“Ohmygod, I feel so good right now, Occif—off—fofficer.” I inhale a deep, delicious breath as another surge of warmth tickles my butt. “I put the seat warmers on, and it’s just . . . mmm . . . yeah, it’s so good.”
“Have you been drinking tonight?”
Another snort. “I wish! All I got was an Arnold Palmer.” I make a gagging sound. “Have you ever had an Arnold Palmer, Off—ffoficer?” I shake my head, chuckling. That is a hard word to get right. “They’re soooo boring. Just lemonade and iced tea. I mean, blaaach, right?!”
“What’s that there?” He points to the half-drunk bottle of wine sitting in the center console.
“Oh! That’s my zin.” I start to laugh as a new song takes shape in my head. “That’s my zin, that’s my zin, that’s my zinny, zinny, zin . . .” Wriggling along to the beat, I pick the bottle up and hand it over to him. “It’s not very good, but you can have what’s left.”
He holds the bottle up to the light to examine it. Probably checking the vintner.
“Trust me, dude. It’s pretty bad. I gottit in the check-out line. I wuhzz behind that crazy cat lady.”
“This is all the alcohol you’ve had to drink tonight?”
I nod.
“What else do you have in that bag?” He motions to the oranges on the seat beside me.
“Ugh . . .” I blow out a heavy sigh. “Those are the oranges for my daughter’s game. I had to pick them up ’cause freaking Jennifer couldn’t do it.”
“Jennifer?”
“Stupid Jennifer Sutton.” I roll my eyes. “She’s just reeediculous. She said she wanted to be team mom this year but . . . come on!” I smack the steering wheel. “If you can’t even bring the oranges, how are you going to do everything else that comes with being team mom, you know?”
His eyes do that sexy narrowing thing again, making my girlie parts spasm with excitement.
Oh, yeah. I see you, Poncherello.
I see you.
“We received a complaint that a woman was attacking people with oranges in the parking lot tonight. Do you know anything about that?”
My shoulders start to sag. “Yeah. That was totally me.”
“That was you?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His dark eyebrows scrunch up like little caterpillars, like he’s surprised that I admitted it so easily. But hey, I’m no liar.
That’s what Dan does, not me!
“Ma’am, I’m going to need to see your license and registration.”
“Ooh . . . well, thasss gonna be a little bit tricky,” I snicker. Not only did I throw my license away, but I also tore up my registration slip and the three oil-change receipts that were stashed in my glove compartment. Anything that had the name Osborne got torn up. Torn up. Torn up. Torn up, torn up, torn up—
“You don’t have any identification?” he asks, interrupting my shimmy-shaking new song.
My bottom lip rolls out into a pout. “Nope. I’m sorry.”
“Do you know your name?”
“Uh . . . yeah. It’s Jane.”
“Jane what?”
“Jane . . . Holliday.”
Technically it’s not a lie. I was a Holliday long before I was an Osborne. And I’ve decided I’m going back to it. First thing tomorrow, I’m going down to the courthouse to change it—or . . . do I go to the DMV for that?
DMV.
Dee Emm Veeee . . .
Dee Emm Veeee . . .
I snap my fingers. There’s a song in there somewhere—
“Jane Holliday?” he repeats.
“Yup. That’s me. Jane Holliday. Holliday. Hollahhhhdaaay!”
“You’re Jane Holliday?”
“Reporting for duty.” I smile proudly and raise my hand to my temple in salute, but smack myself in the eye in the process. I laugh. Whoopsie!
“Jane Holliday who went to South Glenn High?”
I gasp. “Oh shit! How’d you know that?”
He stares at me for a hard beat—like he’s studying me—and then flashes me a little Poncherello smirk. “That’s classified.”
I smack the window frame. “Shut up! I’m classified?”
He nods.
Holy shit.
“So, tell me, Jane. Do you live around here?”
“Pfft! No way!” I sputter, spraying spit across the steering wheel. I burst out laughing again. It’s raining inside my car! It’s raining spit!
“I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”
“Really?” My eyes grow wide and I gasp. “Why? Am I being arrested? Are you gonna put me in handcuffs?” I growl at him while pawing my hand through the air like a sexy little cougar.
“Not unless you give me a reason to.”
“Oh, I’ll give you a reason . . .”
I pull on the door handle, but it won’t open. “Uh-oh,” I laugh, then try it again. Nope. Still won’t open—
“You need to unlock it,” he says. “Press the button.”
“Okay, okay. I got it. I swear it’s like freaking mission control in here.” I swipe at the row of buttons beside me. I press one, and this time the rear passenger window starts to drop. I snicker. “Whoopsie. Houston, we have a problem.” I press another button and then try the handle again. “Eureka!”
Officer Dimples backs out of the way while I plop my feet down onto the ground. Whoa! That’s not quite right. I’m sort of wibbly. And wobbly. Like I’m standing on Jell-O. Whoa! Is the ground made of Jell-O?!
“You okay, Jane?”
He grabs my wrist to stabilize me.
“I am now,” I moan, my tortured skin electrifying beneath his touch.
He’s so strong and warm and . . . cop-ish.
“Let’s get you down on the ground.”
“Mmm . . . yeah, let’s get me down on the ground . . . ,” I purr back, eager to put the squishy Jell-O to work. I grab on tight to his meaty arms and let him maneuver me down to a cross-legged position beside my car.
I start to giggle. “I’m sitting criss-cross applesauce. Just like kindergarten.”
Grinning a little, he squats down in front of me, hands braced against his knees to give me a nice shot of all the muscles running down his forearms.
I shift against the squishy asphalt.
He’s such a tease.
“What are you on?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“What are you on?”
“Uh . . . the ground.”
He sighs. “What kind of drugs are you on?”
I scoff. “I’m not. I don’t do drugs!”
“No?”
“No way.” I wave off the suggestion with a super-fast swat through the air. So fast I could prah-babably do it professionally. “I’m a mom—I’m the freaking PTA predis—pred—pre—”
“President?”
“Yes! Exactly. I’m the PTA predisent. I don’t do drugs. No way.”
“So, you didn’t take anything tonight?”
“No—well, I mean, I took one of Heather’s happy Zs but—oh shit! Is that why you’re here? Did she report me? ’Cause I only took one, I swear.” I raise both hands in the air, surrendering. “I’ve never stolen anything before that—”
“What’s a happy Z?”
“Zoloft!”
“You took a Zoloft that didn’t belong to you?”
I drop my head, and my hands. “Yeah. That’s bad, huh? Stealing is bad.”
“Yeah, it is—”
Flashing red and blue lights suddenly appear out of nowhere—except that they’re attached to a police car. A real-life police car! “Look!” I point while scrambling up to my squishy feet.
A man gets out and starts walking toward us. It’s way too dark to tell for sure what he looks like, but I can tell he’s tall and skinny. Like a string bean.
“How’s it going? You must be Detective Chavez,” String Bean says. “I’m Officer Gunnerson.”
“Good to meet you,” Ponch—er, Chavez says back to him. They shake hands. “Sor
ry to jump in here, but I was in town working a case, and your dispatch said you were short-staffed, so I figured I’d lend a hand.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” String Bean says. “We’re always low on manpower up here.” He turns and looks at me. “So, is this the assailant?”
Assailant.
Ass. Ass. Ass—
“Ass-ailant!” I scream and then start laughing. Who comes up with these words?
“Yep, that’s her,” I hear my muscly cutie-pie say back to him. “She claims she’s had very little to drink, and that she’s only taken one Zoloft, that was stolen—”
“That’s right, I stole it!” I confess loudly. “And Detective Poncherell-oh was just about to take me into cuts—custody, weren’t you? You needah frisk me, don’t you?” Girlie parts sizzling, I do a quick about-face, spreading my legs wide and pressing my hands against the side of my car. “Come on, frisk me,” I order, pushing my butt out as far as I can. Muscly guys love butts. “You better make sure I don’t have any concealed weapons on me.”
“Do you?” Chavez asks, and there’s a little wobble in his voice like maybe he’s scared. Or . . . laughing.
I snort. “No! But you should still check.”
I give my tail feathers a sexy shake, and—whoa! I lose my balance and crash face-first against the back passenger window. I start to laugh again. Ohmygod. I just smashed my face on the window—
“That’s not Zoloft,” String Bean says.
“Yeah, no shit. She’s lit up like a Christmas tree.”
I snort. Don’t lick the Christmas tree; you’ll get sap in your mouth—ooh! I wonder if the window tastes like sap. I press my tongue against it and start to laugh. It’s so cold—
“Did you get any ID?”
“No, but I sort of know her. We went to high school together.”
High school?
Huh?
Ponch—er, freakin’ Chavez—went to high school with me?
I try and look over my shoulder, to see if I rebem—rebember him, but the glass tastes too good to leave. It’s so slick and cold and . . . mmm . . .
I’m gonna lick this window all night long.
All night long.
All night looooong . . . all night, all night . . .
My all-time favorite Lionel Richie song starts to play in my head. “All night long . . . ,” I mutter against the glass, swaying to the familiar music.
“So, what are you thinking here?” Chavez asks. “You gonna run the plates and find an address for her?”
“Yeah. But I’ll get her down to the station first and let her sleep it off in the drunk tank. So long as she’s not behind the wheel, she’s not a threat to anyone but herself at this point.”
“Unless she gets ahold of those oranges.”
String Bean laughs. “True.”
“Do you need to take any statements?”
“Just the cashier’s,” String Bean says. “I already spoke to the victim.”
The victim.
I snort, causing a foggy spot to appear on the glass in front of me.
Cat Food Lady is the victim.
“Well, if you want, I can do the transport so you can talk to the witness,” Chavez offers. “No sense keeping you out here any longer than you need to be.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Nah. It’s on my way.”
“Well, all right then.” String Bean’s voice lifts. “Thanks a lot, sir. I appreciate it.”
“Sure. Happy to help.”
“Good night, Occifer String Bean.” I wave to him, my tongue still pressed firmly against the glass.
He ignores me.
String Bean is a mean bean.
I snort again. That totally rhymed.
“Okay, Jane. I’m going to take you down to the police station now.”
Sexy Chavez puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Ohmygod, yes!” I cry out against the glass.
His hand is made of thousands of little needles, each one pricking me in just the right spot.
More. More. GIVE ME MORE!
I quickly turn and plant a hungry kiss square on his lips . . . or is that his cheek—
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. None of that.” He pushes me away with a firm hand. “You have to keep your hands to yourself.”
I swipe at my slick mouth and start to laugh. “Um, thasss not gonna be possible. Have you seen yourself?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I need you to put your hands behind your back, Jane.”
I gasp hopefully. “Handcuffs?”
“Yep. Turn around.”
Grinning, I tuck my hands behind my back and turn around.
My body shudders as he grips my wrist with his hand. Skin-to-skin contact. YES! He wraps the cold metal around my wrist and snaps it shut, grazing the rubber band welts in the process.
“Oh god,” I whimper.
“You okay?”
“Mm-hmm. So okay.”
“Oh man.” He chuckles. “I don’t know what you’re on, but you’re gonna feel like hammered shit in the morning. Come on.”
He keeps one hand on my shoulder and ushers me to the car while spouting off a bunch of stuff about my rights and remaining silent or whatever, but all I can focus on is how warm his hand is. It’s like he’s made of fire; he’s practically melting my skin off! Not like Dan. Dan’s always so cold—like a Popsicle. A big lying, cheating Popsicle.
Fuckin’ Dan—
“My husband’s gay, you know!” I blurt out.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. And I’m not ah-sposed to tell anyone, but y’know what . . . I feel like telling someone.” He opens the back door and helps me inside. “So, I’m telling you, Detective Sexy Pants,” I say, looking directly up into his pretty eyes. “He would rather have a penis over a vagina; can you even believe that? My husband would rather have a ding-dong over a nay-nay. A dick over a chick—” I sputter out a laugh. Dick. Chick. Another rhyme—I’m a genius!
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he says.
“Yeah, it totally sucks! I mean—not for the other gay dudes. Do your thing, man! I don’t care. I’m no homo—homomo-mophobe, but my husband should not be gay—ohmygod!” I gasp. “Have you ever sat back here?” I drag my fingertips along the seat cushion behind me. “This is like velvet. Is this velvet?”
His lip twitches again. “Doubtful.”
“Well, it should be.” I shift to my side and press my cheek against the world’s softest seat. “This is the most comfortable seat I’ve ever sat in.” I nuzzle my cheek deeper. Like a little kitty cat. Meow. My eyelids are starting to feel really heavy. “Hey—hey, Chavez.” I glance up at him.
“Yeah?”
“Isssit okay if I just lay down here for a minute? Just for like . . . a minute?”
“Yeah, that’s okay. In fact, it’s a really good idea.”
CHAPTER 6
Methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA) is a synthetic drug that alters mood and perception. It is chemically similar to hallucinogens and stimulants, producing feelings of increased energy, emotional warmth, physical pleasure, and sexual arousal, as well as distorting time and sensory perception. It was initially popular in the nightclub “rave” scene and is more commonly referred to as Molly or Ecstasy—
“I just—I don’t understand . . .” I scrub a bruised palm across my aching forehead, still trying to make sense of the toxicology report in front of me, but I can’t. No matter how long I stare at the words, or how many times I’m assured this test is accurate and reliable, it just doesn’t make sense. “I’m telling you,” I say, again, “I didn’t take ecstasy; I took Zoloft. I swear it was Zoloft.”
At least, I thought it was . . .
The haggard quality of my voice makes me wince but has little effect on the discharging officer stationed behind the glass panel in front of me. She gives me a tired look, then over a sigh repeats what she’s already said: “Ma’am, it doesn’t make a lick of difference to me what you
did or didn’t take. All I care is that you sign the report confirming you’ve read the findings. So, go ahead now . . .”
She taps one of her long red fingernails against the glass like she’s actually touching the signature line at the bottom of the report. My already-burbling stomach wrenches as I glance down at it. Technically, it’s not an admission of anything, but signing it still feels like I’m confessing to something I didn’t do.
Ecstasy?
Seriously, Heather?
“Oh, for god’s sake, Jane, just sign it so we can get the hell out of here,” Dan growls under his breath.
I glance up at him, wishing he would be a little more sympathetic, given the obvious misunderstanding—I would never intentionally take ecstasy!—but as I take in the Bulls cap that’s pulled down low over his eyes and the fleece jacket he’s got zipped up to his chin, I know there’s no compassion for me here. All he’s worried about is being recognized, that someone might see the almighty Dr. Osborne bailing his wife out of jail on a Saturday morning.
As always, it’s all about Dan.
Even though the cops obviously know who I am—they found Dan, after all—it’s my maiden name that’s listed on the bottom of the page. I must have offered that as my name last night. Considering my hatred for Dan and everything he’s affiliated with, it makes sense. I sign it as it’s written—Jane L. Holliday—then shove the report back through the little window to the officer. She rips off the bottom copy, adds it to the pile of other paperwork I’ve already signed, staples it all together, and then shoves the whole stack back to me.
“You have a nice day, ma’am.”
I add the papers to the plastic bag of personal effects already draped over my arm and follow Dan down the hall into the lobby. Just like the steel bed I woke up on this morning, the stark white walls and upholstered guest chairs don’t look the least bit familiar to me. Try as I might, I can’t remember a thing about coming here last night.
My shoulders start to slump, a blanket of embarrassment settling over me.
What did I do?
How could I have been so out of control?
Dan wastes no time sliding his sunglasses into place as he pushes through the front door and steps outside. I squint hard against the morning sun and quickly dig into the plastic bag to retrieve my purse. I need my sunglasses. Where are they . . . dammit. They must be in my car—
See Jane Snap Page 7