Chapter Thirteen.
SULLIVAN promised Collins before the night began that she was in for an interesting one if she continued to hang around him, but this is one promise he wouldn't have minded not keeping.
Due to the less than picturesque conversation he had with Arthur back in the gym, in addition to the fact that he feels that his heart has become a crumpled piece of paper that's been tossed in a garbage bin, he wastes no time scooping Collins up and whisking her as far away from the school as he can. Fortunately, he's become very good at pretending and putting on the facade that his mood hasn't dropped off a fucking cliff from the time he picked her up from her house to now.
They decide that instead of wasting away at some godforsaken high school after party — because God knows how that ended up last time — that they'll be going to a swanky, modern bar downtown in the heart of the city. Collins and Sullivan are smart enough to bring a change of clothes with them so they can transition well into the young adults that they're trying to play. And, well, they do a fantastic job. (His mother would be so proud if she could see him in action.) Without incident, they're able to infiltrate Steele's Pit Stop and confirm seats right by the bartender.
"We'll have a few rounds of your finest tequila, sir," Sullivan announces, keeping his tone even and smooth just how his mother told him. He takes out the (fake) ID and a fifty stashed away in his front pocket and passes it to the bartender who analyzes it warily. With a quick glance up at Sullivan's face and back down at the ID, he passes it back and leaves to fetch the shots.
Collins scoffs. "Lemme see that!" She snatches the ID from off the counter top and squints down at it, chocolate irises studying the plastic as if it were the answers to a midterm exam. "Where in the fuck did you get this good of a fake ID, Clayton Jericho?" She asks with an incredulous look.
SJ shrugs nonchalantly, though, not without reciprocating a sly wink as a part of his reply. "I happen to have some well-established connections."
"It also says here you're an organ donor?" Collins raises a playful brow, gently nudging her elbow against his side. "How considerate." He laughs as the shots are placed in front of them, taking a moment to look at the sophomore in front of him.
He starts off by telling her, "We ain't tryin' to get white girl wasted tonight, yeah? I gotta get the both of us home without incident. These are the only shots we're having tonight. Alright?"
Those aren't the only shots they have that night.
An hour, four rounds, and a two and a half beers later, both parties are, indeed, white girl wasted. It's not something that they have done on purpose by any means — things just happen.
Time becomes immeasurable as the pair dance and laugh and drink some more; it's the type of fun that arrives too late and leaves too soon. By the time Sullivan has enough sense to look down at his watch to check the time, it's already almost two o'clock in the morning. Collins' parents are going to kill him for bringing her home past curfew and as drunk as a skunk.
"Shit, I gotta get you home," Sullivan announces as he helps her up onto a stool by the bar because Lord knows she can't help herself. He's a bit bigger than her so his condition isn't as bad as hers since he's still able to comprehend some things around him, but neither are in shape to be driving anywhere. Handing his keys to the bartender to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, he turns around and tells Collins, "I'm gonna go out and call a taxi, okay? Don't get into any shit while I'm gone." After she gives a reassuring nod and giggle, Sully bids her one last look before turning and retreating out the bar to call up a taxi for the both of him and to call Sadie so she could call Collins' folks and pretend to be her friend she's staying the night with. (Siblings have to be good for something.) Five minutes later he returns back to the bar but not without a sight he doesn't want to see.
A guy probably in his late twenties is hovering over Collins, and despite the frown pulling on her lips and her hands constantly pushing his chest for him to step away from her, he still hovers over her like a predator to his prey. SJ wastes no time stalking back over to his friend, his mouth pulling into the familiar scowl that he was born with.
"I said leave me alone!" Collins speaks again, her voice firm yet slurred.
"C'mon, sweetheart, why're you playing hard to get? You know you want to talk to me," the guy replies with a fiendish smirk, his burly hands tugging on Collins' own delicate ones. At the sight of someone trying to take advantage of a female, his friend, Sullivan's blood boils.
He barks, "Hey." Two pairs of eyes look at him, one filled with relief and the other with irritation. "The lady told you to leave her alone, and that doesn't need repeating. Lay off, alright?" Without another word, the grown man — Sullivan will call him Pervy Paul from now on because this guy reminds him of the generic, creepy old guys loitering parties in hopes to take advantage of young girls — pushes Collins' wrists away from his chest rather excessively, his chest swelling up as he burns lasers into Sullivan's being.
If looks could kill.
"I suggest you mind your goddamn business, kid." The amount of venom and acidity in his tone can be enough to burn a hole through the counter-top right besides him. However, SJ doesn't back down from a fight with anybody when he has a point to prove, even when he's drunk out of his mind.
He lets out a humorless chuckle and shuffles his feet so he's closer to Collins, hiding the girl behind his back and letting her clutch his t-shirt with dainty hands. Raking his fingers through disheveled brown hair, the young man puts on a condescending smile before beginning to speak. He's gonna wish he hadn't.
"Well you see, sir, it is kind of my business considering this young lady came to this bar with me. Though, even if she didn't, I wouldn't just sit back like the rest of these assholes and watch a girl get harassed with attention she clearly didn't want. We don't live in the 60's anymore, dude. It's fucking 2017. Movies aren't a nickel, we aren't in the Cold War anymore, and we get women's consent before we touch them. So why don't you just scamper off and bathe in the nearest pool of Axe with your fraternity brothers before I get a little impatient."
"The little noodle's got jokes, don't ya?" Pervy Paul replies, giving Sully's chest a shove. At this point, Sully knows better than to pick a fight with a man that looks like he can bench him for at least twenty reps. However, he's a drunk idiot — he's also a sober idiot but drinking just makes his decision making even worse — and all of his bravado has been built from the familiar urge to prove to this guy he's messing with the wrong guy.
With a snort, his lips tilt in a familiarly impish fashion, his hands pressing against the adult's chest and pushing him backwards. Ignoring the rising volume of the people around him and the amount of people telling him to stop, he continues. "Oh, I have so much more than jokes. I have a phone, which I'm going to use to call the police if you don't get the fuck away from me an—"
He doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before the guy punches Sullivan in the nose. Without any time to react, all he can do is let his head whip back in response to the punch. He can already feel the blood begin to seep out his nostrils like a broken sink, and he touches a hand to the blood before setting his sights back on Pervy Paul. "Oh fuck, I can't believe you've done this," he deadpans. Calmly, he sets down his phone and moves Collins further back out of the way, and SJ welcomes the fight he has brought upon himself.
Even though he's drunk and the punches he lands are sloppy and uncoordinated, they're still effective, nonetheless. All the years of fighting and the classes he's taken have finally given him something useful. In fact, the only real reason he's still fighting is because he hasn't felt a rush like this in a long time, and the side of him that craves recklessness has finally come out to play. The people around them begin to try to pull them apart, but Sully shows no mercy, and he isn't going to let this match end by draw. Whipping his arm around, he grabs a bottle off of the counter top and cracks it down against his opponent's head without remorse, watching as he hits the ground like dead weight.
Stunned, all the crowd can do is switch their gaze from the unconscious man to the guy standing over him with half a bottle in his hands before tossing it to the side.
Collins says quietly, "Shit, SJ ..."
He takes her arm and nudges her towards the bartender without word, politely requesting for him to make sure she gets home safely and gives the guy his address. His request is granted, though, he doesn't know of anyone who wouldn't say yes right after watching him knock someone twice his size unconscious. His mood has dropped for the second time tonight, and he doesn't really feel like being around anybody — he needs time to think. Just as he turns his back and attempts to leave the bar, his dilated pupils widen at the brief sight of the gleam of two gold badges and walkie-talkies.
The young man doesn't even have time to think of an escape plan before he hears a booming voice approach his way. "What seems to be the problem here, folks ..." The voice belongs to a male police officer, and his blood freezes over when he catches the face of the man about to arrest him.
"It's you!" The police officer yells, surprised.
"It's you," Sullivan murmurs, exasperated. Just as he thought his luck couldn't have gotten any worse — this is the same police officer he happened to knock out after his first Richmond party. It's almost as if the universe is trying to get him killed on purpose.
To say that this is the quickest arrest known to the history of mankind would've been the understatement of the century. As soon as the cop sees Sully's face the handcuffs are already being attached to his wrist and before he knows it, he's in the back of a cop car being shipped off to the precinct. At this point his mood has fallen off the side of a ravine, so he ignores the conversation happening in front of him. He even ignores the 'Is that the boy that knocked you out?' and the 'Shut up, Dash Stevens.' that follows.
Even when they escort him into the precinct and into the interrogation room, Sullivan doesn't say a word. They think it's because he feels bad about what he's done, but he knows that he'll never feel bad about defending his friend, and he'd do the same thing every single time. What he does feel bad for, though, is the fact that when he gets home he is a dead man. The thought sobers him up rather quickly.
As soon as his butt hits the cool texture of the metal chair in the interrogation room, the first thing he says is, "I want a lawyer." As a Maxwell, it's required that you know the laws of the land like your own name, and he knows that they can't ask him a damned thing, which gives him a few more minutes to sit and sulk by himself.
Five minutes past, then ten, then fifteen, and his eyes are still glued to the peeling paint of the ivory wall in front of him. His ears perk up with the turning of the door knob, and he looks up to the man that will change his life forever.
Sullivan didn't know what it is about this man in front of him as he waltzed in, but it's as if his presence demanded attention, and it's given to him effortlessly. The man couldn't have been older than his mid-thirties, olive skin and green eyes a major contrast from the white walls surrounding them. He's wearing nothing fancy by all means, just a black hoodie and a pair of jeans — it is three in the morning, after all — but he wears it with all the confidence in the world. This is a man of stature, he decides, a man that knows what he wants and when he wants it. This both intrigues and worries Sullivan.
"You still pouting? Jesus, it's like a fucking funeral in here."
Sullivan's facial expression shifts on account of his words, and his eyebrow lifts ever so slightly with curiosity at the newcomer. "You my lawyer?" He questions, intrigued.
He nods. "Correct. I am the one who has been chosen to represent you. You better be glad I was actually up at this ungodly hour, otherwise you would've been stuck with some fucking moron who got all his tricks by watching Law and Order."
"I'm pretty sure you ain't supposed to cuss at me."
"And I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to assault police officers, sneak into bars while underage, and hit people over the head with bottles."
Folding his arms over his chest, SJ gives a small scoff. "Touche." He waves his hands, giving the man the floor. "You now have my undivided attention, sir."
He says, "As it should be." The man smirks, perfectly white teeth gleaming back at the young man. "Have no fear, kid. I'm not trying to toss you aside to get a paycheck. Consider me a friend."
"Friends know each other's names."
It's the man's turn to scoff. "You don't think I know your name, Sullivan Maxwell?"
Sully raises an eyebrow. "You heard of me?"
"It doesn't take security clearance from the president to hear about the best con family coming in your city from your local justice system." He shrugs. "Considering I'm a man of the law, I had to meet one of the family members. It's one of the reasons I chose to be down here."
"What's the other reason?" Sullivan's question earns him another mischievous smirk from the man sitting across from him.
He speaks, "You are as clever as I read. The papers don't lie, I guess."
Sully is now fully invested into this man's mystery. What he originally thought was going to be another shit show in addition to the pile he has already going for him is now Pandora's box sitting on his lap. The man sitting in front of him is more of a mystery to him than his father (and that is definitely saying something), and he can only hope his relationship with this man would be better than his sperm donor. The only problem that lingers in the air is his question — why is he here?
SJ replies, "The papers tell what you want them to. Now, why are you here?"
"I'm Abasi El Sayed, and I'm here to change your life."
He certainly isn't lying.