Thanks for waiting patiently for the update. May I please point out that chapter 2's word count is more than 2x chapter 1's.
Disclaimer: I have not been to jail, but this story is loosely based on true events.
"What?!" he repeated softly, speaking more to himself than to Clarke.
He heard another sniffle through the phone.
"Clarke, whatever it is it's all going to be fine. Okay? I'm on my way, just hold on."
"Ok," she whispered. And then he heard static before the phone hung up and then all he heard was the droning dial tone.
Jail?! he thought, grabbing his keys and jacket, what the hell is going on? Just as he reached the door he froze and realized he didn't even know where the jail was.
He left his apartment and searched on google maps for the police station while he waited for the elevator. Here we are, he grinned, the nearest station was on Middlebrook Dr; his lips twisted into a grimace as he wondered about the circumstances that would lead to Clarke getting arrested. He tapped his foot impatiently as he saw the down arrow light up, waiting for the doors to slide open. He tried not to speculate on the situation, knowing that as soon as he got Clarke home she would tell him the story. He already knew he was going to be mad, he just wasn't sure if it would be at Clarke or at someone else. He did spend some time wracking his brain for the last time he saw her, the last text he had received from her, anything that would give him a clue to where she was, and what she was doing, prior to calling him from jail. He raked his hand through his hair feeling tense and jittery, fighting against the tiredness that spread through his muscles and deadened his nerves when he realized how late it was. Finally arriving in the underground parking garage, Bellamy sprinted over to his Jeep Wrangler and wrenched the battered door open, jammed the key in the ignition, and yanked the car into reverse.
There were quite a few cars on the road for three in the morning. Luckily, Bellamy caught all the green lights, a few were yellow though, and he might have sped through the intersection instead of slowing. He finally got to the station and parked outside. He took a deep breath and went to the front door, chin high, shoulders back, confident. He made it all the way to the front desk before he released a breath, his shoulders sagging, unsure of what to do exactly.
"Uh…hello," he said to the woman sitting behind the desk. She continued to look at her computer, typing slowly on the keyboard, the clacking sound of the keys punctuating the silence. She turned her head to look at him warily.
"I'm here for Clarke Griffin," he said.
She turned her head back to the computer and started typing again. Bellamy waited.
"Clarke Griffin charged with simple assault," she said slowly and simply; Bellamy's lips parted and his eyes widened, shocked at what he was hearing but not really understanding. Clarke…assault? Those words don't go together! They should never go together, so how did they end up being said in the same sentence?! "Bail is five hundred dollars," she continued.
Bellamy scrubbed his hand down his face, trying to stay alert and present. He pinched between his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath.
"Do you take credit cards?" he asked, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
"We do not accept credit cards or personal checks," she stated, reciting the words that she said every day, many times, "Cash, cashier's checks or money orders are the only accepted methods of payment."
There was no way he had five hundred dollars' worth of cash in his wallet, he'd be lucky to find a twenty in there. He frowned and furrowed his brow wondering where he could get money in the middle of the night. "I'll be right back," he grumbled, heading for the door.
He unlocked his car and opened the passenger door, reaching to pop the glove box open. He began rummaging through stacks of receipts, expired car insurance documents, and outdated maps of the contiguous United States. He found the car's manual shoved in the back and flipped through the pages. Yes, he practically melted with relief. There was money hidden between pages that explained the breaking system. He shuffled through the wad of cash and prayed it was enough to get Clarke out of there.
It added up to six hundred and forty-two bucks. He'd had that emergency cash stashed back there for years, thankfully he'd never had to use it before.
"Okay," he strode through the door and up to the counter. "Here," he said laying the money down in front of him. The woman continued typing.
Eventually she turned to him and reached for a clipboard. "Fill this out," she recited, "front and back. I'll get your receipt."
He fell into a seat and tried to fill out the form, but he didn't know that much of the information it was asking for. He went back to the desk and traded the clipboard for his receipt.
"If the arrestee does not appear in court for trial on the assigned date, the money will be forfeited," the woman droned on, "if the verdict is rendered not guilty, or the case is dismissed, or at the conclusion of the trial proceedings, bond money will be refunded minus any fines and/or court costs." Bellamy tried to pay attention, but his mind was so muddled by the events of the past hour that it couldn't absorb any more information. So he just sank back into the chair and waited, feeling heavy and numb.
Just as he was about to lean his head against the wall and close his eyes, he noticed movement in the hallway across the room. Two figures appeared from the corner, slowly their images came into focus as they came closer. On the left was a tall and wide officer, in dark blue pants and a lighter shirt, a badge, and a walkie-talkie from what he could see. No gun. And on the right was Clarke.
He sprang out of the seat and walked closer to the hall's entrance. His whole body flooded with relief when he saw her, now having her in his sight and knowing exactly where she was. But when she and the officer stepped forward, into the light, and he got a closer look at her, his heart seized up and his pulse quickened.
She took small, hesitant steps, three of her uneven strides matching one solid and mechanical step of the officer's. She was wearing a plain tank top and faded jeans, no shoes. She must be cold, the thought entered his mind automatically, it was simply a reflex for him to care about her wellbeing.
Her face was the most alarming, her lip was split and dried blood was smeared across her cheek and chin. Her right eye was purple and blue. She wouldn't meet his gaze, but he looked at her eyes, and they looked scared, and hollow, void of their usual spark. His breath caught in his throat and he felt the dull pain in his chest magnify. All his attention was focused on Clarke and the fact that she was hurt.
"Clarke!" he urged her to look up and acknowledge his presence, or give him any clue as to what was happening, and if she was alright. She looked up and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, he furrowed his eyebrows and looked at her desperately, trying to express his concern. She lowered her eyes and ever so slightly shook her head. He bit his tongue in frustration and clenched his hands feeling the muscles in his arms tense.
Clarke silently followed behind the officer, coming to a halt in front of the counter. The woman at the desk wordlessly handed the policeman a clipboard, and he scrawled across the form and then passed it to Clarke to sign at the bottom. Another officer came out of the door behind the desk, carrying a large, clear plastic bag.
"Alright Ms. Griffin," the officer stated, opening the zip-top and placing the items inside on the counter in front of him, "one pair of shoes, one cellphone, one driver's license."
She reached for her things and hugged them close to her chest. The officer pulled out another form and asked her to sign, confirming she received everything she came in with.
"Remember you must appear in court for your trial on the eighth or your bond will be forfeited," the officer said handing her another form to sign. Then he disappeared through the door behind the desk.
"Ok Ms. Griffin, you're good to go," the woman at the desk said, with a slightly less robotic voice, and a tiny smile forming at the corners of her mouth.
"Ok," Clarke replied in a small voice. She turned towards the door and took a step forward. The remaining officer cleared his throat to get her attention.
"Ms. Griffin, we're required to escort you out the door," the officer said. She looked away and nodded, bowing her head, her hair falling to shield her face. The officer turned to face Bellamy, so he straightened up and tried to focus despite all the confusion clouding his mind. "I gather you're here for Ms. Griffin?" he asked.
"Uhh…yes," he answered.
"Let's go," the officer grunted and walked towards the door, holding it open for them. Clarke followed slowly and Bellamy came up behind her. The officer walked up to the Jeep, so Bellamy reached into his pocket and pressed the button to unlock the doors. The man opened the passenger door for Clarke and Bellamy walked round and got in the driver's seat and started up the engine. He backed up and turned to exit the lot onto Middlebrook Drive, he looked into the rearview mirror and saw the officer walk back inside the building. Clarke remained silent, clutching her shoes like she was drowning and they were her lifesaver.
He drove for a few miles and slowed as they approached the red light at the intersection. He took a deep breath and turned to face her, "Clarke-"
She held a hand up, cutting him off. "Don't," she choked out, her jaw tense.
The light turned green before he could protest further and they drove on in silence. He tried to take a deep breath and clear his mind, but it was filled with the image of Clarke's beaten and bruised face. Then he remembered the sound of her voice when she called him crying. His blurred and unfocused vision reminded him that it was four in the morning. Most of what he felt was concern for Clarke, but knowing she was upset made him feel angry and he itched to retaliate against whatever had upset her and put her in danger, and harmed her. He still wasn't sure who or what he should be mad at and it might even be Clarke herself. He tries to stop the thought from entering his mind, but it's the middle of the night, he's driven up to get her, paid five hundred dollars to get her out of jail, and she won't let him say anything.
Clarke must have noticed his hardened expression because she sighed and muttered slowly, "I will explain… I just… can't right now."
He softened and reached over to place his hand on her knee. "Alright," he said, trying to sound soothing.
"Umm," she hiccupped and her voice wavered, "I don't have my keys….I think… I lost them. Can-"
This time he was the one to cut her off, "of course Princess, you can stay with me." He squeezed her knee trying to reassure her.
She sniffed and reached up to wipe under her eyes. "Can I use your shower?" she sounded uncertain.
"Yes," he answered simply.
"Can I borrow some clothes?" He could imagine that she desperately wanted to get out of the ones she wore in jail.
"Yes."
"Will you make me breakfast?"
"You're pushing your luck, Princess, but I'll see what I can do." He turned just in time to catch her faint smile.
Thanks again for waiting for the update. I really love reviews and reading your feedback. I hope you like the direction the story is going in.