Park Avenue Punk by Aria Cole & Mila Crawford

Author:Aria Cole & Mila Crawford [Cole, Aria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-18T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Jameson

“Hey, hands up, you little fucker!” I heard them draw their weapons at the same time as I heard the words.

Two police officers with handguns, eyes on me.

I broke into a sprint, tossing the near empty can of paint into the nearest trash can, and bolted down a slim alleyway. I slipped between two buildings, leaping on top of a garbage dumpster, and prepared to launch myself across the fence and out of sight, when a baton landed on my ankle. The sound of crushing bones filled my ears.

Fuck. This is it.

“Little fucking punk, you the guy we been lookin’ for?”

I didn’t say a word, only trained my eyes on the ground as they handcuffed me and ducked me into the back of a cop car. My eyes were trained on the water-streaked windows outside, my heart sinking when the cops started the engine and turned toward uptown.

I hadn’t seen Deven in a few days, not since I’d run into her on campus trying to bail on the class we shared. After I’d told her I was sick of denying how I felt about her.

I hadn’t been back to that class since.

I’d decided to give Deven her space, sort of.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t on my mind.

I’d been tagging walls obsessively the last few nights, around the park, but off Fifth too. I’d spent some time in the East Village and around Washington Square, but tonight was my riskiest move. Tonight I’d tackled Wall Street.

Wall Street…my dad… All the excess it’d come to represent had culminated in me attempting to tag a window of the New York Stock Exchange—an amateur move, but copping to the rest of my works of art around the city? I’d rather die first.

By the time we reached the station and I was tagged and booked and offered my first call, I did the only thing I could think to do and called the woman who’d been there for me through everything.

Mom.

But then she didn’t answer, and the officer had cackled when I’d passed the phone back through the window, and then I’d waited. Annoyed at myself most of all. I curled up with the thin wool blanket, head on the painted concrete bench, and planned my next move.

A cold voice rattled me from my sleep later. “Styles.”

“Yeah?” I shot up, instantly on alert when I realized I was still behind bars. From Park Avenue prince to criminal.

“Someone made bail. You’re out for tonight. Don’t miss your hearing tomorrow morning, or your ass will be right back here with me tomorrow night.”

I huffed, nailing him with a glare when the door swung wide and he swept his fat arm to his side to gesture me out.

“Nothing but a rich little punk,” he gritted as I passed him.

“I’m not rich,” I seethed, feeling a twitch in my fist, the need to show him how wrong he was running through my veins as I pushed open the bulletproof doors and found myself at the front of the station.

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