Page 43 of The Proposal Pact
Sophie pouts. “But I can be a very bad girl. I need handcuffs.”
That strangled noise I’m trying to hold back? Yeah, it comes out, and I bite my fist in frustration. “Sophie,” I grit out. “Just…get in the car!”
I look at her and see a grin so wide it must hurt. “Why are you smiling right now?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” she coos, and I feel my molars grind to dust from the pressure I’m exerting on them.
Sophie manages to get out of the fountain, and I watch her stumble to the front passenger door. “The back one, Sophie,” I tell her, and she slumps.
“Oh, dang it. Again?” When I don’t say anything, just cross my arms and give herthe look, she rolls those brown eyes at me and opens the back door, falling into the seat with her ass in the air.
Baby blue with bowties on them.
That’s our panties of the day.
“It’s very boring in here,” Sophie pouts from behind the bars where I put her not two minutes ago.
“That would make sense seeing as it’s a holding cell in the police station.”
“I don’t like boring.”
“You don’t say,” I muse, sighing off on the report I was working on before I got the call.
There is a split second of precious silence and then she starts singing “Wannabe” by Spicy Girls…with moves and all…
Forgetting the report I had waiting for me, I sit and watch this little menace slash Duracell Bunny on crack through the bars.
For the next hour she proceeds to sing every ’90s hit she knows. From Backstreet Boys to Whitney Houston, bellowing “I will Always Love You” at the top of her lungs.
I’m not sure if I want to cry or laugh at this point, but one thing’s for certain…I’ve never met anyone like this girl.
“You go, girl.” Marsha claps and whistles as Sophie finishes her concert.
“Thank you.” She tries to curtsy, but nearly falls on her face in the process.
My body is out of the chair and next to her, reaching for her arms through the bars before I can process it.
“And thank you to you, too.” She smiles at me. “You can let go of me now. I’m stable.”
“I highly doubt it.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, she rips her hand out of my grip and gives me the dirtiest look I’ve ever witnessed. “What?”
“I am perfectly stable, thank you very much! You and Vassar can both go to hell.”
“Who’s Vassar?” There’s something in my voice I don’t recognize but I squash it down, waiting for her response.
“Marsha! These men don’t deserve my songs! I’m gonna sing one for you,” she says and before I can protest or step away to shelter my ears she starts singing “Smooth Operator” by Sade.
Feeling unreasonably irked that she didn’t answer my question, I walk back over to my spot and sit, keeping my eyes on the little menace who’s now dancing all over the cell, too.
I don’t like feeling off-kilter. I haven’t for a long, long time. Even all the local crazies haven’t managed to do that. Piss me off? Hell, yes! Feel this burn in my chest? Never.
Until a week ago when I first met this firecracker.
Still must be that indigestion. I am getting up there in years.
“From where did you fall onto my head, huh?” I ask Sophie when she’s finally done singing and receives another standing ovation from Marsha.
“New York. Well, Greece, originally, but I’ve lived the majority of my life in New York.”
