The Play: Briar U

by Kennedy, Elle

  My very attractive protector.

  Dammit, I need to stop thinking about how hot is. He doesn’t want a rebound with me. He already made that clear.

  It would be so much easier if he agreed to it, though. I’m attracted to him, and, more importantly, I trust him. But I’m not making a play for my friend, especially when he explicitly stated he’s not into it.

  The Space Cushion Encroacher stalks off in a huff, while Hunter stares after him in amusement. “That was easy.” Then, with an extravagant gesture, he presents me with a tall can of beer. It’s called Jack’s Abbey House Lager.

  “It’s in a can,” I remark.

  “Yeah, cans are making a big comeback in craft beer circles. You’re really living now, babe.”

  “Ergh. I probably should’ve told you to grab me a vodka cran or something fruity. I’m not a fan of most beers.” I pause in thought. “Actually, I can’t think of a single beer I like. They all taste the same to me: bad.”

  “Trust me, you’ll like this one. It goes down so smooth. Just try it.”

  As Hunter watches expectantly, I take a big swallow of his magical beer.

  “Well?” he demands.

  My gaze drops to my suede boots. “It tastes exactly like the other one.”

  “Are you joking right now? You think Abbey House and Bud Light taste the same? I’m so ashamed of you right now.”

  “I told you, I’m not a beer girl.”

  “You’re a disgrace.”

  “You’re a disgrace.”

  Hunter grins as I stick out my tongue at him. He sips his own can of pretentious beer, then says, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Mr. Muscles.”

  “It’s fine. To be honest, it was nice to get out of the house. And it’s good practice, right?”

  We do some people-watching as we savor our beers. Well, Hunter savors. I just hold my nose and swallow. We crack each other up by creating fake backstories for various bar patrons, and in no time at all I’ve forgotten all about being ditched by Roy. I have more fun with Hunter, anyway.

  Around nine-thirty we leave the bar and head for the parking lot. As I’m zipping up my parka, one of my earrings nearly gets caught in the hood and I curse under my breath.

  “I hate these stupid things,” I complain as I move the hoop aside. “They’re a menace.”

  “You’re a menace.”

  Yes, this is our thing now. It makes us snicker every time, which I suppose indicates that either our shared sense of humor is immature, or we are.

  Hunter starts the Rover and reverses out of the parking spot. “I’m taking you home?” He glances over.

  “Yep, thank you.” I buckle my seatbelt, laughing when I notice that my Bluetooth is the device that connects to his car.

  “You didn’t un-sync!” he accuses. “You promised me you did.”

  “I lied to you, Hunter.” Chortling, I load a playlist that includes a bunch of Whitney Houston ballads, which I know he doesn’t like.

  “You’re evil,” he says as he drives us away from town.

  “Sorry, I can’t hear you. Whitney is singing.”

  Then, just because I can, I sing along to “Greatest Love of All” until Hunter threatens to leave me on the side of the dark, deserted road if I don’t shut up.

  “Hey, could you turn off my butt heater?” he asks. “My ass is on fire.”

  “Sure.” I’m holding my phone, so I go to plop it into the cup holder. But the Rover hits a pothole at that exact moment and the phone slips from my hand and tumbles to Hunter’s feet.

  “Chrissake, Semi. Grab that before it gets stuck under the gas pedal.”

  “Chill out. Hold on.” I lean toward him and stretch out my arm, but the moving car sends my phone skittering across the floor mat. “Dammit, I can’t reach it. Can you try to kick it toward my hand?”

  “No. I’m fucking driving.”

  “Just try.”

  Groaning, he tries to poke the phone with his left foot, and the SUV swerves slightly.

  “Okay, no, stop doing that,” I order. “Focus on driving. I’ll do it.”

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and crawl over his lower body. My hand begins wiggling around in the vicinity of his calves. The car swerves again.

  “Pay attention to the road!”

  “Trying to,” he grinds out. “But you keep bumping my leg.”

  I bend over as far as I can, until my head is squished in Hunter’s lap. I stretch out my arm again, and—yes! My fingers collide with the phone and I swiftly close a fist around it.

  “Got it!” I announce, and then I move to sit up and—

  I can’t.

  “Demi,” Hunter orders. “Move.” The car rocks slightly to the right.

  I try to lift my head again, and a jolt of pain shoots through my ear. “Oh my God,” I wail. “I told you. I fucking told you.”

  “Told me what? Jesus, get up—”

  “I can’t!” My voice is muffled against the fly of his jeans. “My earring is stuck.”

  “Stuck on what?”

  “On you! On your jeans! I don’t know what.” The position I’ve found myself in has my head wrenched to the side, so all I can see is Hunter’s knees, and his foot on the gas pedal. Rather than attempt an escape, I keep my head planted flat on his thigh.

  “Try to unsnag yourself,” he pleads.

  I refuse to budge. “No. It’ll rip my earlobe off, Hunter.”

  “It won’t.”

  “It will.” Honest-to-God tears well up in my eyes.

  He growls in frustration. “It’s not gonna rip your—fuck, you know what, hold on. Let me pull over,” he says.

  And that’s when we hear the sirens.

  21

  Hunter

  This is a disaster. I’m getting pulled over by the cops, and Demi’s head is stuck in my lap. She’s draped over me like a blanket, her face inches from my crotch, and I know that the second the officer reaches the driver’s side window, he’s going to think…

  Jesus Chris, he’s going to think she’s blowing me.

  “Why did they pull us over?” she hisses.

  “Must’ve seen us swerving all over the road.” Shit, this is a nightmare.

  I shut off the engine. As I wait for the cop to approach the window, I make a frantic attempt to pry Demi off me.

  “Ow!” she wails.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m trying to get you free.” Her earring is caught, all right, but I’m not sure on what.

  I think it’s one of my belt loops? But how the hell did it get embedded like that? Maybe it snagged on a thread? I’m not making a lick of progress, and every time I try to tug the hoop free, Demi whimpers in pain. I can’t believe I’m even thinking it, but…she might lose that ear.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Someone’s coming,” she whispers as footsteps thump on the pavement.

  “License and regist—“ The police officer stops midsentence.

  I sigh in resignation.

  “What in the hell is going on here? Sit up, Miss,” he commands. “Now, please.”

  “I can’t!” moans Demi.

  The cop’s stern eyes fix on me. “I’m going to need you and your girlfriend to get out of the car and place both your hands on the hood.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” Demi says, as if that’s our most pressing concern, being mistaken for a couple.

  “We can’t,” I answer through gritted teeth.

  “Look, kid, I realize this is a cool thing you college boys like to do—”

  A cool thing we do?

  “—but lewd behavior is grounds for arrest. Not only that, you were driving recklessly and endangering other drivers.”

  I peer out the windshield at the dark and completely empty road. “What other drivers? There’s nobody here but us. A single car hasn’t driven by since you pulled us over.”

  “And we’re not being lewd,” Demi protests. “I’m stuck!”

  “Stuck,” he
echoes dubiously.

  I sigh. “She dropped her phone and tried to pick it up, and now she’s stuck.”

  “Stuck,” he says again. Then he shakes his head as if deciding he doesn’t want to buy what we’re selling. “Miss, this is the last time I’m going to ask—please sit up.”

  “I can’t.”

  The officer reaches for his belt.

  “Jesus!” I blurt out. “You don’t need your weapon!”

  “What weapon!” Demi starts wiggling in my lap, renewed in her efforts to set herself free.

  If the officer wasn’t there and it was the two of us, all that wild undulating would summon a heated response out of my dick. But the cop is here, so my dick is limp and I’m seconds away from breaking out in manic laughter. Which won’t go over well with the increasingly irritated officer.

  Turns out, he was only reaching for a radio. “I’m going to need some backup on Ninth Line and Highway Forty-eight. Suspects were pulled over for reckless driving and performing oral sex while in a moving vehicle and are now resisting arrest.” Static crackles.

  “I’m not performing oral sex!” Demi growls. “Trust me, I would love to perform oral sex on him, but he’s celibate.”

  I’m sorry, what?

  Did she just say she would love to perform oral sex on me?

  “Seriously, Demi? You’re saying you actually want to bl—do that?” My mind spins like a carousel. During all this talk about rebounds, I truly believed she was joking when she suggested me as a candidate. That’s why I never let myself…get my hopes up, I guess?

  “I told you I want a rebound, and I wanted to have it with you.” Her voice is muffled and her fingers continue to fumble with her ear.

  But we’ll need to discuss Demi’s desire to blow me later. I need to get through to this stubborn officer first.

  “Sir,” I say calmly. “Please. I understand what this looks like, but we are not engaging in lewd behavior. We’re both clothed. My dick’s in my pants.”

  “Where is your license and registration?”

  “In the glove box, but I can’t reach—”

  A shout of triumph echoes in the car, and suddenly Demi’s head pops up like a jack-in-the-box.

  “I did it!” She’s frantically rubbing her left ear.

  “Holy shit,” I say when she moves her hand. Her earlobe is bright red and swollen to three times its size, and there’s blood staining her fingertips.

  She’s right. Hoop earrings should be banned.

  “See!” Relief lines her voice as she gazes imploringly at the officer. “His pants are zipped. We weren’t doing anything wrong. And we only drank a beer each. Well, two for me.”

  I swallow a groan.

  Goddammit. Drinking hadn’t even been part of this equation. And now, thanks to her, it is.

  The cop is officially done humoring us. “I’m going to need both of you to get out of the car. Now.”

  * * *

  “This is the drunk tank?” Demi asks an hour later.

  She looks thoroughly unimpressed with the holding area of the only jail in Hastings. The large cell currently houses three people—us, and a middle-aged man with a bushy beard, sleeping on one of the benches. He’s twitching in his sleep, and one foot taps against the bars every few seconds.

  Yup, we’re behind bars, and it’s all thanks to the big hoops.

  “Maybe it’s nicer when you’re actually drunk?” she hypothesizes.

  I laugh as I slide my back down the cement wall and sink onto the metal bench. Beneath my feet is a dirty linoleum floor. Above my head the fluorescent lights are way too bright.

  “You know this is all your fault,” I say cheerfully.

  “My fault?” Her brown eyes fill with indignation.

  “I told you what would happen if you synced your Bluetooth to my car.”

  “This is not my Bluetooth’s fault.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Really. I dropped my phone.”

  “Still your fault.”

  “Oh shut up.”

  “You shut up.” I scoot closer to her, until we’re sitting about a foot apart. “How’s your ear?” I ask gruffly.

  From what I can see, it’s still pink and swollen, but it doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. The dried blood caked onto the lobe triggers a pang of guilt, because I’m the one who talked her into wearing those earrings tonight.

  “It’s sore,” she admits. “But at least it’s still attached to my head.”

  “At least that,” I agree. “I’m sorry I made you wear the big hoops.”

  “It’s all right. Now you know.” She releases a bleak sigh. “Sometimes you must witness the tragedy firsthand in order to understand it.”

  “Yes,” I said gravely.

  My lips twitch until finally a laugh slips out. She joins in, stretching out her legs and tapping her suede boots on the linoleum.

  “I wish I had a lollipop,” she says.

  “I wish I had my freedom.”

  That summons another laugh from her. “God. I can’t believe we’re in jail. For lewd behavior, of all things.”

  “And my dick wasn’t even out!”

  “I know, right?”

  The lone deputy in the holding area glances in our direction, and I glimpse a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He’s been at his desk for the past hour, typing on a computer.

  I have no idea where the arresting officer disappeared to, although we weren’t technically arrested. Nobody read me my Miranda rights, anyway. No Miranda rights? Ha! I’ve seen enough Law and Order reruns to know that any judge in his right mind would dismiss this case in a heartbeat. Unless the judge is having a bad day.

  Personally, I think Officer Cranky was having a shitty night. Demi and I didn’t do anything wrong and he knows it. Our breathalyzers barely registered a thing.

  “What’s the punishment for lewd behavior?” she asks curiously.

  “No clue.”

  “Excuse me—sir?” She hops up and approaches the bars. “What’s the punishment for lewd behavior? Is it death?”

  Once again, he seems to be fighting a smile. “For first-time offenders, usually a fine.”

  “Perfect,” she chirps. “My co-conspirator is filthy rich. He can write you a check.”

  “Hey, don’t look at me,” the desk jockey says with a grin. “Wait until Officer Jenk returns—he’s the one you need to talk to.”

  “Officer Jerk, more like it,” Demi grumbles.

  I snicker. “Nice.”

  She addresses the deputy again. “Aren’t we supposed to get a phone call?” she challenges.

  “She’s right,” I say, sauntering up to the bars. “I’d like my phone call, please.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” The young cop walks over and unlocks the cell door. He gestures for me to step out before sliding the bars back into place with a sharp click.

  “Who are you calling?” Demi demands.

  I turn to answer her, but the sight of her gripping two iron bars and peering at me from inside a cell… It’s too good. I’d regret it my whole life if I let this opportunity pass.

  “Am I allowed to take a picture?” I beg the cop.

  “Don’t you dare,” Demi warns.

  He grins. “Go for it.” I think this is the most fun he’s had in a while. Riding a desk is probably boring as fuck.

  I fish my phone from my pocket and snap a picture of Demi, who looks like she wants to murder me. Then, to rub salt in the wound, I turn around to take a selfie, with Demi’s outraged face in the background, her fingers curled around the bars.

  “That’s my Christmas card, right there,” I tell her, giving a finger gun.

  “I hate you.”

  No you don’t, you want to blow me.

  I can’t stop the wicked thought. And I can’t quite fathom it, either. Was she actually serious about wanting me to be her rebound? She’s so sarcastic that I assumed she was messing with me.

  Maybe it’s a good thing I was in the da
rk about it. Hell, it’d probably be better if I still was. I promised myself I wouldn’t hook up this year, and the temptation to break that vow for Demi is overwhelming.

  The deputy leads me over to his desk and points to the landline.

  “Can’t I use my own phone?” I hold it up in reminder. I mean, he literally just allowed me to take a picture.

  He shakes his head. “Against protocol.”

  “Okay, well, that doesn’t make any sense, but whatever.” I shrug and grab the handset off its cradle. Then I dial one of the few numbers I know by heart.

  “Hey Coach,” I say after his brusque hello.

  “Davenport?” he asks suspiciously.

  “Yeah. I hope I didn’t wake you.” The digital clock across the room reads 10:37. Not crazy late, but we have a six-thirty a.m. morning skate, so there’s a chance he was already in bed.

  “What’s going on?” he barks in my ear.

  “Not much.” I stall, wondering the best way to frame my predicament.

  “Is this about the fucking egg?” Coach sounds annoyed. “Did something happen to it?”

  “Nah, Pablo’s good, thanks for asking. Well, at least I think he’s good—he’s with Conor tonight, so…yeah…anyway…” I exhale. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to Band-Aid it. I’m in jail right now and I’m hoping you might be able to come here and talk to the officers and, you know, do your thing?”

  “My thing?”

  “Yelling at people,” I clarify.

  There’s a brief silence, followed by, “Is this a prank? Because I don’t have time for that shit.”

  I swallow a laugh. “I’m dead serious. A friend and I got pulled over in Hastings tonight. It was a total misunderstanding—we weren’t drunk and there was no lewd behavior despite what Officer Jerk might say—”

  The desk cop chuckles softly. Man, I wish he was the one who pulled us over. He probably would’ve high-fived me and let us go.

  “Coach?” I prompt.

  Another silence trickles by.

  “I’m on my way.”

  22

  Hunter

  “Where is he?” Demi asks impatiently. “I thought you said he lived ten minutes away.”