Don't Go by L.J. Breedlove (series like harry potter txt) 📕

“Got that right. What’s his name?”

Ryan gave him the info he needed, and the guy shouted at someone else who went to get Cage. “He had a camera with him,” Ryan said.

“He should have a tag for it,” the cop said, turning to someone else demanding his attention. “I’ll get it for you when he gets out here.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said, and waited for Cage to show up. They collected the camera, and Ryan got him out to his car. He headed up Clay Street. Clay tipped his head against the headrest.

“Thanks for laughing at me,” he said.

“You’ve never been in jail before?” Ryan asked.

“No!” Cage said. “Are you kidding? I was wild, but my Dad would have killed me.”

Ryan laughed.

“You have?”

“Juvie drunk tank a couple of times. Decided it wasn’t fun and learned to have taxi money handy.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Cage said when Ryan didn’t turn onto Tenth Avenue to the newsroom.

“Taking you home. You can get cleaned up and do everything you need from there. I’ve seen that computer setup — It rivals anything we’ve got in the newsroom.”

“Slow as moses to upload video to the server,” he complained.

“Then burn a CD or something or send it in with Corey,” Ryan said. “But you need peace and quiet, and you need a shower. Trust me.”

“OK,” Cage said. “We need to figure out some training on this for reporters.”

“On my to-do list.”

“And quarters,” Cage added. “It was a god-damn pay phone. Cost me two dollars to get three quarters to make the call.”

“Add that to your to-do list,” Ryan said. “Every one of our go-bags should have quarters.” He should have thought of this before.

“Wait, did I pull you out of your session with Dr. Clarke? I’m sorry,” Cage said, when Ryan pulled to a stop outside Cage’s apartment. “Did it go OK?”

“In no meaning of the word ‘OK’ did that session qualify,” he muttered. “Let’s put it this way. Your call was a relief.”

The two sat silently for a moment. Then Ryan said, “Go on in. Give us a five-minute clip with a lead-in for Bianca. Then write a longer neutral piece about the protest. Sarah still living with you? Have her edit that and send it over. Then do a first-person piece on getting arrested. The intake office was livid about ICE dumping everyone on them.”

Cage nodded. He didn’t get out. “You going to my parents’ place?”

Ryan shook his head. “Going to the newsroom for a while. Help get this together.”

“Might not want to mention me going to jail to my parents.”

Ryan laughed. “Your Dad watches nightly, remember? You better call him with a heads up.”

Cage groaned and bumped his head twice against the head rest. And then he got out. He leaned back in. “Thanks,” he said simply.

“What are editors for?” Ryan said lightly. “Don’t forget your car is parked out by ICE somewhere.”

When Cage groaned, he laughed and held his fist out for a fist bump.

Cage tapped it lightly and closed the door. Ryan watched until he was inside, and then he turned around and headed back to the newsroom.

Cage opened the back door and headed to the bathroom for a shower. Ryan was right. He needed one. Jail had been a chaotic, over-crowded mess of stressed-out bodies, his included. And that was on top of the layer of tear gas that coated him everywhere. He’d had goggles and a mask, but that didn’t save the rest of him. And the residue stank. And burned where it touched his skin around his wrists and along his hairline. Now that the adrenaline had passed, he was aware of the burn.

It could have been worse, he thought. Some of the protesters hadn’t had masks, and he watched them gag as they fled the area.

It had been bad. Really bad. Even by the standards of the downtown BLM protests, it had been bad. The feds were just itching for a fight. He was no fan of the Portland Police Bureau nor the Mayor. But the feds wanted to hunt protesters. That’s how it felt. Like they’d been waiting for the opportunity to gas them. To get even for losing the last time? Maybe.

He stripped down, turned the water on hot, and stood under it. It rinsed away the sweat and smell, and most of all, it seemed to sweep away all the emotions roiling in him. He needed clarity to write.

Telling stories visually came naturally to him. He could see the shots, see the close ups, the scene set, the pans, the mid-range — everything he would need to tell the story. Then he could sweat for an hour to get down five sentences to go with it. And he’d better get to it. He didn’t have an hour. Bianca would be doing the closing segment with or without him.

He got out of the shower, realized he didn’t have any clean clothes in the bathroom with him. He wrapped a towel around his waist and padded out to go to the computer room where he was camped out.

And came face to face with Sarah. Well, since she was in her wheelchair, it wasn’t exactly face to face. And his body reacted, which surprised the hell out him. He turned so she couldn’t see. He hoped.

“Jesus, Cage!”

He kept on going to his room. “What? You lived in an Army barracks for God’s sake. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen a guy in a towel before.”

There was silence behind him. He stopped in the doorway to his room-slash-computer room and looked back at her. Their eyes met, held for a moment. And then Sarah looked away. “Let me know when you’ve got something for me to edit,” she said. “Hustle. We’re on a tight clock.”

He nodded, uncertain what had just happened. But he pulled on a pair of jeans and did what she said: he hustled.

He already knew in his head what he would cut for his five-minute segment. So, he did that and sent