The
borrowed police cruiser, stealthily parked in a defunct speed trap beside route
377, could easily be seen by passing rigs who if they bothered to slow down would
get a good, though brief, late night show. A quick peep inside at the hard
plastic in the rear of the cruiser that makes for easy cleanup and a firm
surface for steady fucking. Which is exactly what Kaufman was busy with when
the call sounded over the radio from down the road in Irving. Mere miles away
which is a lot to say for Texas; A state that takes the better part of two days
to cross at 75mph. And this call, a couple minutes drive at best.
The woman pressed
in back, handcuffs, Guns N’ Roses t-shirt pulled up and over her face, holds
her breath as Kaufman hurries it up.
The ill-fitting
dress blues cling to Kaufman’s sweat soaked midriff. A couple minutes more is
all he needs, about as long as the drive to Irving and that thought is gumming
up his mojo. He wishes she would tell him to come. He wishes she would say it’s
okay. But no. He’s going to have to give this one up.
“Let’s get you
home sugar.”
