An Exaggerated Slutty Existence

Photo by Bill Rhodes“Be kind to your drink, that’s what I always say.” She crossed her legs, nearly falling off the bar stool. Her long legs were wrapped in ripped blue jeans that disintegrated halfway down her calves to nothing but threads. With the tight pink tank top as well, she had been surprise that they had let her in here. He had insisted, though, and who was she to refuse? She speed the red wine he had ordered for her, rolling her eyed as though it were a drink of water in the Sahara.

“Cammy?” he asked.

“Cammy-May, that’s me.”

He narrowed his blue eyes.

“Yes, Bob?” She lay a hand on his thigh and squeezed through his black slacks. She knew his name was not Bob, but playing along would get her more quickly to her goal. Besides, Cammy-May was not her name, either.

“Cammy,” he repeated and sipped his Erdinger, “I want to fuck you.”

She giggled and put her wine glass down to play with her blonde curls.

“I want to fuck you so hard that you scream out for me never to stop.”

“Well, Bob, you know what I need.” She had to admit that he looked good. She could see muscles even beneath his tweed sport coat. The thought of what his cock would taste like brought a smile to her lips. In her mind’s eye she felt that same erection as it would first penetrate between her legs. Her eyes dropped to the large wedding ring on his finger causing her to widget just how beautiful a bruise that would blossom on her ass.

“Of course I do.” Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a wad of cash.

Her hand squeezed his thigh, groping just enough to feel the head of a hardening cock just waiting for her to play with it.

“Oh, shit,” Bob grunted.

Looking up, she saw the taller man standing behind Bob. This man had been siting two over from Bob at the bar and she was relieved to see clothes beneath the man’s trench coat…she had been concerned. However, when she caught sight of the butt end if the man’s Glock holstered beneath the coat, she recognized him.

A second partner tapped her on the shoulder. “Ma’am, we will need some ID.” His hands gently, but with assertion lifted her to her feet.

“I have no ID,” she said, hanging her head and assuming position with her hands behind her back in anticipation if the cold cuffs.

The initial officer, however, was having more difficulty. He glanced at the driver license in his hand. “Mr. Wesley Warren of Rosemont? Seems you’re a bit far from home, sir.” He continued searching the wallet that Wesley had provided as ID.

She widened her eyes. “Your name’s not Bob? You lied to me?”

“I can explain,” Wesley said to the officer, now ignoring her completely.

“You fucking prick!” She stepped forward to try to kick him but, now cuffed she was easily controlled by the second officer.

The first officer smirked. “I would be interested to hear that explanation in front of Mrs. Warren.”

This time he went quiet.

“For now, however, that explanation will be in front of a judge. Likely easier.”

“Who is paying their tab?” The young redhead trending bar had been lost in the action, and she looked panicked.

The officer behind Wesley pulled a credit card from the wallet and tossed it on the bar.

“Hey!” Wesley protested.

All glared at and quickly silenced him.

“Could you use the Metro-Points card? I don’t get any points for that card.” He nodded at the one in the bar.

The ride was quiet in the squad car. She shared the back seat with Wesley “My Name is Bob” . At the station, they were each taken into separate rooms.

Before her door was closed by the officer that had cuffed her, the last words she heard from Wesley were: “I want my lawyer.”

“Peter Clancy, FBI” were the words proudly printed on the name tag he had put on after arriving back at the station.

She knew the new policy well enough. The pain-clothes had to be identified when in the station, according to the mandate out down by the civilian watchdog group. With how often she was in these places, she knew all about it. She was surprised, however, that the FBI was subjected and agreeing to do this as well.

The fluorescent lights shining down on the gun-metal grey table and matching walls, the rim was an interior designer’s nightmare. The chairs, add if grey were not bad enough, were simply white oak with the base minimum of finish, comfort and style.

She rolled her head to stretch out her neck. “I didn’t expect him to lawyer-up so quick.”

“How much wine did you have, Cammy-May?”

Eyes glaring she responded as she usually did, “Fuck you, Pete.”

He laughed and pulled a second name tag from his pocket to throw down in front of her. It read: “Frankie Justice, Detective, RCMP”. Perhaps an ironic name, but her real one nonetheless.

“I wanted to fuck this one, Pete.”

He produced the keys and quickly uncuffed her. “I did, too. He’s fucking gorgeous.” He scratched his beard. Many had seen him and immediately thought that he was a dead runner for Tom Seleck in the early years of Magnum P.I.

She nodded and soothed her wrists with rubbing. “I figured it would have been harder to get him to call the lawyer, though. That was too easy.”

“Tell me about it.” A quick knock and he quickly had the door open to accept the delivery of Frankie’s things.

Frankie popped the blue coloured lenses from in front of her green eyes and lay them on the table.

“Hey, what if we need to use those again?”

“Fuck you, Pete.”

He giggled.

Next she pulled the greasy blonde wig from her head to return to her normal brunette pixie cut. Standing, she took the clothes from Pete and immediately started stripping. “I do need a good lay, though. I have trouble concentrating when I’m horny.”

Pete sat opposite of her and checked his pad in front if him. “I bet.”

“What are you doing after work?” All six-foot of her slim, muscled body looked at him wantonly. She even leaned on the chair and squished her medium breasts between her arms for him.

His eyes shifted up to see her in nothing but pink panties, but slipped everything except her smile. “Well, I’m not doing you.” Then his eyes rolled causing then both to laugh.

Grabbing her white sports-bra off the table, she slipped it over her head. “So long as we get to see Sheila tonight…”

“Yes…” he agreed in a deep grown-like voice.

“Then we get that fucking jock Nigel as well.”

“Fucking A! And then…?”

“Then, maybe, just maybe…we will have something on the lovely Savannah.”

“I still don’t think she exists.”

“Oh Pete, then who killed all those people in Montreal? Who killed all the people in Baton Rouge?”

“I know. I’ve seen the videos, but…”

“I know, but. There is no explanation that makes logical sense.” She finished dressing, stepped back and stood for inspection. “Do I look good, our what?”

This time his eyes wandered up her, from the black pumps and black stockings with the knee-length black skirt and up to her hunter green sweater. “We’ve been through this. Green is not your color.”

“Fuck off, Pete…it’s not easy being green.”

Again, they both laughed.

She grinned. “Can I quote my favorite film?”

He stood. “Which one?”

“Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.” She stepped beside him.

He opened the door. “Of course.”

She linked her arm in his and lowered her voice to as low and sultry a note as she could find. “Let’s go get ’em.”

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