Free Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance by Simone Scarlet MMA Page B

breath misting in the air.
    He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. He just had to keep moving – to get as far away from that house – and that man – as he possible could.
    At first he’d wanted to slide behind the wheel of his Bentley – but then he remembered that Kristen still had the keys. More than that – he was too proud to go knocking on the door and face his father again when he asked for them.
    So he walked.
    He walked with purpose, and an angry swagger, and must have covered a full mile of the suburban sidewalks before the wail of a siren snapped his out of his fugue.
    Blue and red lights flashed behind him.
    Shielding his eyes, Hannibal wheeled around and blinked as he tried to peer through the scalding beams of a cop car’s headlights.
    “Put your hands down please, sir.”
    “What are you doing out so late, sir?”
    Two cops were on the sidewalk, cautiously circling him. A black guy and a white one; one with his hand on his radio, and the other with his hand on the butt of his holstered gun.
    “What the fuck’s going on?” Hannibal demanded.
    The two cops ignored his question.
    “Keep your hands were I can see them, please.”
    “We need to see some ID.”
    “Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”
    And even from twelve feet away, Hannibal knew the smell of liquor on him wouldn’t make it worth lying about.
    “I’m just going for a walk,” Hannibal growled. “What’s the deal, officers?”
    “Just stay calm please, sir.”
    “I need to see some ID.”
    There it was. The tone of voice that Hannibal – being an affluent kid from a good neighborhood – had been fortunate enough to only hear once or twice in his life.
    A cop, swapping the ‘ can I see your ID’ that they’d ask a white kid to ‘I need to see your ID’ when it’s a black kid they’ve got cornered.
    Hannibal reached for his pocket.
    “Slowly with the hands there!” There was a click as the cop with his hand on the butt of his gun popped open the clasp securing it in the holster.
    Hannibal froze.
    He felt a chill in the pit of his stomach.
    “Very slowly,” the cop growled, “reach for your wallet.”
    And Hannibal did. Very, very slowly.
    And it wasn’t there.
    “Shit,” Hannibal swore. “I left it in the car.” He had a momentary vision of his black leather wallet, sitting in the console of his Bentley.
    “Is that right, sir?” One of the cops asked. He was circling him now. Hannibal had an absurd flashback to that Jurassic World movie, and how the velociraptors circled their prey before striking.
    “Your car?” The other cop asked. He sniffed the air – no doubt detecting the stink of tequila even from eight feet away. “You been driving tonight, sir?”
    Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sir’ was supposed to be a term of dignity and respect, but they both mouthed it like a curse word.
    “Nah, I’m just going for a walk,” Hannibal tried to explain. “Clear my head, like.” And that’s when he saw the flash of metal, as the officer circling around behind him pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
    Fuck, Hannibal thought. This was it. He was going to get arrested.
    For what, exactly? Drunk and disorderly? For not having his ID on him? Did cops even need an excuse to arrest a black kid?
    For a moment, his hands balled up into fists and Hannibal contemplated turning a bad decision into a fucking disastrous one – and then a crisp, clear voice rang through the night and he knew everything was going to be okay.
    “Excuse me, officers,” it was Kristen, stepping out of Hannibal’s Bentley, which she’d pulled to a halt behind the cop car. “Does there seem to be a problem here?”

Chapter Twenty-Five
     
    Kristen
     
    The door of the Bentley slammed shut, and Kristen gratefully gunned the powerful engine.
    “Holy shit,” in the passenger seat, Hannibal’s dark brown face was drained of blood. “That… That could have been bad .”
    “It’s lucky I came out after you,” Kristen