Page 2 of Live Love Steal
“That’s not fair.” The people manning the security barely blinked at my protest. I raised my voice. “Excuse me, but he set off the gate.”
“Ma’am, please walk through.”
But they stopped someone who didn’t set off the alarm and sent someone on their way who did. How was that in any way, shape, or form secure? Or fair? Or not an utter display of the disparities of a system rigged toward…
Yes, the words “rich, white, patriarchy” flashed through my head. I looked at the female bailiff. “He set off the gate.”
She shook her head and motioned me through.
I stomped through the flimsy metal stanchions and technology they’d erected. In defiance, I stopped directly in the arch and was about to flip the whole lot of them off when it beeped.
Fuck. My. Life.
Defeated by society, I walked over to the woman who’d not shown me any ounce of solidarity and got scanned. Then patted down. Then my bags were sorted through because the laptop set it off.
“You can’t use your electronics in the courtroom.”
“Duh.” I’d only just announced that earlier to the asshole who not only took my place in line, but set off the gate and now stood a good chance to be some sort of risk to all of us in this building. “That’s what I told the asshole who took my place in line.”
“Excuse me?” She looked up. Something in her tone set off the other guards.
Damn it. I tried to explain.
“Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to calm down.”
I hadn’t raised my voice. Yet.
“Calm down?”
The guards magically multiplied from the three that had slowed the entire system down to seven… wait, eight, because a county sheriff stepped forward. But somehow, everything stopped. Because of me?
“Is there a problem here?” The fat-ass cop was not asking. He had that tone that said, “Is there a problem here I can shoot? Please let me shoot. I haven’t killed someone in ages, pretty please?”
“Yes, there is a problem. The man before me triggered the alarms, and your team here waved him through. But you’re treating me like some sort of criminal. How do we know he doesn’t have a bomb?”
Wrong word to use.
Every single guard, cop, and person in a suit stiffened up.
Someone behind me whispered, “Did she say bomb?”
Fuck.
“I have court?—”
“Step over here.”
No! “I have a court appointment.” I checked my watch. “In five minutes.”
“Are you a lawyer, ma’am?”
“No.” Did I look like a lawyer? I mean, I wore my “interview” outfit, the one that pegged me as fairly normal, but the faded pink under color wasn’t. I kept the top dyed almost black, and the underside was as white as my stylist could strip it. When I went clubbing, I ramped up the fun with temporary colors. Sometimes they didn’t completely wash out before the work week.
“Then, please step over here.”
Another guard walked up, with the tattooed man in his grip. “Is this the man who went through the gate?”
“No.”
