Page 3 of Live Love Steal
“Watch your tone,” the sheriff loudly reprimanded me.
Whispered gossip and outright lies flew through the line of people breezing through the security gates. It was about me, about the spectacle they were witnessing, and more than once, someone said the word “bomb” in hushed worry.
“The man who set it off was about sixty, five-eight, size XL, and he wore a gray Jos. A. Bank suit.” Thank you, my Men’s Wearhouse stint, for teaching me how to size up customers and spot common designers from a mile away.
“You just described a third of the people here.”
Finally, some female solidarity. “It’s a little late, sister.”
She shot me a look that said, “Shut up.”
“Are you sure he’s not the one?” The guy holding an innocent—relatively speaking—man asked again.
“Positive. Now let him go.”
Tattoo-man shook his head. I could read his expression. It was sending me the same vibes as the female guard. Shut up, get your head down, fall in line.
I didn’t want to! I wanted to scream. The system was rigged, and this sucky-ass morning was proof of it. I was here in this stupid, crowded lobby, detained for the simple crime of speaking up. And my counterpart, still in the vice-like clutches of the government, was a victim of oppression. I wanted to burn the place down.
“Where’s the bomb?” The police SWAT unit had shown up.
As if this day could get any worse?
“Up your ass.”
I didn’t say it. I had enough self-control not to. But my GOD, I wanted to. I plastered on a smile I didn’t feel and tried to make my tone as smarmily sweet and non-condescending as I possibly could muster. “I’m sorry, officer, I think this is just a simple misunderstanding. You see?—”
“She claims this man has a bomb.” Cut off again. Mother fucker!
“I did not say that!” Who did this jerk think he was?
The SWAT officer noticed the man in question. “Hey, Sketch, ‘staying out of trouble?”
The tattooed man answered, “Trying to.”
“What you in for today?”
“Child custody hearing.”
The SWAT officer grimaced. “Oh, yeah, sorry to hear about that, man.”
Sketch—was that a real name? He acknowledged the cop’s sympathy with a resigned nod.
“Hagerstown wasn’t visiting lately, were they?”
Sketch shook his head. “Boots is laid up for a few weeks. Broke something landing a bad endo.”
“It wasn’t his head, was it?”
Sketch snorted. “He broke that a long time ago.”
I cleared my throat. “I hate to interrupt this male bonding moment, but am I free to go?”
Three of the guards immediately piped up with varying degrees of “no.”
Most vocal was the sheriff, who reprimanded me about my tone. He’s the one who suggested, “Bag her devices.”
“What does that mean?” No one would answer me. One of the extras who’d arrived to clear the backlog at the gates took over while another one disappeared and returned with two garish neon green trimmed bags with suspiciously ominous fastenings.
