Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Shit, shit, shit.
Tripp cracks the back door open. “Is that really necessary?”
“Sir.” The cop shifts on his heels. “It’s the middle of the day and you’re engaging in a sexual act in a residential area. I’m going to need you both to step outside.” He continues to be matter-of-fact and blunt, straight-faced and serious, hat shielding his eyes and his agitated expression.
He’s just doing his job, and here Tripp is, arguing with him.
“You don’t recognize me?” Tripp has the balls to ask the cop through the gap in the door, the cop who’s watching every move we’re making so we don’t do something shady. “I play for the Blues.”
Oh my god!
“Good for you.” The cop’s expression is blank. “I ran your plates and they’re clean, but I’m going to need some form of identification from yourself and your companion.”
Your companion.
As if I’m a…a…
Paid escort.
“If you ran my plates and know who I am, why do you need to see my identification?”
This police officer isn’t playing around, leveling Tripp with a blank stare, raising his brows and clenching his jaw.
“I need to see valid identification with your face on it, sir.”
I smack my date on the arm, muttering, “Stop arguing, jeez.”
“Okay, but why does he need us outside? We were just fucking, Jesus.”
Fumbling with my top, I glance at the back window then out the front, scanning the street for photographers, dreading the moment I have to step outside onto the sidewalk.
“Um, officer?” I spy my purse in the front seat, the one with my wallet and ID in it. “My bag is on the floor—can I grab it?”
Yes.
When we’re both curbside, we’re separated, Tripp in front of the vehicle, me in the back, the officer making his way over to speak to me.
“Ms. Westbrooke, how do you know this person?”
“Um…we’re dating.” I think? I mean, are we actually dating dating, or do I tell the cop we’ve only been on a few dates and so far it’s nothing serious? Shoot.
“How long have you known Mr. Wallace?”
“A few weeks? Since my cousin’s wedding—she married his brother, Buzz Wallace. Um, Trace is his actual name, Buzz is his nickname,” I babble nervously, stopping before I blurt out that I currently have a sports sock stuffed between my legs to prevent cum from dripping down the inside of my thighs.
“And where were you prior to arriving at this location?”
“We were having lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park.”
A nod. “Just so we’re very clear—this was consensual?”
Ah, now I get it. He’s asking to make sure I wasn’t banged against my will.
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to say it in your own words.”
Lord, if my cheeks were any hotter I would swear it was the middle of a summer heatwave.
“Yes sir, it was consensual.” How on earth I manage that sentence with a straight face is entirely beyond me, my gaze still scanning the perimeter. “Sorry if I seem distracted—he plays football and if a paparazzi gets our picture and splashes it across the internet, I will literally die a thousand deaths.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” the cop asks, hands on his hips, countenance remaining stalwart. “This is considered a misdemeanor and I could issue a ticket to both of you. However, considering you seem like a nice couple, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
My body sags with relief; pretty sure tickets are considered public records, making it damn easy for any meddling media to dig and make that information public. A public relations and personal nightmare for both of us.
“You cannot be engaging in this behavior in a residential area,” the officer continues, pointing down the block. “There’s a school a few blocks away—if your boyfriend is famous, he should know better than this.”
I nod, embarrassed, wondering if this is the exact spiel he’s about to give Tripp, down to the guilt trip about the school on the next block. How the heck were we supposed to know?!
“Yes sir.” I pause. “Um, can I get back in the truck now?”
“Once I speak to Mr. Wallace, you’ll both be free to go, but I’ll have to ask you to wait right here, please.”
He bows his head and saunters at a leisurely pace to the front of the truck, to the spot where Tripp leans casually against the hood, arm resting, watchful eyes boring into me.
They exchange words, a few of Tripp’s a bit too loud.
“Yes we’re actually dating.”
“She is not a hooker if that’s what you’re implying.”
Then, “Listen, officer, we had lunch and thought it would be fun to bang one out before she has to return to work. That is all, end of story.”
“Yes, I realize this is a terrible spot to have parked.”
I lean into their conversation and catch the cop say, “When I walk away, I’m going to need you to get back in your truck and leave, and then I’ll pull out.”