FIFTY EIGHT

GRAYSON'S POV

Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, the flashing red and blue lights outside the bar told me otherwise. The cops had shown up, probably called by the bartender while we fought. Great. Just what I needed.

An officer approached me, his expression stern. "You're coming with us," he said, grabbing my arm.

"Wait, this is just a misunderstanding," I tried to explain, but it was no use. The other guy was on the ground, nursing a bloody nose, and the bar was a mess. There was no talking my way out of this one.

They cuffed me and led me outside, the cold metal biting into my wrists. I could feel the eyes of the onlookers burning into me, their judgment palpable. They shoved me into the back of the squad car, and I slumped against the seat, my head throbbing from the fight and the alcohol.

At the station, they booked me, charged me with assault, and threw me into a cell. The clang of the metal door closing behind me was like a final nail in the coffin of this disast