Chapter 16: Scratches on the Road
982 Words
“Drop me here,” President Langston muttered as they approached the lobby entrance. Ash slowed the car to a perfect halt, rolling the words carefully in his head. He had learned the hard way that one wrong response could draw unwanted scorn.
The glass facade of Hawthorne International shimmered like a fortress of steel and ambition. Its sharp lines cut against the skyline, every inch screaming money, power, and distance from men like Ash. He drove carefully through the roundabout, hands steady on the leather wheel, even though the engine purred too smoothly for his nerves.
Langston stepped out, adjusted his tie, then leaned down slightly into the open window. “I’ll need you back by three. Don’t be late. Park this car somewhere safe.” He ordered.
Ash nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. I’ll be back by three.”
Langston didn’t bother replying. He walked into the towering building, swallowed by revolving doors and polished marble.
Ash sat still for a moment, his chest rising and falling in measured rhythm. The clock on the dashboard ticked: twelve-thirty. Two and a half hours. Enough time to breathe.
The thought wouldn’t leave him. His brother, Ben. He needed to know how he was faring.
The car engine hummed as he made his choice. He turned onto the long road leading to the station.
At the station, the air smelled faintly of sweat and stale paper. A tired-looking officer behind the desk glanced up as Ash entered.
“I’m here for Benjamin Booker,” Ash said.
The officer’s brows lifted slightly. “Family?”
“Brother.”
The officer leaned back in his chair. “He’s in holding. Shopowner says he caught him red-handed.” He looked at his book and shook his head slightly. “He’s going in for trial on Friday.” He dropped the bombshell.
Ash stomach sank. He didn't even have money to pay a lawyer. His mind was spiraling.
He asked to see Ben first. The officer waved him through, and a moment later he was standing in front of a narrow cell.
Ben was sitting on a bench inside, his head in his hands. He looked up when he saw Ash, his face pale, expression distant.
“Twice in one week?” Ben’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “I should start charging you for rent.”
Ash let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He sat across the glass, lifting the receiver on his side of the booth. “I had to see you,” he said, his voice low.
Ben leaned closer, his face cast in tired shadows. “What’s wrong?”
Ash hesitated, then blurted, “I heard something. Your trial… it’s Friday. Two days.”
Ben’s eyes hardened instantly. He leaned back, a bitter laugh escaping. “So they finally set the date.” His knuckles tapped against the table, restless, angry. “Friday. Two days, and then it’s done.”
Ash's jaw clenched. “Benjamin, listen to me. I’ll find a way. Maybe a lawyer, maybe...”
His brother cut him off sharply. “With what money, Ash? You think courts care about justice? They care about who can pay for it.”
Ash flinched at the words. They were true. Every penny he earned barely kept the roof above his head and food on the table. And now, driving his boss’s car, he was walking a dangerous line, pretending to be a man who belonged in this world.
“I can’t let them bury you,” Ash whispered. His throat burned. “You’re my brother.”
For a second, Ben’s defiance faltered. His hand pressed against the glass, palm flat. His voice softened. “I don’t want you breaking yourself to save me. Promise me that, Ash”
Ash stared at him, eyes wet, but said nothing. Some promises couldn’t be made.
Just then, the huge officer who got Ben's food the other day appeared. Without saying a word, Ash knew his time was up. His brother gave him one last look over his shoulder, half warning, half plea, before Ash was pushed out.
Back in the car, the clock screamed at him. Two-forty-five.
“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming the gear into drive. He pressed his foot against the accelerator harder than he should. The car leaped forward, the city becoming a blur of honking taxis and restless pedestrians.
His thoughts were still tangled with Ben’s words.
Promise me you won’t break yourself for me.
Courts care about who can pay for it.
He barely noticed the road until a delivery van lurched into his lane without warning.
Ash swore under his breath, jerking the wheel violently.
The tires screeched. The Mercedes swerved too close to the divider.
SCREEEECH.
The grinding sound tore through him like a blade. The car jolted as metal scraped concrete, sparks flying for a fraction of a second before the vehicle finally steadied.
Heart hammering, Ash pulled over, his breaths shallow and rapid. He stepped out, legs trembling beneath him.
There it was. Long, jagged scratches along the side of the polished Mercedes. Ugly and glaring against the sleek black paint.
His stomach dropped.
It wasn’t just a scratch. It was his boss’s car. Langston car. He was in deep trouble. Something he was trying to avoid at the moment.
Ash stared, frozen, as passersby slowed to glance, some shaking their heads in pity, others whispering. He could almost hear Langston's voice in his head: Park somewhere safe.
The dashboard clock glowed in the corner of his vision: two fifty-seven.
Three minutes to face hell.
Ash dragged himself back into the driver’s seat, his throat dry, hands slick with sweat. He gripped the wheel, staring at the road ahead, but all he could see were those scratches.
And behind them, the face of his brother, waiting for judgment in two days.
- Writer
