by Jay Hogan
He rolled his eyes, delved in his pocket, and held his ID open for me to read. Detective Caleb Ashton. Detective? That explained the no uniform, but what the hell was a detective doing patrolling the bathrooms of the council buildings? My gaze flicked up and caught his… focussed distinctly lower than my face. What the…? Was he checking me out? But then he looked up without a trace of guilt, and I guessed not.
“Satisfied?” he asked flatly.
Not even remotely. I sniffed. “Demoted to lurking around toilets, detective? Whatever did you do?”
He stared at me a minute, and I swore he was about to laugh. His cheeks twitched and that siren beauty spot sang out my name. It was all I could do not to reach up and run a finger across it.
Finally he shook his head. “Are you always this charming?”
I snorted. “No. Sometimes I can even be a bit sarcastic. Shocker, right?”
This time he did laugh and it was an effort not to join him. His whole face lit up and those sparkling eyes… holy shit… they needed to come with a caution. Have been known to cause bats to take off without warning in your chest.
“I’ll consider myself put on notice,” he said with a grin. “Now I’ll need you to step back inside the bathroom just for a minute, while I check.” He pushed me none too softly through the open door and face up against the inside wall, still keeping a hand on my cuffs, no doubt searching for the half a kilo of Semtex I apparently must have left sitting on the toilet lid, just waiting to be found. Moron.
“Well if nothing else, the unpleasant bouquet should confirm my story,” I grumbled.
He said nothing.
The disconcerting skip in my chest alerted me to the alarming notion that being held in place and ordered around had suddenly developed an appeal I had hitherto been unaware of. God, I was pathetic or maybe simply desperate. I hadn’t been touched by another man in… nope, sooo not going there.
“Okay,” he said. “Nothing untoward.”
Untoward? Really? Who said that shit?
I sniffed haughtily, which was harder than you’d imagine to accomplish with my face still smooshed against the wall. “And what exactly did you expect to find? Not that I don’t like being hauled into a bathroom as much as the next guy, given the right context… but I mean, we hardly know each other.” Yeah, yeah, I know.
But honestly? I was the least likely saboteur I knew. Hell, knowing my luck I’d get an attack of cramps or diarrhoea halfway through the operation. Not to mention I couldn’t attack anything without a packed lunch of my safe food products, or be given any target that didn’t have an available restroom within a hundred meters… with good quality toilet paper, and I needed to be home by ten to get a proper night’s sleep, so yeah.
I’d almost swear he chuckled before manhandling me back into the corridor. He studied me with a curious expression, and a sly smile stole over his face. “Is that so? Sorry to disappoint.”
Hmm. Not exactly the response I expected. The man threw off mostly straight alpha vibes, all except for that one look. I stared shamelessly until… there… a hint of a pink on his cheeks. Huh. Who’d have guessed?
Still, the guy was a jerk. “Disappointment would imply some interest to begin with,” I countered peevishly. “Can I go now?”
The jab hit home. His gaze narrowed and his mouth tightened into a fine line.
When will I learn?
He said, “Do you recall I read you your rights?”
“And?” Vaguely uneasy.
“Meaning, you are still under arrest.”
Fuck. My eye roll was epic. “Well, un-arrest me, then, please?”
He shook his head. “Not possible. We are under a directive today. And as a person of interest, you’ll need to accompany me to the station. You did trespass, after all.”
He steered me back through the corridor and up to his mate at the front desk.
“I’m taking him in,” he told the man. “It’s nearly done here. I’ll see you back at the station.”
My eyes drifted to the detective’s watch. Goddammit. We’d wasted twenty minutes already. I needed to calm down or the mild unmentionable explosion I’d just suffered was gonna look like a walk in the English countryside. But holy crap, I was so sick of this. Why today?
“Check my wallet and you’ll find my health card,” I snapped. Yeah, I was getting that whole calm thing sorted.
He turned to face me. “What?”
“My card. It says I suffer from a bowel condition that means I sometimes need quick access to a toilet.” God, I hated having to medically eviscerate myself in front of strangers like this.
He searched the wallet and pulled out my Crohn’s and colitis NZ urgent toilet card, and read it.
I blew out a sigh. “See. Now can I go?”
The look he sent wasn’t reassuring. “No.”
Caleb What’s-His-Face suppressed a charming grin, which didn’t help matters. “The building is closed. There was a sign. You’re trespassing. And your name is on the list. I have to take you in. It’s my job.”
“What sign?”
“The Closed sign by the entrance. The one intended to keep all protesters out. That sign.” He pointed to the door I’d entered by, and the clear-as-fucking-day sign propped right next to it.
Well, shit. “Oh. I didn’t see it.”
“Not my problem.”
“If you’ll just let me explain—”
“I have no choice in the matter,” he interrupted.
“But I really needed to—”
“You can explain everything back at the station. We can check with your doctor there. But I can’t just take your word for it. You get that, right? It’s a public safety issue,” he stated blandly, dragging his gaze from a particularly colourful Greenpeace badge back up to meet mine. “You never know what crazies lurk in these protest groups or what lengths they might go to.” He sent me a pointed look. “And that sign out there means you’re trespassing, bathroom break or not. You could’ve been up to anything, how were we to know? That’s why we have a list.”
The pompous dick. I was so over this ridiculous conversation. “Is that ‘we’ a royal ‘we’?” I threw back with added sarcasm for good measure. “’Cause I didn’t realise she was attending, or I’d have dressed better.”
He rolled his eyes like I was a stroppy teenager. “We,” he said so patiently I wanted to smack him in the face. “As in, we the police… as in, me. And whether you like it or not, my job is to keep people safe, all people, including your mates out there in the march, including you, as it happens, God help me.”
Fuck. He had a point, dammit. I really was being a bitch. The guy was only doing his job. I sighed. “Okay, look, I didn’t see the sign. I was in kind of a hurry. I’m sorry,” I mumbled apologetically.
“I understand,” he answered flatly. “But you’re still under arrest.”
My jaw dropped. “What? Oh, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t do anything. You’re acting like I’m a damned terrorist.”
His brows peaked. “You’re on the list.”
“Fuck the damn list.” Ugh. Yeah, maybe not the best thing to say. I counted to five, dropped the snarky tone, and did my best to look apologetic. “Sorry… again. But, come on, I’m about the furthest thing from a threat… to anyone. Unless you consider sarcasm a deadly weapon.”
Even biting back a smile, he still managed to look less convinced of my virtue than I hoped. “I’m sorry,” he explained. “But under the brief we were given, I have no choice. I have to take you in.”
I stared at those gorgeous but determined hazel eyes for a few seconds longer, then blew out a sigh. This was clearly a battle I wasn’t going to win, and though the realisation galled, there was also nothing I could do. “Okay, whatever,” I sighed. “Let’s just get this waste of taxpayers’ money over with.”
He nodded, put a hand on my shoulder, and steered me out the door and past a group of my fellow protesters, who stared in abject disbelief, coupled with some so
rt of weird-arse jealousy. At least a dozen phones snapped to attention to video my humiliation, to accompanying cries of “police brutality.” There was no doubt in my mind that my arrest would soon be plastered across social media sites ad infinitum, and I’d be lucky to miss the six o’clock news. Scratch that. The TVNZ crew were already running toward the parked cop car, cameras pointed my way. I ducked my head. Fuck. My. Life.
For whatever reason, Caleb took mercy on me and pushed me slightly to the side, effectively blocking their view. I mumbled my thanks but not too loudly. It was, after all, his bloody fault I was in this predicament to start with. After reaching the car, he manoeuvred me unceremoniously into the back seat and buckled me in, careful to make sure I was as comfortable as possible under the circumstances—read: not at all—and I got my first ride to a police station cuffed like a damn criminal. I briefly wondered which of my darling pregnant clients would be the first to call and fire their trespassing midwife’s arse.
“GO TAKE a look in my damn wallet, will you? You remember… the one that detective took from me. Or ring my damn doctor. He said you’d do that.” I might have raised my voice a mite, but I’d been stuck in this tiny police interview room for close to half an hour. As soon as we’d arrived, Caleb Horse-Face had been called away, and simply dumped me here, removed the handcuffs, and instructed me to wait, leaving before I even had the chance to ask to use the bathroom… again. Have I mentioned stress is never a good thing for me… ever?
The small space stank like the locker room of a rugby team after a hard game, and that was being polite. By the stench wafting from the rubbish bin in the corner, someone had pissed in it. The remains of a fast food meal of indeterminate origin, bar a purple skid mark that could only be beetroot, littered the tired vinyl floor. The battered tabletop was sticky enough to hold a black hole in place and no, I didn’t even want to think about what that tacky shit was. Ladies and gentlemen, your tax dollar at work.
I’d been cramping like fuck since I’d arrived and it was only getting worse. And because I’d been arrested, everything I needed had been bagged from my pockets—pain relief, muscle relaxants, herbal remedies, the lot. Stuff I was never, ever without. And no one was listening. No one wanted to even walk me to the fucking bathroom—hell, the rubbish tin in the corner was looking more promising by the minute. What was wrong with these people? I’d been guaranteed a phone call, but that hadn’t materialised yet either. To hell with a lawyer, that sucker would be to my damn doctor. I was looking through a veil of red fury and someone was about to get an earful.
The baby-faced constable staring me down was the first guy to even talk to me since I’d been left to twiddle my increasingly pissed-off thumbs. He wanted my statement, fair enough, but if he didn’t get his head out of his arse and start listening, we were both gonna regret it. The man’s pert little mouth set in a grim line at odds with his soft features, and if he was a day over twenty, I’d eat my damn hat.
An ominous rumble accompanied by a vicious stab of pain had me clutching my stomach. “Just look, please.” I wasn’t past begging at this point.
His gaze dropped to my hand and his jaw tensed. “I’ll check your wallet as soon as you’ve finished your statement,” he said painfully slowly as if I was stupid. “And I’ll ring your doctor to confirm then, as well.”
“Just get me a phone…”
“You’re not the only—”
Son of a bitch. “Look, kid. That wallet, or my doctor, has the answer to every one of your questions… argh… damn….” I paused as another wave of pain bent me double. I sucked in a couple of deep breaths and blew them out slowly, feeling the sweat bead on my forehead. Now the kid did look concerned. About fucking time.
I blinked slowly then continued, “If you would just ask the nice detective who arrested me. He said I needed to come here and explain, so I could tick your bloody boxes, and then I’d be free to go. But more importantly—” I breathed through another griping pain. “—right now, getting that wallet will save your arse from having to clean up the mess I’m two seconds away from making in your grubby little interview room because you didn’t give me access to a bathroom. Not to mention the hours of paperwork involved explaining why you ignored a valid medical claim and inflicted emotional trauma on an innocent man.” Was that even a thing? Who knew? But it sounded fucking awesome.
The kid’s eyes popped. Mission accomplished.
“Oh yeah. And Health and Safety are gonna be crawling all over your arse like flies on sugar. So check the damn wallet and get me to a bloody bathroom before you regret it.” I got unsteadily to my feet and began undoing my fly just to hammer my point home. The young constable’s eyes widened in horror.
“Stop. You can’t do that….” He scrambled to his feet.
“You get that I have no choice here? And they’re the only clothes I’ve got,” I enlightened him, leaning on the table as another cramp hit. Jesus Christ, I was seconds away from humiliating myself. “I’m not gonna get them dirty. Now pass me that fucking rubbish bin….”
His gaze flicked to the camera in the corner of the room and he licked his lips. “Fuck. Okay, okay…,” he flustered. “I’ll take you. I have to come in with you, though.”
A tide of pain threatened to envelop my head. “I couldn’t give a rat’s arse,” I snapped. “Though you might want to grab that Vicks you guys are so fond of. Keep me waiting this long and there are gonna be consequences, none of them pleasant. Now move, please.”
FORTY MINUTES later and I was standing at the main desk in the somewhat busy station lobby returning my “I can’t wait” Crohn’s and colitis NZ urgent toilet card back into my wallet and fending off the millionth apology from the senior sergeant over my inconvenience, though he too mentioned the infamous list, and the fact that the detective was only doing his job. I decided this fucking list needed to be discussed at our next protest organisers committee meeting. Still, I’d accepted the apologies with a gracious poise I didn’t actually feel—none of it was this guy’s fault, after all. I might be a sarcastic arsehole, but I tended to save it for those who deserved it. Following the restroom break and some self-medication, my gut might have been temporarily appeased but I was damn near collapsing with exhaustion. It had been a fucked-up day, and obliterating a cubicle in the men’s toilet for the foreseeable future didn’t bode well for the rest of my weekend. My mind was already manning the battle stations.
Speaking of which, Caleb watched at a distance looking somewhat remorseful. I was tempted to flip him off but decided I’d spent enough time in a police station for one day. It was unfair, I knew, but I just wish the guy had taken things at face value and given me the benefit of the doubt. I could’ve been home recovering on my couch an hour ago. There was always a price to be paid for these types of days—the protest march had been enough of a challenge without a fucking arrest on top. My gut was a ticking time bomb, and after today, there was no way it was just gonna lie down peacefully and forget about things.
Not to mention I’d been humiliated enough to send me packing to my bed for a week with the curtains drawn. The station bustle and noise had covered most of the embarrassingly detailed apologies, in particular one furious family of an arrested teen kicking up a stink about wanting to see their son “right the hell now.” You could smell the alcohol fumes a mile off of them, and holy crap, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
When I’d gotten my phone back, fifty million texts littered the inbox, from protest committee members to friends who’d seen the footage of my arrest on social media, all wanting to know what the hell happened. Not to mention my family, who’d been blowing up my phone for over an hour, wanting to come to my aid, which was the absolute last thing I needed. If I thought I was embarrassed now, watching my family systematically pull apart the police hierarchy with their indignant outrage would have led to a whole new level of mortification.
With everything accounted for in my possessions, I was hellbent on the front door, only to
freeze at the cool touch of a hand on my arm. The hackles on my neck rose instantly. I’d know that citrus tang anywhere.
“Drake, wait.”
“Unless you’re going to arrest me… again… detective, I suggest you remove that.” I eyeballed Caleb’s hand, his very… large, smooth hand. I know, I know. Even dickheads can be hot… apparently.
He jerked back as if he’d been burned. “Sorry. I just wanted to say… well, sorry… I guess. I got called to another interview and things took longer than I intended. We’re a bit undermanned… what with the protest march. I… fuck. I forgot till it was too late about… I didn’t mean for you….”
His cheeks pinked adorably. No. No, they did not. There was nothing adorable about the man whatsoever.
Behind me tempers were heating up with the teen’s family, and after a concerned glance, Caleb pulled me to the side, out of the way.
He continued. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”
I blinked slowly. “So you’ve said.”
His expression hardened. “Look, I wasn’t doing it to be a dick. It was procedure for the day. We were required to transfer all troublema….”
I arched a brow.
He cleared his throat. “All people of interest to the station. But yeah….” He winced. “I could’ve been less of an arsehole about it.”
The angry wall I’d built shuddered before I could stop it and I heard the clattering of bricks on the floor. Goddammit. Who knew I was such a sucker for an apology?
“What was that?” I turned my ear to him. “I’m sure I misheard.”
He rolled his eyes. “I said, I could’ve been less of an arsehole. At least passed on the information about your card sooner. You had to stay to be interviewed but you didn’t have to wait to use the bathroom.”