Girl In Pieces by Jordan Bell Page A

wasn’t driving.”
    “I can explain,” Thomas said smoothly. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
    “I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what it looks like Mr. Tennyson. You’re under arrest for car theft. And solicitation.”
    Car theft.
    Solicitation.
    Wait.
    Solicitation ?
    “Thomas!”
    Panic choked my voice, but before I could say another word the two officers flanking me pulled me over the curb and put me into the hood of the car. My cheek hit the curve of the racing stripe and sent a crackling pain all along my cheekbone. I made a weak noise of pain but that didn’t encourage them go any gentler as they yanked one wrist behind me, then the other.
    The officer slid his boot between my heels and spread my legs as far as my skirt would allow. Handcuffs closed over both wrists. Then they patted me down. No one went out of bounds, but their hands made me feel sick to my stomach.
    They were not, I noticed, as rough with Thomas who remained pretty and business-like, standing in the rain, uncuffed, and not bent over the hood of a car suggestively.
    “Thomas tell them I am not a prostitute. Tell them right now!”
    He glanced at me but didn’t answer. As they pulled him away from the car, I heard him start explaining about how his boss knew he had the car. It wasn’t stolen. He had permission. He had the key code. If they’d just call his boss, he’d clear it all up.
    “Mr. Tennyson,” they said, “who do you think called us?”
    “I’m not a prostitute,” I begged. I swore. “This is insane. Please! I can prove it if you just listen to me please …”
    The officer ignored me and squeezed the cuffs around my wrist bones one last time before letting go. Just in case the short chubby prostitute wanted to make a run for it.
    For a moment the rain soaked into my back and my hair. I stayed very still, the warmth of the car’s engine bleeding away beneath me until it was a very cold, very hard lump holding me up. My face hurt, threads of pain radiated from the point where my cheek rested. I felt exposed and vulnerable with my feet spread and my hands impossibly twisted against the small of my back.
    Everything I’d remembered about this position evaporated. There was no Josh. No rope. No pleasure. This was not safe. I was not protected. I did not like this.
    I did not want this.
    “I’m not a prostitute,” I repeated, but they weren’t even listening. God, of course they weren’t. Someone spoke into a radio. Another swore about over-privileged little assholes. One of them begged a cigarette off his partner.
    “Please listen to me.” I sounded so terribly small. I hated how crazy and desperate I sounded. Absolutely hated how easily it was for all of them to throw me away. Thomas didn’t even say goodbye as they marched him off. Not even a nod or a wave or a final, slow-mo glance back at the girl he had to leave behind.
    “I’m a graphic designer,” I babbled into the hood, which only made me sound a little drunk. “I like Star Trek. I read fucking Jane Austen for fun. I am not   a prostitute. I’m not. I’m not. Look at me! I’m…just a girl. ”
    They read Thomas his rights, opened a door, dunked his head and pushed him inside. When they finally read me mine, it was to the curve of my backside heavy with laughter and amusement and inevitability. Of course you’re under arrest. You’re a prostitute. You know the drill.
    My mind went somewhere else. I didn’t listen. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up Josh. My Josh. The Josh he was before Halloween. I thought about his hands, his smile, the way he alphabetized his spice rack. But every image slipped away before I could lose myself in them. Before they could comfort me or save me. He didn’t belong here.
    He didn’t belong to me.
    And a guilty part of me was very grateful he’d never have to see me like this.
     

 
     
     
     
TEN
     
    Handcuffs. They were heavier than I’d imagined, and cold. The officer hadn’t cuffed me tightly,