8. Dancing For The Guard
DANCING FOR THE GUARD
Kayleigh
The cells at the downtown precinct are nothing like in movies: no raucous yelling, no slouching drunks, no sad-eyed perps pleading their innocence to a balding detective.
In fact, it’s just me and Stella in this row of reinforced glass and steel, the color of a brain scan, and a six-foot rectangle of concrete inside.
Benches run the length of the cell, wide enough to stretch out, but low enough to put your knees above your heart if you try.
The fluorescent lights buzz and buzz, never off, never even soft, their angle calibrated for maximum humiliation.
The place is spotless, but smells like cold hot dogs and metal polish.
Stella paces the perimeter of her cell like an athlete before a race.
Her eyes are wide and white in the blue light, mascara smeared in a slash under one, blonde hair looking like a rat’s nest but somehow still sexy.
Her blue dress is still holding up, barely, but one shoulder strap is ripped all the way down to the elastic, and her right breast keeps threatening to pop free with every angry stride.
She’s narrating the night for the benefit of anyone within shouting distance, which at the moment, includes only the bored cop sitting at a desk near the door.
“I’m telling you, this was entrapment,” Stella is saying, knuckles white around the bars.
“Tammy started it. Did you see that? She straight-up clawed my face first. Then she tried to rip my dress, which is literally a hate crime if you think about it. I’m not even exaggerating.
Then—oh my god—she was full-on commando under her skirt! Who does that, like, ever?”
Her words ricochet down the corridor, each syllable bouncing off the cinder block.
I sit in my cell, right next to hers, knees tucked tight and my dress riding up with every shift.
The bench is cold, numbingly so, and I’m hyperaware of how my thighs look—exposed and blotchy, the pink mesh of my dress rolling up to nearly obscene heights.
My phone sits in my palm. There’s no service down here, but I keep checking it anyway.
I keep imagining Victoria and Henry waking up to find my room empty, no note, no nothing, and what then?
A missed call from the county jail? Or, worse, a call from Trevor, reading my rap sheet back to me in his slow, cold voice?
A cough from the front desk. The guard on duty leans back in his chair, eyes on Stella.
He’s in his forties, maybe, but carries himself like a varsity tight end who never quite got over his last homecoming.
His uniform is too snug in the biceps, and the badge on his chest reads “Morris.” He’s handsome, but mean-looking.
His mouth is set in a way that says, Go ahead, amuse me. You’re just ants under my shoe.
Stella must sense the attention because she pivots, switches from ranting to performance mode. She lowers her hands from the bars and drops her voice to something sly and confidential, like a late-night infomercial.
“Hey, Officer Morris,” she purrs, smoothing her hair with both hands, her cleavage somehow getting even bigger with the motion. “How long do we have to stay here, anyway? I mean, we’re not, like, murderers. We’re just two girls in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes track her, up and down. Stella leans in, her lips pouty, and then glances at me with a little wink.
“Honestly,” she says, “there must be, like, some kind of arrangement we can make. What do you think, Kayleigh?”
I force a smile, but my mouth is too dry for real speech. I want to disappear. Instead, I tug the hem of my dress lower, even as I know it’s a losing battle.
“Yeah, I guess,” I manage.
Morris rocks forward in his chair, a shadow of a smile flickering on his face. “Arrangement?” he echoes. “What do you mean?”
Stella shrugs, then gives a slow, exaggerated shiver.
“I mean, it’s freezing in here. Yet the lights are so bright they’re, like, giving me a tan.
It would be a real shame if we were here all night and just, you know, got hypothermia.
Or died of exposure.” She arches her back, drawing the focus to her chest, which I have to admit is a work of art even in the worst possible lighting.
“Maybe you could let us out for a little bit? Just to warm up?”
Officer Morris grins, but doesn’t move. “You think that’s how it works?”
Stella flashes her teeth, bright and sharp. “I think there’s always a way things work. Even in jail. Especially in jail.”
Morris stands, the movement deliberate and slow, and crosses the room to our cells.
He stands with his hands on his hips, the nightstick on his belt hanging like a threat or a promise.
His gaze lingers on Stella, then slides over to me.
He looks at my dress, my legs, my shoes.
His eyes stop on my phone, which I clutch to my chest like a crucifix.
He turns back to Stella. “You said something about an arrangement,” he says. “So what are you thinking?”
Stella’s smile widens. “What do you want?”
Oh my god, is my friend serious? Is she actually trying to bribe her way out of here? Meanwhile, Officer Morris pretends to think about it, but the answer is already written in the tightness of his jaw. “Surprise me.”
Stella tilts her head, making her blonde hair spill across her bare shoulder.
“How about I do a little dance?” she purrs. “The kind that men like.”
Officer Morris’s brows go up.
“Show me what you’ve got, sweetheart. Then we’ll see if it’s enough.”
Stella’s smile only broadens. God, this woman isn’t scared of anything! Then, my friend reaches for the hem of her dress. With a practiced, unhurried motion, she lifts it up and over her head, leaving her in only a tiny thong, the color of sour apple candy, paired with high heels.
She turns once, letting Morris see everything, then faces forward again, her blue eyes locked on the guard. “Is this what you wanted?” she purrs, circling her nipples with two fingers.
Morris is staring with one hand on his baton, but he shakes his head. “It’s a start.”
Stella doesn’t hesitate. She slips her thumbs into the sides of her thong and slides it down, bending at the waist so her ass is perfectly, shamelessly on display.
She steps out of the panties, kicks them to the side, and straightens, hands in her hair, chest out, completely nude.
I watch in horror and awe as she struts in her cell again, this time with a deliberate, sensual sway.
She leans her back against the bars, arms overhead, and gives a little bounce, making her breasts jiggle in time with the lights. The guard’s pants are visibly bulging. I can’t look away, even as my cheeks flame.
“Do you like?” she purrs again, smiling seductively. “You’re so handsome, Officer Morris,” she adds. “Exactly the kind of guy for me.”
Morris stands there, savoring the show. For a long moment, no one moves, not even me. Then he shakes his head.
“More,” he commands.
Stella doesn’t hesitate. She giggles and then lifts a big tit in one hand, leaning her head down to lick her pink tip before doing the same with her other breast.
“Mmmm!” she moans ecstatically before pushing both tits up so that she can suck both nipples at once. “This feels so good!”
With that, Morris has seen enough. One hand on his baton, he strides over, and with the other, unlocks Stella’s cell with a flick of his wrist, the sound echoing down the hall like a starter’s pistol.
“Step out,” he orders.
Stella obeys, her walk a pageant queen’s strut, even though she’s completely naked save for her high heels.
She stops in front of him, arms at her sides.
He looks her up and down, lingering on every detail, then gestures with a jerk of his head.
“Fuck, you’re going to be the death of me.
Get dressed,” he rasps, “and wait in the booking office.”
OMG, is he going to demand sex from her there?
Is he going to force her to give him a hand job, blow job, or even worse?
But Stella’s not perturbed at all. She winks at me, gathers her crumpled clothes in one hand, and with the other scoops up her panties.
She blows a kiss through the bars at me as she glides away, her body a perfect hourglass of bravado and shamelessness.
“Do the same,” she mouths at me with a wink. “I’ll meet you outside.”
I gape at my friend’s retreating back. I can’t do a striptease! I mean, Morris is okay handsome, but he’s nothing next to Trevor. No no no!
But the officer’s already looking at me.
“Your turn,” the guard rasps, settling back into his chair. The smirk is back, as wide as ever.
I feel like I’m going to throw up. The thought of doing what Stella just did—of undressing, performing lewd acts, being watched by this grinning, half-aroused stranger—makes my pulse pound in my ears in a bad way.
But the alternative is worse: Trevor coming to bail me out, or worse, my mom, her lips thin with outrage and disappointment.
I take a deep breath, but my lungs don’t work. My hands are shaking.
Then, before I can overthink it, I stand, walk to the front of the cell, and press my forehead against it.
“Can I just go to the bathroom first?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Morris raises an eyebrow. “No bathroom breaks until you’re ready to deal.”
I back away, clutch my phone, and slide down to the bench, dress rumpled under my thighs. I blink back tears, but they won’t fall. I stare at the wall, trying not to listen as Stella’s whisper echoes in my ears.
“You can do it,” she says in my head.
But I can’t. I can’t show my body to this stranger. I don’t even know him, and besides, this is sexual coercion! It has to be against the law!
As a result, I sit there and wait for the next thing to happen, knowing that whatever it is, it will be worse than anything I can imagine.
And somehow, I still find myself hoping that Trevor will come for me.