I answer by locking handcuffs onto her wrists.
Valentine gasps and then screeches in outrage. "You didn't just do that. I demand to speak to the mayor."
"You're speaking to him," I tell her with a smirk.
"You're not the mayor."
"I am," I assure her. "Run unopposed every term, although there's not much to the job to be honest."
"I demand you take these cuffs off me right now and--"
"You have the right to remain silent," I say to her, and she screeches again and stomps her foot like a child, and yet she still is gloriously sexy. I'll never admit to anyone that I'm enjoying the hell out of this for some reason.
"Are you seriously fucking arresting me?" She practically chokes out the words.
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law," I say with a grin.
I wait for her to yell at me again, but I'm completely thrown off guard when her eyes go round and her lips pout out. "I'm freezing."
She steps into me and burrows against my chest. And yes...she is freezing, because I can feel her hard nipples rubbing through my Henley as I hadn't bothered to zip up my jacket when I left my house.
What's even worse, since her hands are cuffed in front of her, when she steps into me the backs of her hands brush against my crotch and I start to go hard.
I immediately bring my hands to her shoulders and gently push her back from me.
"Let's get you in my truck," I tell her.
"Or let's go back inside and I'll dance just for you," she says in a throaty purr while her eyes practically sizzle with challenge.
I don't answer her but instead open my truck door and hold her by the elbow as she manages to climb in. She sits back in a huff and glares at me. I don't bother engaging with her further but round the truck and get in.
It takes me two minutes to drive her to the police station. When I pull up, she says again with utter disbelief. "You're arresting me?"
"I'm teaching you a lesson," is all I say before hopping out of my truck.
The station is locked up tight and dark, but it only takes me moments to get Valentine out of my vehicle and inside. I lead her back past the small lobby area, flipping lights on as I go, past my office and to the back of the station that has two jail cells side by side. I have to keep my hand securely on her elbow so she doesn't stumble, but she remains surprisingly quiet.
I open one of the cells and lead her in, then I remove her cuffs. She doesn't do as most prisoners do, dramatically rubbing her skin. Of course, I didn't lock hers tight and she could have wiggled out of them if she wanted.
I point to the steel rack built into the wall with the thin mattress on top and a folded wool blanket at the end. "Your accommodations for the evening."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she grits out, and I can tell she's sobering up slightly as the ramifications are settling in.
"Immensely," I say with a grin. "Now, don't go anywhere...I'll be right back."
I leave her in the cell and don't bother locking the door behind me. I doubt she'd run, but part of me kind of wishes she would. This has turned out to be a bit of fun after all, and while I have no intention of charging Valentine with anything, I'm finding it funny she's going to spend a night in my jail.
It takes me moments to grab what I need and I walk back to the cell where I find her sitting on the edge of the cot, one leg crossed over the other. This of course makes her skirt ride up so high that my eyes stay pinned on her legs and can't seem to move away. It's only when I hear Valentine snicker that I break contact and look into her eyes.
"Here," I say as I hold my hand out. "Take these."
She turns her palm up to me and I drop two Tylenol and then hand her a bottle of water.
"Drink it all," I tell her. "It will help with the headache you are definitely going to have after all that tequila."
I step back and lean my shoulder against the edge of the cell door and watch as she swallows the medication. She then takes a few sips of the water and puts the cap back on.
"You're really going to leave me here tonight?" she asks again.
"I am," I tell her with a nod. "And I'd tell you to use the time to think about how this could have turned out a lot worse for you."
"I hardly even grazed Darla's face," Valentine mutters.
"Not just that," I say sternly. "You could have caused a riot in that place with the way you were dancing."
If I expected Valentine to be chastised by that, I'd be wrong. Instead her eyes light up and she asks me, "Was it that good?"
I can't help it. I grin at her. "Yeah, Valentine...it was that good."
She doesn't say anything in return but has a triumphant look on her face as she swings her legs up onto the cot. I watch as she grabs the blanket and pulls it up those long legs before lying down. She tucks her hands under her head and stares at the ceiling.
"Good night, Valentine," I say as I step out of the cell and shut it. The sound of the lock reverberates but she doesn't move a muscle.
But as I turn away, I hear her say, "Good night, Chief. Consider this a lesson learned."
I turn out the cell lights but leave the hall one on so she's not in total darkness, then head to my office. I sit down in my cushy desk chair, lean back, and prop my booted feet on the desk. I snuggle down, cross my arms over my chest, and close my eyes. If it was any other prisoner, I'd go home for the night, but I'm not about to leave Valentine here all by herself.
Valentine's Couch: Blog Entry
July 9
Alcohol Will Not Get You in My Pants, But It Will Land Me in Jail
I woke up this morning in jail.
My readers know this is a first for me, but honestly...it was kind of a bucket list type of thing so I can't say I'm sad it happened.
I knew that there would be all kinds of perils facing me in the Alaskan wild, but I never thought one of them would be in the form of a five-foot sprite of a girl who was jealous of me.
It turns out that while there are plenty of men who are showing keen interest in going out with me, not all the women in this town are happy about it. It also turns out said sprite of a girl was sweet on the lumberjack (of the famed Grizzly Plate date I wrote about yesterday) and she apparently was not happy that I went on a date with him.
So last night my date was with the logger. Please note, as I made mention in my recap of my date with the lumberjack, that these are two very different types of people. The logger is one of my roommates at the boardinghouse and he really cuts down trees for a living. This would be different from the lumberjack, who claimed he was a lumberjack but that just meant he played a part in a show. The logger really works in the forestry business and I found out over dinner a lot about what that means. Gone are the days of the lumberjack--unless it's in an adorably cheesy Alaskan show--where trees are chopped by axes or even chain saws. Now there are fellers, harvesters, skidders, and knuckle boom loaders that do all the work, and men to operate those pieces of heavy equipment. My date last night operates a harvester, which takes the cut tree and strips it of limbs and bark. This may sound simple, but it's really not. It actually takes an operator about three years to get to a sufficient proficiency to operate the machine at the master level, which means he can take a tree, strip the limbs, slice the bark, cut it into thirds, and stack it under twenty seconds. It sounds really impressive.
At first, my date with the logger was off to a good start. He's gorgeous and well muscled, and I've seen him come home from a hard day's work and his jeans, boots, long-sleeved T-shirt, and hard hat are, well...hot.
Dinner was nice and I enjoyed learning about the logging industry. After, he suggested we end the evening with a drink at The Wounded Caribou. It didn't take us long to get there as we ate dinner at The Wounded Caribou, so we basically moved from our dinner table to the bar. As a side note, there are other restaurants and bars in town, but I haven't tried them out yet. Of course, after the hangover I'm nursing today, I'm not sure t
hat will be anytime soon.
So yeah...hangover today.
How I got there wasn't so fun.
Turns out the logger isn't all that much of a gentleman. He kept plying me with tequila, which at first I wasn't really worried about it. I was in a public environment and felt safe enough. But we all know what happens when you think you can handle your alcohol.
You really can't and things can turn, well, bad.
The logger gave me drink after drink.
So I got drunk.
I mean really, really, really drunk.
And I admit I was having fun. It had been awhile since I've really let my hair down and partied. You know me, readers...I do elegant dinners and expensive wine. I most certainly don't do caribou stew and tequila.
Which apparently leads me to dancing on tabletops.
The logger and about thirty other men who had great appreciation for my dancing skills dared me to dance, and egged me on to keep dancing. It was fun, but in hindsight was probably a little douchy of my date to want me to do this.
Now, back to the jealous sprite.
She clearly was not having fun, as she was still smarting over the fact that I went out with the lumberjack, and I had no clue she liked him. Despite the fact I have no intention of going out with him again, she still held bitter feelings, and this might have had to do with the fact that he was watching me dance along with everyone else in the bar.
The jealous woman, who I really will just now dub the bitch, proceeded to call me a tramp and a hooker, and one thing led to another. You don't need the boring details, but suffice it to say, I landed my butt in jail.
I'd like to tell you it was a bad experience but it wasn't, and that's mainly because the East Merritt chief of police is the one who cuffed me--yes, dirty fantasies, I know--and hauled me off to jail. And let me tell you, ladies, if you are searching for an image in your head of what the perfect Alaskan man would look like, it would be the chief. Tall, big, and muscled. Dark hair, electric blue eyes. A killer smile and panty-melting dimples. Total freaking package, and yes...it was not a chore getting hauled into jail by him.
He's sweet too.
Let me go the next day without so much as a ticket for disturbing the peace.
So where does that leave me?
Two dates down and I'm seeing some real differences between the men out here and the men back home. No offense to the lumberjack and the logger--they're not getting my girlie parts tingling, but I'm not about to give up. If anything, I'm more intrigued than ever about the bounty that Alaska has to offer us women.
I shall be reporting back soon. I have a date with the fisherman tomorrow afternoon.
Chapter 9
Valentine
After I type the last line of my blog article, I read through it three more times, checking for errors and making sure I'm hitting the proper tone. Sassy lies beside me, sleeping heavily. Sarah's been feeding her raw moose and caribou, which she assures me is good for my dog. This I believe to be true, because I've been walking her each morning and those little legs just never give out. My concern, though, is that by feeding her caribou and moose, this may make her smell better to bears. It's why when I walk her, it's only up and down the sidewalk of Main Street.
I stare at my laptop screen and deem my piece to be perfect. My blog is meant to be fun and engaging and to inspire women's fantasies. To do that, I have to relay my experiences in an entertaining way so my readers keep coming back.
The only problem is, that blog article I just wrote wasn't the exact truth. Just like with any media outlet, there's spin.
Oh, the part about Rusty and Darla, and me getting drunk and taken into jail was all true.
The part where I embellished--no, outright lied--was when I wrote that being hauled off to jail by Logan was an adventure that I enjoyed. The article romanticizes him and I know will keep my readers panting to hear more about East Merritt's gorgeous chief of police.
But truth be told, I'm freaking mortified he hauled me in.
I'm absolutely and completely embarrassed I got drunk and danced on the tables in front of a bunch of rowdy and probably very horny men, and clearly one very pissed-off woman. While I'm totally the type of woman who can get wild and crazy, I don't get that wild and crazy. I do have my limits, and dancing provocatively to provoke reaction is just not me.
It's not me at all.
But you know who it is?
It's tequila.
Straight-up tequila made me do that.
And if that wasn't humiliating enough, I got sick in my jail cell last night. I had managed to fall asleep despite the bed spinning, but came up out of a dead sleep spewing vomit all over the floor. I wanted to crawl under the cot and hide when Logan came running in, clearly having been woken up himself by the sounds of my hurling. I had no clue he'd stayed at the station with me.
He took one look at me on my hands and knees, chest heaving and tears running down my face because I felt so wretched, a quick look at the vomit, and then he was in the cell and helping me to my feet.
"I'm so sorry," I mumbled, trying to keep my face averted because I knew my breath smelled worse than moose ass. "I didn't mean to throw up on your floor. I'll clean it up."
Logan just wrapped an arm around my shoulders and turned me toward the cell door. We walked out and down a hall, and right into a bathroom labeled WOMEN. He patiently waited while I washed my face and washed my mouth out with water, and then he told me, "Let's get you home."
"But I should go back and clean that up," I said piteously.
"Just forget about it, Valentine. I'll handle it." His voice revealed just how tired I imagined he was.
"But my sentence isn't over," I pointed out somewhat pathetically. Guilt was driving me hard. "I totally deserve more jail time, just for the vomit alone."
Logan laughed, but it wasn't in a mocking way. It was gently done as he told me, "It's close to five A.M. You've served enough time, honey."
I couldn't handle him being nice, especially after I made an ass of myself in public, and worse yet, I have vague memories of me twerking. I swung a punch at a woman for calling me names, thus forcing Logan to do his cop duty and bring me to jail, where he clearly had to sleep last night too. And then the best part...I left him with a big pile of Bou Stew and tequila on his floor. I didn't say a word to him on the ride home, but huddled inside his thick, warm sheepskin coat he'd put on me before he loaded me into his truck.
When he pulled up in front of Sarah's, he put the truck in park and asked, "You okay?"
I wouldn't look at him but just nodded. Then I started to take his coat off.
"Keep it," he said, then nodded toward the door. "Sarah's up and she'll fix you some toast to settle your stomach. I'll get the coat later."
"Okay," I mumbled, then fled from his truck, vowing to myself I'd never see him again.
Just as Logan promised, Sarah was up and made me some plain toast as well as some mint tea. It did settle my stomach enough that I managed a shower, a vigorous tooth brushing, and then a long walk with Sassy. After that, I crawled into my bed and wrote my blog article because I have a fan base that I still answer to. I'll have to head over to The Wounded Caribou later to post it. If there's a God, I won't run into Logan.
Ever.
Again.
There's a timid knock on my door and I freeze. It's not Sarah, because her knock rattles the hinges. It's not one of the guys, because Sarah told me when I got home early this morning that they all went out fishing today with Mike. It was Rusty and Portman's day off so they booked Mike on a guided fishing trip.
My heart starts to hammer, thinking it could possibly be Logan, and I want to dive under the covers and hide until he leaves.
But then the knock comes again softly and I hear April's voice call out, "Val...can I come in?"
I toss my legs off the side of my bed and cross to the door, opening it wide. "April...hey."
I step back and Sarah's daughter comes in, her eyes going
straight to my bed where my laptop lies open and Sassy is snoozing hard.
"Oh my God, your dog is adorable," she coos as she walks to the bed. I rush right behind her and scoop up my laptop, hoping it's a plausible pretense that I'm just making room for her to sit on the bed. In reality, I close the laptop so she can't see my blog article and set it up on the dresser.
Sassy lifts her head and blinks drowsily as April sits on the edge of the bed. She picks up Sassy and cuddles her to her chest, where Sassy is only all too happy to burrow in and fall back asleep. She's in her lazy mode right now, which is pretty much her primary mode unless we're out walking.
"So what's up?" I ask as I tuck my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and sort of rock on the balls of my fuzzy-socked feet. I have no idea why April would come to see me. I mean, we had a great time picking out clothes together, but it wasn't like shopping with your girlfriends or Jeremy. She was just doing her job.
"I just came by to see how you were doing and how you were adjusting to life around here," she says with a shrug, but I see something deep in her eyes just before she drops her gaze back down to Sassy.
My face scrunches up and I ask with dread, "You heard about last night, huh?"
April's eyes shoot back up to mine and they are filled with empathy. She rushes to assure me, "I did and I know how fast gossip runs around this town, and I also know how it can be skewed, and I didn't want you to worry too much about it. Tomorrow Shep Willis will get drunk and pass out on someone's front porch and you'll be old news."
I let out a pained sigh and walk to my bed, sitting next to her. "I'm so embarrassed about last night."
"Why?" April asks, and she sounds genuinely confused.
"So I'm now telling you this so you know exactly what happened," I say. "I went on a dinner date with Rusty and we had drinks after. Lots of drinks. Lots of tequila. I got stinkin' drunk and did a Miley Cyrus impersonation on top of the tables. Then Darla called me a hooker and a tramp and I punched her in the chin. Logan put handcuffs on me and put me in a jail cell for the night. And if that wasn't bad enough, I vomited all over the cell and he had to clean it up."
Sex in the Sticks Page 8