This happens sometimes…a story falls into my head from nowhere. Well…from the Muse, but comes to me in the most mundane times. Like, you know, while putting on my seatbelt at Home Depot. 🙂
He recognized her instantly. Her cherry red Ferrari was almost an oxymoron-young blonde starlet, red convertible car. Too much money, not enough common sense. He was sure, as he strode towards the driver’s side, that she thought fluffing her hair and smiling would get her off. He had little patience for young bimbo’s who used their looks to avoid responsibility for their actions.
His Ray Bans hid his expression, his blues were crisp and not a little daunting.
“License and registration.”
“Officer.” Her voice was soft, wispy, and attractive. “I can explain.”
“You can give me your license and registration miss.”
“Miss, do I need to have you step out of the vehicle?”
She fumbled with her micro purse on the seat beside her. Leaning a bit, she showed a fair amount of ass cheek as she searched the glove box for the information. He stood implacably beside the car. At long last she found the paper, and shoved both at him.
He was sure that she thought her pout was every bit as cute as her smile. He had a cure for pouts.
“You were driving 60.”
“No I wasn’t!”
“Radar clocked you at 60.”
“It didn’t seem to be that fast. I’m sorry?”
That the end was a question made it all the more insincere. He’d heard all the rumors. One didn’t live in SoCal and not read the rags that passed for papers here. Alexa Winston, 25, recently separated from boyfriend number whatever, was busy playing the wild child. Late on set for the movie she was shooting, disturbing the peace for her neighbors, partying hard in the clubs…she was well on her way to the kind of notoriety that would take years to recover from–if ever.
He wrote the ticket purposefully.
He handed her papers back to her, reminded her to follow the speed limit and not be driving 25 miles over as she had done. He walked back to the cruiser, then pulled out. A quick glance in the rear-view showed him that she was, as expected, bemused by what he’d written on the ‘ticket’.
You are getting out of hand and out of control. Rumors grow daily about you and your issues. I can help you with them–but only if you agree to my terms.
If you choose to listen to what I have to offer, meet me at Blue Shoes Bar on Silverman Drive at 930 tonight. If you choose to not show, you can pay the $500 ticket.
He sat in the back corner of the bar watching the door. The clock edged ever closer to showtime. And there she was. She’d dressed for the part, jeans, a black tee-shirt, sneakers. Her hair was in a ponytail, with a backwards ball cap rooting for the Dodgers. Without make-up she looked even younger than 25.
She made her way through the noisy room, coming to the bar and subtly checking people out. He moved around until he came up behind her, placing a propriety hand at the small of her back.
“Right on time.”
She turned with a small, almost imperceptible gasp.
He looked back at her, face solemn.
“Come with me,” and he guided her back to where his table was, in the dimly lit corner.
“I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“We both know you could easily afford the ticket.”
“What you said…took a shitload of nerve.”
“To speak to someone as famous as you, you mean, and be firm with you about limits?”
She flushed. Even in the darkness he could tell his words found targets.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure it is.” He spoke easily, with a hint of humor. “You have been treated as exceptional by others…and have started believing it, even if only a little bit. That you’re above the law. That you’re something special because your face shows up in a large box where lots of people get to oogle you.”
Her words stuttered from her.
“Why you…how … that’s just…gawd…you bastard…I’m not…”
“You are. You know this is truth. But the reality is, Alexa, that you’re just a girl. You have tits, and a cunt, and an ass, and an admittedly pretty face. But you’re just a female, a woman, like any of the rest here.”
Her mouth opened and closed a few times but no sound came out. He wondered which part affected her most, his casual use of the dirty words, or humanizing her.
“I am not put off by your celebrity, nor by your looks. I’ve seen criminals as beautiful, more beautiful than you. I’ve seen angelic women without the same kind of physical assets that you have, but who are more attractive than you.”
Her mouth was open now, in shock, he thought.
“You could change that.”
He looked at her, his gaze firm and steady. He captured her eyes with his, as his finger pressed her jaw upwards, closing her gaping mouth.
“I can help you. It won’t cost you a cent, and I’m not in this for the fame of it. I could give a fuck if you’re on television, the movies, or in the porno’s the guys next door are watching. You need me.”
“I don’t need anything.”
He laughed, the sound rich and inviting.
“Of course you don’t.” He threw a fiver on the table to cover the beer he’d had.
“Thanks for coming by, Miss.”
Rising, he moved past her; her hand snaked out grasping his forearm. He paused, looking down at the pale fingers against his denim shirt.
He looked at her, saw her confusion clearly. He took a step back, reaching for his chair and scootching it closer to hers.
She moved her chair until they sat nearly knee-to-knee.
The smile flickered across her face, and was gone in an instant. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed it.
“It is my belief that you need –” here he paused.
“You responded to positive reinforcement.”
“Well, duh, doesn’t everybody?”
“You’d be surprised,” he answered drolly.
She rose to her feet. Something in his voice compelled. There was something about him. His sea-green eyes, reminiscent of the ocean of her home state of New Hampshire, and its tiny portion of the Atlantic coastline sucked her in, just as a rip-tide might.
“Tell me you want me.”
Her pulse jumped. There was a huge difference between standing up and feeling sex need. Yet she couldn’t deny that he turned her on. She had thought, as she’d read his ticket, that it was the whole “cop/guy in uniform” syndrome. But he wasn’t in cop dress tonight. He was in faded jeans and denim shirt. A white tee-shirt was visible where the top button ended. Yet still she obeyed, and still she was forced to admit that she was attracted.
“Do you do this to every pretty girl you give a ticket to?”
“You’d be the first. Say it.”
“You want me to fuck you. And it annoys you because you’re the princess and I’m the stable hand.”
“I’m not a princess. And you’re not a stable boy, you’re a fucking cop. And who I fuck is my business.”
“Not if the person you want to fuck you is me.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Okay fine, I …might want you.”
He threaded his fingers around the back of her neck, tugging her down. She thought he was going to kiss her, secretly pleased that he would ‘take’ rather than ask.
Instead, his lips brushed her ear.
“When I fuck you, you’ll be tied to my bed and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with your body. And you’ll beg for it. For all of it.”
He let her go, then, and left the bar. Beside her fingers on the table was a black business card with white writing. There was a phone number on the front, and a “wink” emoticon on the back. She tucked the card into her bra, and turned to look for him, but he was gone.