Cut the Deck (Lesbian Story)

My cat died

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing?"I yell at the heavyset police officer loitering near my car.

"Officer Hughes,"he corrects flatly, barely glancing up from his ticket pad.

"You're parked in a loading zone."

"I was gone for three fucking minutes!" My voice drips with venom. He pauses, gives me a brief, dismissive once-over, and resumes writing.

"You've got a potty mouth, don't you?" His tone is indifferent, as if he's commenting on the weather. The lack of eye contact infuriates me further. If he's going to ruin my day with this bullshit ticket, the least he could do is acknowledge me like a human being.

"And you're fat. Are we just stating the obvious now?" I push, smirking. I don't give a damn about authority—what's he gonna do, arrest me for honesty?

"Watch your mouth, young lady," he snaps, finally meeting my glare. "It's a $55 ticket. With a car like yours, I doubt it'll break the bank." With that, he slaps the ticket onto my forehead and waddles back to his cruiser, probably to inhale another box of powdered donuts.

"Fuck you!" I flip him off. He pauses, shooting me a warning look—try me, and you'll regret it. But I'm not scared. I could report him, get his badge revoked... if I cared enough.

What a rude fucking cunt. I snatch the ticket off my forehead and storm into my car, tossing my freshly dry-cleaned shirts into the backseat. My phone buzzes—Ollie.

Olivia: Hey, lunch?
Me: Yeah, sure.

No need to ask where—we always meet at the same spot. As I drive off, my mind drifts to tonight's date with Nyla. Where the hell am I supposed to take her?

******

By the time Ollie arrives (twenty minutes, as usual), my food is already on the table.

The restaurant is half-empty—typical for a weekday afternoon. She slides into our usual booth, the cracked leather creaking under her. She eyes me as she sits, one eyebrow arched.

"Rough morning?" she asks, nodding at the crumpled ticket in my hand.

"Some fat pig decided my three-minute stop was worth a fucking citation," I grumble, tossing the ticket onto the table.

Ollie sighs, used to my tirades. "You know, if you didn't swear at cops, they might cut you slack."

"Oh, please," I scoff, stabbing a fry into my ketchup. "Like they'd care. He was just power-tripping."

She shakes her head but doesn't push it. Ollie's always been the peacekeeper, the one who smooths things over. "So, what's the plan for tonight? Nyla, right?"

I groan, rubbing my temples. "No clue. Dinner's too cliché, drinks are too predictable..."

"What about that jazz club we've been too a few times. You said she's into music right?" Ollie suggests, stealing a fry.

"Shit, you're right." I perk up. "She did say she loved live music."

Ollie smirks. "See? Not everything requires a fight."

I flip her off, but there's no heat behind it.

My phone buzzes—Nyla.

Nyla: Can we reschedule? 🫣🥲

"So, why you ask me to lunch?" I question-raising my eyebrows curiously. While glancing at my phone disappointedly.

"Chris proposed to me," she states again. I stare confused but to push her buttons and be dramatic, I state,