| Author: | Emily Dickinson | ISBN: | 9781311176967 |
| Publisher: | Emily Dickinson | Publication: | May 22, 2014 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords | Language: | English |
| Author: | Emily Dickinson |
| ISBN: | 9781311176967 |
| Publisher: | Emily Dickinson |
| Publication: | May 22, 2014 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords |
| Language: | English |
Emily Wells knew she was in deep shit.
It was so fucking unfair. One little Laura Ashley silk scarf—okay, okay, six Laura Ashley silk scarves—had found their way into her purse at that snooty accessories shop in Valley Junction. Emily had tried to tell the stick-up-her-ass clerk that it was an accident; she’d been browsing through the racks and obviously she’d bumped into a shelf and the scarves had simply slid into her bag, but the old bitch had called the cops, and once they’d run her prints, all those bad check charges and speeding tickets had come to light. Her public defender had been a clueless little preppy bitch, and the judge had been in a mood to make an example of her. So here she was, locked up in a police station, waiting for the bus to come and haul her off to the county jail for 90 days of crappy food, 6 a.m. roll calls, prison laundry duty, and asshole guards. Fuck!
Emily looked around the small room, frantically seeking a way out. But the place wasn’t much bigger than a cell, with no windows, one rickety table and a couple of folding chairs, and one door with a cop standing guard outside, babysitting Emily until the prison bus arrived. He’d shown her in here and then locked the door behind him. Emily thought quickly. There might be one chance…
Officer Thompson jerked as the door against which he’d been leaning began to shake. Shit! That little shoplifting tramp was banging on it and yelling something about a bathroom. With a sigh, he unlocked and opened the door, to see her standing in the middle of the room. She was a cute little thing, he thought idly, curvy in all the right places, dark haired and milky-skinned, with startling green eyes that he’d bet his pension were the result of contacts. But right now she didn’t look so cute. She had both hands folded across her middle, and she looked up.
“Man, I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” Emily pleaded. “My stomach…I’m so nervous….”
The cop felt a flicker of pity. She didn’t look much older than his two daughters, and she’d probably never been to jail before. No wonder her stomach hurt.
Emily Wells knew she was in deep shit.
It was so fucking unfair. One little Laura Ashley silk scarf—okay, okay, six Laura Ashley silk scarves—had found their way into her purse at that snooty accessories shop in Valley Junction. Emily had tried to tell the stick-up-her-ass clerk that it was an accident; she’d been browsing through the racks and obviously she’d bumped into a shelf and the scarves had simply slid into her bag, but the old bitch had called the cops, and once they’d run her prints, all those bad check charges and speeding tickets had come to light. Her public defender had been a clueless little preppy bitch, and the judge had been in a mood to make an example of her. So here she was, locked up in a police station, waiting for the bus to come and haul her off to the county jail for 90 days of crappy food, 6 a.m. roll calls, prison laundry duty, and asshole guards. Fuck!
Emily looked around the small room, frantically seeking a way out. But the place wasn’t much bigger than a cell, with no windows, one rickety table and a couple of folding chairs, and one door with a cop standing guard outside, babysitting Emily until the prison bus arrived. He’d shown her in here and then locked the door behind him. Emily thought quickly. There might be one chance…
Officer Thompson jerked as the door against which he’d been leaning began to shake. Shit! That little shoplifting tramp was banging on it and yelling something about a bathroom. With a sigh, he unlocked and opened the door, to see her standing in the middle of the room. She was a cute little thing, he thought idly, curvy in all the right places, dark haired and milky-skinned, with startling green eyes that he’d bet his pension were the result of contacts. But right now she didn’t look so cute. She had both hands folded across her middle, and she looked up.
“Man, I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” Emily pleaded. “My stomach…I’m so nervous….”
The cop felt a flicker of pity. She didn’t look much older than his two daughters, and she’d probably never been to jail before. No wonder her stomach hurt.
