide to take it one step at a time. Find my wallet. Grab my car keys. Pick up my phone. Unlock it, hover my fingers over the screen. Parker...

No.

He is the only perfect thing in my life, my only friend. The second this transferable bacteria from my life seeps into his, it'll be over. My bad luck is worse than the common cold.

I shut my phone off and add it to my pocket.

The floorboards squeak as I step out into the hallway, and I glance at the door propped open across the hall. Now that I see it, the memory comes back to me. I parked on an empty driveway last night and walked into an empty house. Mom never works that late. If I were sober, I would've known better, and maybe I could've prevented this mess in the first place.

The kitchen is empty, save for the taped boxes on the floor. I walk past them, pausing at a cupboard to open it. I reach past the ramen noodle packets and half-empty jar of peanut butter that we brought with us from Mexico to take out a loaf of bread, devouring two pieces to calm the hurricane of leftover alcohol in my gut before continuing to the freezer.

I'm not a picky eater by any means, but I refuse to eat frozen corn. If it's not fresh off the cob, I won't get near it. The only exception is the half-empty bag that I keep tucked in the back corner of the freezer, the other half full of rolled bills. My dad is a dirty motherfucker, but his one piece of advice that stuck with me was to keep my friends close and my money closer.

I carefully count out what's left of my meager savings, and by the time I'm done tucking bills in empty bean cans stolen from the recycling bin, I only have a few hundred bucks to my name.

I grit my teeth as I throw the cans in a plastic bag and slide my sandals on, slipping out of the house. If this shit show with my mom wasn't enough, Parker definitely wouldn't want to stay friends with someone whose net worth could fit in a tip jar. Even more reason for me to keep my mouth shut.

The Mustang roars to life, but for the first time in a long time, the sound does nothing to help my mood. The tires screech as I peel out of the driveway and I immediately regret it. I'm not exactly in a financial spot where I could afford to get them replaced if I burned them down to the wear bars.

My stomach burns through the carbs by the time I make it across town to the bail bonds place, souring with every passing second. I eye a trash can on the sidewalk once I've parked and gotten out, but I'm a Holt, and Holts don't get sick, even as the rising sun cuts into my eyes and applies more pressure on my growing migraine.

I squint as I walk across the street, keeping a death grip on the handles of my plastic bag. The bail bonds building is sandwiched between a payday loan shack and a deputy registrar office with bars over the windows. A washed-out yellow sign is nailed above the door, the words Fast Bail painted with faded red letters.

A woman wearing her Sunday best puffs on a vape as she passes me on the sidewalk, eyeing me with a big smirk as I step up to the door. I ignore the anger that uncurls deep in my chest as I step around her to enter the building. The scent of cigarettes and copier toner does nothing for my head.

Torn leather chairs line one wall, accompanied by a vending machine that's humming loudly. The TV mounted on the wall is playing a staticky rerun of a court show, and the man sitting at the counsel table looks scarily similar to my father. Sometimes I really hate the cruel jokes of the universe.

"What you here for, boy?"

I flinch, tearing my eyes away from the screen. I walk up to the bulletproof glass, and the old woman behind the counter stares at me coldly through her oval glasses.

"Posting bond. For my mom," I explain.

She doesn't even blink. "Name? I can't read your mind, son."

"Josephine Holt." I set my bag on the counter with a loud clink as the cans fall against each other.

She turns to the computer and starts to pound on the keyboard, her acrylic nails clicking against each key. I glance at her hands and grimace. Nevermind, those nails are as real as they are long. Disgustingly long.

"Fifteen thousand bond, possession with intent..." she says as if she's forecasting the weather. Her chair squeaks as she turns to face me again. "You got the cash? This isn't a food shelf. We don't take green beans." She eyes the cans as I unpack them.

"No, ma'am. I got it." The sharp edge of the can scratches my fingers as I shove my hand in deep, pulling out the bills. The money is still cold from the freezer, but she doesn't complain as I slide it on the tray. My stomach hurts again as I watch her scoop up my hard-earned savings.

She stacks the bills and licks her thumb, counting under her breath as she flips through the stack. A plastic Jesus is nestled next to the security camera on the shelf above her head, and He watches over us as she fills out a form on a dot matrix printer, tearing it off with a loud rip before sliding it under the glass with a cheap pen.

I sign my portion as she explains, "Shouldn't take more than a few hours. Wait outside the fence if you want. Jail don't call us when they're ready, they just kick 'em loose."

"Fantastic," I say dryly. "Thanks for your help."

"Sorry you need my help in the first place." She looks me up and down and frowns. "Stay out of trouble. You're too cute to follow in your mother's footsteps. And get that shit off my counter."

"Yes, ma'am." I sweep my cans back into the bag and turn around, taking my happy ass out of there as fast as I possibly can as the ghost of my dad stares at the back of my head from on the wall.

I don't know how long it takes American jails to process bail, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. I drive all the way to a different corner of the town and park in a small lot across from the designated release exit, taking an empty spot behind a big pickup truck that's been here for so long there's an inch of dust built up on the paint. I can't imagine Parker knows where this jail is at, much less will drive down the street next to it, but I don't want to take any chances of being seen.

I roll down the windows and unearth a weed pen from the glovebox, using this precious time to chill and pull myself together. Vapor rolls out of my nose as I lean my seat back and stare at the tall fence across the street, barb wire coiled on top, protecting the cement building on the other side.

The sight shouldn't shake me—this isn't the first time I've waited outside a jail. Back home, it was a part of life. I showed up, bribed who I need to, kept my mouth shut, and prayed the wrong people wouldn't see me.

This feels different. For the first time in a long time, I'm scared. Not only do I not have the money to take care of the rest of this fucking bond, but I finally have something to lose. I've got a town that feels like home. A school that I don't hate. Friends who actually give a damn...

And Parker.

I don't know what we are, or where we're headed, but I want the chance to find out. One wrong step, and this whole life I'm building could vanish.

It's so overwhelming that I don't know what to do other than drain the juice in this pen and roll onto my side, closing my eyes against the sun that warms the leather seats in my car.

I don't know when I fall asleep, but I must be out for a while because the sun is on the other side of the sky by the time I wake up. My migraine has turned into a bearable pressure that squeezes the crown of my head. I yawn as I sit up, and the weariness from my exhaustion is forgotten as I watch a figure in an orange jumpsuit walk out of the gate.

The engine fires right up, and I get the A/C running cold by the time mom reaches my car. Her curls are a wild mess, tired lines engrave her face, and she's gripping the jail-issued bag with white knuckles. The black apron from her waitressing job sticks out the top, and I almost laugh from the irony.

Her lips pull up as we make eye contact, but I know she's just trying not to sob. I glance at the county logo on her chest as she pulls the door open and I speak in Spanish as I say, "Orange really isn't your color."

"I wasn't about to stay in that goddamned place another minute. I'll change when I'm home and drunk." She throws her bag in the back before getting in, and tears fill her eyes as she leans over the center console and pulls me in a hug. I shut my eyes as I throw my arms around her shoulders. She whispers, "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. I wasn't going to let you stay there for a moment longer." I pull away and rest my hands on the wheel to ground myself as I search her face. "What happened?"

Mom shudders and glances out the windshield, eyeing the jail with distaste. "It's not your problem, sweetheart. This is mine."

"I hate to break it to you—" I wave at her jumpsuit, "—but you've officially made it my fucking problem."

She deflates and wrings her hands in her lap. "Lalo has a string in the States."

One of the men that worked in the ring with dad. My pulse skips. "You're pulling my leg."

"No. One of the guys tracked me down and sat at one of my tables last week. He told me that either I move some product under the radar, or they'll go after Kenya. It was only a few grams of ice—" meth, "but it fit in my purse."

"Jesus." I can feel every ounce of blood pounding through my veins. We left Kenya with my grandparents because they're protected. They're supposed to keep her safe.

"It was nothing. I was supposed to meet a guy behind that discount gas station in Flour Bluff, but he didn't show. A patrol car came around, and all I could think about was your father, and he asked to search the van with his dog. There was no drama, but..."

"But now we're fifteen-thousand dollars deeper in debt. Mom, you've got to be kidding me."

"I am protecting your sister," she argues, her nostrils flaring.

"They set you up!" I start to shout, but immediately grab my bottom lip between my teeth and inhale slowly. "I'm sorry, but you fucked us."

Tears slip down her cheeks as she points at me. "I told you we're going to be okay."

"We have no path to citizenship. If they printed you, they're going to run those prints through ICE. The only thing we have going for us is three hundred dollars and half a jar of peanut butter." I search her eyes wildly, my chest rapidly rising and falling. "No one can protect us, mom. We can't hide, do you understand me?"

I can't help it: I laugh. We're so fucked.

I put my head in my hands and laugh so hard that I sob.