I'd never been arrested before. I was the goodiest of goodie-two-shoes. But when I found texts from my boyfriend of three years to my old roommate that included dick pics and plans to run off to Ohio together (really? Ohio?) I lost my mind for a brief moment.
A half dozen margaritas, three cans of spray paint and slashed tire later and an officer was at my door to drag my broken hearted ass to jail.
For a few hours I was sleeping off my tequila-fueled hangover in the drunk tank. I heard a buzz and the clink of the door opening. I rolled over, trying to straighten out my rumpled clothing in the process.
"If you promise not to pull any funny business, we can avoid the handcuffs."
Normally any mention of handcuffs would result in a saucy comment but I learned last night that police handcuffs are very different than those fuzzy ones you keep in your treasure chest of toys. Although, once I cleared my eyes, I realized I wouldn't object to trying the fuzzy ones out with this particular officer.
He stood almost a full head shorter than me, which was how I liked my men. His hair and eyes were dark and the latter twinkled like he always had a joke ready. His lips were full and his tailored uniform showing off a lean, toned body. Maybe it was the uniform, maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was the fact that for 3 years I had only fucked one guy and I was beginning to regret being the only faithful one, but I immediately began to wonder what his skin would feel like under my fingertips and against my lips and tongue.
"I'll be good," I said, barely suppressing a grin that would give away what I wanted to show him I was good at.
"We're just going down to the interview room. We'll take a statement and then it'll depend on if anyone's pressing charges how soon you'll get out of here."
I was more interested in pressing other things but was determined to be good and get out of here and back to... wherever. I wasn't moving, I shouldn't have to uproot because he was passing his peen all over town.