Read Online Electrify Me (The Fireworks Series Book 1) by Bibi Rizer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bibi Rizer
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found yet. So good job there, Detective Shiny Pants.”
Charlie drops his head and muffles snorts of laughter on my shoulder.
“You know this young man?” Shiny Pants asks, in a futile attempt to hang on to some of his authority.
“Yes, I know him. He’s my boyfriend!”
Charlie looks up and our eyes meet for a second. I don’t know how to interpret his expression. Is he my boyfriend now? When you give someone a hand job and then you get kidnapped in their truck and they rescue you before fucking you over a table, does that make them your boyfriend? I think so. Does Charlie agree? Maybe we should leave that discussion until later.
“Am I under arrest?” Charlie asks.
“No, I suppose not.” The cop hikes those shiny pants up so high his balls split into a moose-knuckle. I feel a little nauseous as he unlocks Charlie’s handcuffs. “Thank you for your service, son.”
Son. He’s like ten years older than us, max. And “service”? What the hell does that mean?
“You’re welcome, I guess.”
I help Charlie stand and watch as he takes a moment to brush gravel off his knees.
“Are we free to go?” I ask.
“You’ll need to make a statement – ”
“No,” Charlie interrupts him. “Let’s rephrase that. We’re free to go. Gloria will make a statement in the morning.”
Shiny Pants looks like he wants to argue but in the end, he just takes my cellphone number and watches us limp away. Someone hands Charlie a Ziploc bag with his stuff in it. Phone, wallet, keys, a crushed condom box. “Sorry for the trouble,” this person says. Like that makes it better. On Monday I’m calling my uncle, the bloodsucking lawyer, and we’re going to sue the Seattle police back to the Triassic.
When we get back to the truck, I steer Charlie to the passenger seat and take the driver seat myself. “You look a little dazed. Did you hit your head? Did the cops do this?”
“It’s nothing.” He fishes the keys out of the Ziploc bag and hands them to me. “Head wounds look worse than they are.” He dabs the blood off his face with one of my lavender Handi Wipes as we pull onto the road.
“Are you sure? Do you want to go to the ER?”
“I’m fine.” He prods his nose gently. “I don’t think anything is broken.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes. Then we’re back on the I5, heading south. Hotels, liquor stores, gas stations flash by. I think to check the gas gauge. Third of a tank. Plenty to get us back to Seattle.
“When that druggie bailed, why didn’t he take the truck?” I ask, more to break the silence than anything else.
“He must have left the keys inside. They were in the bag anyway. I guess the cops found them.”
“Oh. So where do you suppose he is?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s something awkward between us. Since we met a few hours ago, it’s been like we’ve known and loved each other for years. Now suddenly we’re talking like strangers. Or rather, not talking. We’re having one of those silences. I know he’s thinking a pile of stuff. He knows I’m thinking a pile of stuff. Both of us are probably wondering if the other is thinking about the same pile.
The way I see it, there are two choices. We can view this terrible, terrifying night as a blessing–a gift from the New Year’s gods. After going through what we’ve been through tonight, surely we can build a relationship that will survive anything. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe we can see everything that has happened as a sign–a sign that love and lust are dangerous, a sign that we should both run full speed in opposite directions and never look back. Would the devils of New Year’s do that to me? Would they be so cruel? If that’s what they want for me, couldn’t they just send an email?
Long minutes pass. I glance over, sure he has fallen asleep, but he’s just staring out the windscreen. Silent.
We’re almost at the exit to Seattle before he speaks again. “I was in the Army, did I tell you
Charlie drops his head and muffles snorts of laughter on my shoulder.
“You know this young man?” Shiny Pants asks, in a futile attempt to hang on to some of his authority.
“Yes, I know him. He’s my boyfriend!”
Charlie looks up and our eyes meet for a second. I don’t know how to interpret his expression. Is he my boyfriend now? When you give someone a hand job and then you get kidnapped in their truck and they rescue you before fucking you over a table, does that make them your boyfriend? I think so. Does Charlie agree? Maybe we should leave that discussion until later.
“Am I under arrest?” Charlie asks.
“No, I suppose not.” The cop hikes those shiny pants up so high his balls split into a moose-knuckle. I feel a little nauseous as he unlocks Charlie’s handcuffs. “Thank you for your service, son.”
Son. He’s like ten years older than us, max. And “service”? What the hell does that mean?
“You’re welcome, I guess.”
I help Charlie stand and watch as he takes a moment to brush gravel off his knees.
“Are we free to go?” I ask.
“You’ll need to make a statement – ”
“No,” Charlie interrupts him. “Let’s rephrase that. We’re free to go. Gloria will make a statement in the morning.”
Shiny Pants looks like he wants to argue but in the end, he just takes my cellphone number and watches us limp away. Someone hands Charlie a Ziploc bag with his stuff in it. Phone, wallet, keys, a crushed condom box. “Sorry for the trouble,” this person says. Like that makes it better. On Monday I’m calling my uncle, the bloodsucking lawyer, and we’re going to sue the Seattle police back to the Triassic.
When we get back to the truck, I steer Charlie to the passenger seat and take the driver seat myself. “You look a little dazed. Did you hit your head? Did the cops do this?”
“It’s nothing.” He fishes the keys out of the Ziploc bag and hands them to me. “Head wounds look worse than they are.” He dabs the blood off his face with one of my lavender Handi Wipes as we pull onto the road.
“Are you sure? Do you want to go to the ER?”
“I’m fine.” He prods his nose gently. “I don’t think anything is broken.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes. Then we’re back on the I5, heading south. Hotels, liquor stores, gas stations flash by. I think to check the gas gauge. Third of a tank. Plenty to get us back to Seattle.
“When that druggie bailed, why didn’t he take the truck?” I ask, more to break the silence than anything else.
“He must have left the keys inside. They were in the bag anyway. I guess the cops found them.”
“Oh. So where do you suppose he is?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s something awkward between us. Since we met a few hours ago, it’s been like we’ve known and loved each other for years. Now suddenly we’re talking like strangers. Or rather, not talking. We’re having one of those silences. I know he’s thinking a pile of stuff. He knows I’m thinking a pile of stuff. Both of us are probably wondering if the other is thinking about the same pile.
The way I see it, there are two choices. We can view this terrible, terrifying night as a blessing–a gift from the New Year’s gods. After going through what we’ve been through tonight, surely we can build a relationship that will survive anything. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe we can see everything that has happened as a sign–a sign that love and lust are dangerous, a sign that we should both run full speed in opposite directions and never look back. Would the devils of New Year’s do that to me? Would they be so cruel? If that’s what they want for me, couldn’t they just send an email?
Long minutes pass. I glance over, sure he has fallen asleep, but he’s just staring out the windscreen. Silent.
We’re almost at the exit to Seattle before he speaks again. “I was in the Army, did I tell you
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