The Alpha's Weakness

Chapter 1

A short, round guard with a bald head and brown eyes rounds the corner to stop in front of my cell. I haven't been in the cell for long, I think only a couple hours. But it's enough time for me to know that I do not want to come back here.

The cell is tiny, barely the size of a regular bathroom with just a metal bench and a metal toilet sink combo that is apparently a staple in all jails across America. The bench that I was currently sitting on and losing my high had just the thin brown blanket they had provided me.

I probably looked horrible. When they took me in for booking hours earlier, I had only my pink spaghetti strap tank on and my stained, old sweatpants. The hot pink sparkly bra I had stolen from my foster mother peaked out from my tank top pushing my c cup boobs up to my chin. My strawberry blonde hair was up in a messy bun. But that was before booking. Now my hair is down, falling straight down to my mid back, and my tank top had ridden up to my belly button, exposing some of the bruises my foster father had given me this morning. My feet were also bare. Where my berkeinstocks were, I had no idea. Apparently, the metal buckle was a hazard, so they were confiscated.

"You have made bail, Elizabeth."

Oh, thank the lucky stars for that!

The guard grabbed the cell door key from his pant loop and opened it up for me to pass through.

"Follow me," he said.

I followed him down the hall and to the left. Past other cells mirroring my own all mostly occupied with other convicts either awaiting bail, trial the next morning, or transfer to another facility. I took a guess that the inmates already wearing orange jumpsuits were the ones waiting to transfer out. Poor souls. My heart panged for them all.

Yes. I know they broke the law and could be hardened criminals, but what if they weren't. I mean, I was arrested, and it was just a petty charge. What if they had just gotten a string of bad luck and are now trapped?

My thoughts about other inmates were interrupted as the guard opened another locked door at the end of this hall. When it opened, my foster mother Camille stood waiting clearly already annoyed for having to drive down to bail me out. What day was it? Oh yeah, Thursday. Which meant my arrest interrupted her thirsty Thursday night with her girlfriends. I am never going to hear the end of that one.

Camille is a medium built woman with blond curly hair and brown eyes. Her hair is teased to look larger than life, the typical 80s style she never strayed from, and her face is done with so much makeup that you can tell the difference between her skin and the caked-on look she was going for. It looks as though she has the entire bottle of mascara on her eye lashes and enough lipstick to cover an entire child's face. She is wearing a bright red bodysuit dress with black chunky heels. The poster model for middle aged women going to the club.

"Here she is ma'am. You just need to sign this form right here on the line and she will be released into your custody."

A different guard behind a small counter hands Camille a black pen attached to the counter with string as if preventing someone from stealing.

"Thank you officer. I'm sorry for any trouble she has caused." Camille says in a sickly sweet sulty tone.

"No problem at all ma'am." The guard replies. Oblivious to Camille's advances apparently as he just collects the signed paper and turns around to file it in a wire basket already plenty full.

"Come on Elizabeth. Your father is waiting at home. We are going to have a nice long chat about your behavior." Camille says loud enough for the guard to hear. He offers me a small smile as I follow her out of the station. As I get into Camille's black Tahoe SUV, I can smell the cigarette smoke and beer stench that stains the seats. Camille, having already started the SUV, started driving us back to the house, opening a beer as she drives.