The Policeman’s Balls
A Handcuffs and Lace Story
By Mia Watts
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
http://www.resplendencepublishing.com
Resplendence Publishing, LLC 2665 N Atlantic Avenue, #349 Daytona Beach, FL 32118
The Policeman’s Balls
Copyright © 2011, Mia Watts
Edited by Darlena Cunha and Liza Green
Cover art by Les Byerley, www.les3photo8.com
Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-407-9
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Electronic release: September 2011
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
To Jambrea Jo Jones, fellow author I’m lucky enough to call my friend: thank you for always being my cheerleader and for kicking my ass to check in with reader loops. I’d be clueless without you;
and to Phuong Phan who never fails to make me feel like the talented writer I’ve always hoped I’d become: may I never disappoint you.
You humble me. I’m privileged to know you.
Chapter One
Brian McCray shoved his shoulder against the front door of his duplex. Again? He’d locked himself out of the house, again? He thought back. He remembered locking the door handle with a quick, practiced twist when his friend Tyler had picked him up for the movie. Tyler had since driven off with no more than a wave from Brian. It had been as the car’s taillights turned the corner and Brian slipped his hand in his pocket, that he realized he didn’t have his key.
He’d have kicked himself, but he needed a steady foot on the ground and a lot more force to boot his own ass properly. He glanced at his watch. Eleven o’clock in the evening was too late to be knocking on old Mrs. Jackson’s door for the duplicate copy of his key.
Brian blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair out of pure frustration. The outside security lights hadn’t come on. They wouldn’t either because Brian had been in too big a rush to flip the interior switch to activate the motion sensors.
He had been full of great decisions today. Another one facing him would be where to sleep if he didn’t find a way inside. Brian circled his half of the property, testing the windows. At the side of the house, he gingerly pushed his way between two box hedges, wincing when they scraped him. One branch dug deep, but Brian pressed on until he’d reached the windows. Whose brilliant idea had it been to plant these things with their tri-spikes on the end of each leaf? The association? They’d been there as long as he’d had the townhouse, five years. Damn the gardener who’d put them there.
The window didn’t budge. Brian stepped out of the bushes and walked to the back. He pressed his face to the sliding glass door, looking for a way in, as though the items inside were of use to him.
The soft shuffle of a shoe on grass startled him. Brian whipped around. A brilliant light shot him straight in the eyes.
“Sir, put your hands in the air and identify yourself,” a deep voice barked.
Brian hurried to obey. The light stung his eyes, and he squinted against the unrelenting onslaught of it. “Who are you?” Brian demanded.
“Officer Severn. Care to tell me who you are and why you’re trying to break in to this residence?”
Brian’s shoulders drooped with relief. “Oh, thank God! I locked myself out and I can’t get in.”
“Name?”
“Brian McCray. I live here.”
“May I see your driver’s license, please?”
“Sure.” Brian dropped his hands.
Officer Severn snapped at him to keep his hands in the air where they could remain in view. “Just tell me which pocket it’s in and I’ll get it for you.”
“Back left.” Brian
A Handcuffs and Lace Story
By Mia Watts
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
http://www.resplendencepublishing.com
Resplendence Publishing, LLC 2665 N Atlantic Avenue, #349 Daytona Beach, FL 32118
The Policeman’s Balls
Copyright © 2011, Mia Watts
Edited by Darlena Cunha and Liza Green
Cover art by Les Byerley, www.les3photo8.com
Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-407-9
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Electronic release: September 2011
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
To Jambrea Jo Jones, fellow author I’m lucky enough to call my friend: thank you for always being my cheerleader and for kicking my ass to check in with reader loops. I’d be clueless without you;
and to Phuong Phan who never fails to make me feel like the talented writer I’ve always hoped I’d become: may I never disappoint you.
You humble me. I’m privileged to know you.
Chapter One
Brian McCray shoved his shoulder against the front door of his duplex. Again? He’d locked himself out of the house, again? He thought back. He remembered locking the door handle with a quick, practiced twist when his friend Tyler had picked him up for the movie. Tyler had since driven off with no more than a wave from Brian. It had been as the car’s taillights turned the corner and Brian slipped his hand in his pocket, that he realized he didn’t have his key.
He’d have kicked himself, but he needed a steady foot on the ground and a lot more force to boot his own ass properly. He glanced at his watch. Eleven o’clock in the evening was too late to be knocking on old Mrs. Jackson’s door for the duplicate copy of his key.
Brian blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair out of pure frustration. The outside security lights hadn’t come on. They wouldn’t either because Brian had been in too big a rush to flip the interior switch to activate the motion sensors.
He had been full of great decisions today. Another one facing him would be where to sleep if he didn’t find a way inside. Brian circled his half of the property, testing the windows. At the side of the house, he gingerly pushed his way between two box hedges, wincing when they scraped him. One branch dug deep, but Brian pressed on until he’d reached the windows. Whose brilliant idea had it been to plant these things with their tri-spikes on the end of each leaf? The association? They’d been there as long as he’d had the townhouse, five years. Damn the gardener who’d put them there.
The window didn’t budge. Brian stepped out of the bushes and walked to the back. He pressed his face to the sliding glass door, looking for a way in, as though the items inside were of use to him.
The soft shuffle of a shoe on grass startled him. Brian whipped around. A brilliant light shot him straight in the eyes.
“Sir, put your hands in the air and identify yourself,” a deep voice barked.
Brian hurried to obey. The light stung his eyes, and he squinted against the unrelenting onslaught of it. “Who are you?” Brian demanded.
“Officer Severn. Care to tell me who you are and why you’re trying to break in to this residence?”
Brian’s shoulders drooped with relief. “Oh, thank God! I locked myself out and I can’t get in.”
“Name?”
“Brian McCray. I live here.”
“May I see your driver’s license, please?”
“Sure.” Brian dropped his hands.
Officer Severn snapped at him to keep his hands in the air where they could remain in view. “Just tell me which pocket it’s in and I’ll get it for you.”
“Back left.” Brian
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