Night 5
At the jail in the municipal complex, people loiter outside on phones while taxis roll through the parking lot, unloading and picking up a steady
stream of haggard, stumbling tourists. Kevin and I jump out of his Land Rover and hurry across the cracked, uneven pavement toward the front entrance. It doesn’t take long to spot Bruce inside the lobby, looking frantic next to a potted palm and a rotating fan.
“What on earth happened?” Kevin asks his stricken partner.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Bruce looks to me, sweat beading on his forehead. “My French sucks.”
“You had one job, sweetheart. You two were barely gone an hour,” Kevin chides. “How did this happen?”
“We were sitting at the bar. That spot by the marina with karaoke on Thursday nights and the strong mai tais,” Bruce rushes to explain. “Short little man comes up and starts shouting at us out of nowhere. No idea who he was or where he came from. Couldn’t understand a word he said. He’s fuming, pointing his finger at Tucker’s chest. I step in and get him to walk away. Then about twenty minutes later,
two cops walk in, put Tucker in handcuffs, and walk out. I paid a guy on a scooter thirty bucks to let me hop on and follow them here.”
“That’s it?” I ask in dismay. “He didn’t talk to anyone else? On the street? Sideswipe someone on the road? Tap a bumper?”
“Nope, not a thing. He didn’t even get up to use the restroom.” Bruce fans a hand over his forehead. Poor guy looks like he ran here from the other side of the island. Face red and shirt damp against his skin. “I’m so sorry, Sabrina. I don’t get it.”
“We’ll get it sorted,” Kevin assures me.
With his help translating, we find an officer to escort me back to general holding to see Tucker. He’s in a cell with about twenty other men. Mostly young, drunk, and American. Plus the loud Irish guy slurring at the guard, who ignores him while reading a cooking magazine at a small desk against the wall.
When he sees me walk in, Tucker jumps to his feet and hugs the bars. “Sabrina, I swear—”
“Two minutes,” the officer barks with a thick accent.
“Don’t worry, I know,” I tell Tucker. “Bruce filled us in.” He releases a long sigh and slumps against the bars.
“Hell of a vacation, huh?” He manages a weak smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have walked away in the middle of the conversation. That wasn’t fair.”
“It’s okay. We both got worked up.”
“I don’t want to fight anymore.” He shakes his head a few times, as if reprimanding himself. “I’m sorry I managed to make this trip worse.”
“Time’s up,” the guard announces from the doorway.
I glance over with narrowed eyes. “That was not two minutes.”
The uniform-clad man just smirks.
Turning back to Tucker, I give him a reassuring grin. “Baby, I didn’t spend three years at Harvard Law to let my
husband rot in jail on my honeymoon. Watch your woman work.”
With Kevin’s assistance again, we get the shift supervisor to come out front to speak with us. Apparently he’s the only one around here who’s fluent in English.
I’m fired up before the man even says hello, demanding to see the charging documents and whatever evidence they have against Tucker.
In return, he tries blowing us off. “You have to come back tomorrow,” he says with a shrug.
“Absolutely not. You’re wrongfully holding an American citizen, and I’m not leaving until I know what he’s been charged with.”
We go around like this a few times until I make myself enough of a pain in the ass that he stomps off to collect the paperwork just to get rid of me. The report ends up being in French, so Kevin translates it for us. Essentially, it says the man who apparently accosted Tucker and Bruce waved down the cops to accuse Tucker of shoplifting from his store and causing some vandalism and destruction of property.
“There’s no way,” Bruce insists. “I caught Tucker before he left the house, and we drove straight to the bar. We didn’t stop anywhere else.”
I frown. “And Tuck and I haven’t left the house except to go to your place, the beach, or your fishing trip. We’ve literally been trapped inside since we stepped foot on the island. They’ve got the wrong guy.”
Once more, I tell the officer at the reception desk that I need to speak to the shift supervisor, who is trying to make himself inconspicuous while watching us from the other side of a door behind the desk.
“Listen, you’ve got my client locked up back there.” I narrow my eyes at the desk jockey. “If someone doesn’t come talk to me, I’m going to come back here with ten more lawyers and the U.S. Ambassador, and you’re going to
explain why you’ve locked up an innocent man without evidence and refused to give him access to his attorney.”
The officer reluctantly gets up. An animated conversation takes place behind the door before the shift supervisor again approaches the three of us. And again he tries to shove us off, insisting they have to hold Tucker until his arraignment in the morning.
I cock my head in challenge. “You searched him, right?
Were the supposed stolen goods on his person?” The man’s silence is answer enough.
“Did you find them in the Jeep?” Again, just sullen silence.
“No. Because your plaintiff fingered the wrong man. Now, if you’d like, I can get security camera footage from our house, GPS data from his Jeep and cellphone, plus a dozen witnesses who saw him sitting on a barstool, and then bring a lawsuit against your department for false imprisonment. Or, you can admit your mistake, let him go, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
After some more back and forth and about forty minutes hanging around the cramped, humid lobby, my husband finally walks out with his personal effects in a plastic bag.
“You’re my hero,” he says with breathless relief, shoving his wallet and phone back in his pockets before tossing the bag in the trash.
“Marrying a lawyer means never having to spend a night in jail,” I tease as he wraps me in his arms.
We step outside, where Kevin and Bruce walk ahead of us toward the parking lot, as if they know we need a minute.
“I’m sorry too, by the way.” I stop walking and loop my arms around Tucker’s neck. “You’re right. I don’t want to fight either. I had no idea you felt neglected. I feel so—”
“Hey, let’s talk about it at home,” he cuts in, then tangles his fingers through my hair. “Right now, I just need this.”
He brings my chin up to kiss me. His hands, meanwhile, roam to grab my ass like he hasn’t seen a woman in months.
I laugh against his hungry lips. “You were only in jail for a few hours.”
“I’m a changed man, baby. You don’t know the things I’ve seen.”
Then with a smack on my butt, he takes my hand and leads me to Kevin’s SUV. After stopping at the marina to pick up our Jeep, we head back to the house.
“I’m sorry I stormed off,” he says, watching me drop my purse on the hall table.
“I’m sorry I caused you to storm off.”
“You didn’t cause it.” His lips quirk in a smile. “I was just being an immature ass. To be honest, I’m not even mad about anything.”
“That’s not true,” I chide.
“I’m really not mad,” he protests.
“Maybe not mad, but you’re definitely frustrated. And not just with your job.” I give him a pointed look. “You think I don’t make you a priority.”
“Sabrina—”
“And there might be some truth to that,” I finish, biting my lip. “My life has always been hectic. I can’t even remember a time when I wasn’t juggling two or three jobs with school and chores and whatever else needed doing. And then we had a kid and”—I groan—“I love her, I really do, but she’s a full-time job.”
“I get it. Jamie’s exhausting.”
“And I just assumed that if you were ever unhappy or feeling neglected, you would tell me. I always make a point to ask—”
“I know you do,” he interrupts, and it’s his turn to groan. “You always ask, and I love you for it. This is on me. I’m the one who always brushes it off because I don’t want to stress you out.”
“Your happiness shouldn’t be brushed off, Tuck.”
He shrugs. “Your happiness is more important to me. Can’t help it, that’s just how I feel. Making you and Jamie happy is what makes me happy.”
“Not always.” I lift a brow. “You said you want me to make us a priority, remember? Well, that’s what I’m going to do from now on. But you need to promise to be more honest about what you need, okay? Because I’m not a mind reader.”
“I know.” He smiles again, shamefaced. “I’ll try to be better at that.”
“Good. And I’ll try to be better about showing you that you’re my number one. Always.”
“Good,” he mimics.
We stand there for a moment, just grinning at each other. I guess Hope was right—sometimes couples do need to fight. Who knows how much deeper the roots of resentment would’ve dug in if everything hadn’t rushed to the surface on this trip.
“So…” He tips his head. “Can we go to bed now?” “Why are we still even down here?”
In the blink of an eye, he practically chases me up the stairs until he corners me at the foot of the bed and presses his lips to mine. His tongue slides through my parted lips while he roughly peels my clothes off.
“You’re incredible,” he growls.
“You’re just saying that because you almost became someone’s prison boyfriend.”
“I’m too pretty to be locked up.” Tucker kisses his way down my neck, across my shoulder. “Let’s not fight anymore. Like, ever.” He pauses, meeting my eyes as his hands slide down to my hips. “I hate that we came all this way just to bicker with each other.”
“Me too. But we can’t just ignore everything. We’re going to have to figure out all the job stuff eventually. You know that.”
“We will,” he assures me. “But it’s not something we need to figure out on this trip.”
He’s right. Our time together needs to be our priority. Half our honeymoon had already fallen victim to disaster. I’ve got no intention of spoiling the days we have left with heavy life decisions. “Let’s save it for home.”
He nods. “And just so you know, no matter what, I’m always gonna be there for you. I’ve got your back.”
“I know. And I’ve got yours. I love you. Always.”
Tucker seals his lips over mine. He gently lowers me to the bed while he pulls off his shirt and eases his pants off his hips. Then he drapes his naked body over mine, licking his lips as he props himself up on his forearms. I’ve never seen a sexier sight.
“You’re amazing,” I inform him.
A smile curves his mouth. “Don’t you forget it, darlin’.” “Never.”
