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.”
Tripp nods.
“You know,” the officer goes on, “I always thought when I met a famous ballplayer, it would be under different circumstances.” He’s shaking his head. “Guess I’ve seen it all.”
Tripp: I can’t stop thinking about that sock between your legs.
Me: That’s all you have to say? I’m still traumatized from this afternoon. Trauma-TIZED.
Tripp: You didn’t find any of that exciting?
Me: Um NO. Not even a little bit. Did YOU?
Tripp: Yes. My life has been pretty goddamn boring up until the last few weeks.
Me: The only thing that could have made today any worse would be finding out that cop sold his vest-cam footage to the tabloids. Can you