salvation ; 𝐛. 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 , 𝟐

002. handcuffed

THE CUFFS DUG into my wrists as I was jostled around in the back of the police car, my seat right on top of the wheel well. Lucky me, I rolled my eyes internally. Blowing a strand of hair out of my face, I caught a whiff of my post-vomit breath and fought the urge to throw up. Again. I mean, I did the whole thing. I gagged profusely, wishing I could cover my mouth with my hand; I made a retching noise that I'd previously thought was only heard in movies, and I squeezed my eyes shut until I could breathe properly again.

"Stop making a fuss back there," the officer chided, his eyes flitting between me and the road. Even in the rear view mirror, I could see his eyes squinting at me. Judging me. "We're almost there."

For a moment I considered replying with a scathing retort, but then I thought better of it. I'd rather not get in more trouble than I was. I had a bad enough headache on the horizon for me, I shouldn't make it worse by adding a lecture by a police officer into my schedule for my birthday.

It's my birthday. I'd practically forgotten due to the less-than-responsible choices I'd made lately. One of those being the absolutely brilliant idea of getting involved in something I didn't understand, even though I thought I had it all covered. But of course, I wouldn't be Elda Reid if I didn't make a questionable decision once in awhile.

The squad car stopped a few minutes later, the loud engine finally silenced. I swallowed roughly, ignoring the bile that rose to my throat from the action. I was fucked. I knew that much. Hopefully I'd be able to talk my way out of this, whatever these guys wanted.

My door was opened and Officer Turner reached in with a thick hand and grabbed my arm, dragging me out of the car and onto my feet, standing on the pavement. "Don't fight it," he advised me in his deep, rasping voice. "It'll only make this worse."

Make what worse? My head swam, trying to juggle the alcohol and the completely sober thoughts rushing through my brain. How could this night get any worse? I'm turning twenty-seven at the police station in a town I can't even remember the name of.

Either way, I nodded swiftly and stumbled to the front door of the station, relying on Turner to help me, as I could hardly walk in a straight line with all the vodka in my system. I ignored all the stares I got from the on-duty men and women, some of them stopping in the middle of their sentences to get a look at me. Again, I considered snarling at them or saying something witty, but I reminded myself just how I'd landed here.

And how much I wanted to walk right out that door.

I was led into a room in the back of the station, stone cold walls with a stone cold door and a metal table with two metal chairs, one on each side. An interrogation room.

"Hey, it's just like Law and Order," I blurted, the alcohol getting a hold on my tongue and slurring the syllables. "You guys don't happen to have Olivia Benson on duty, do you? She's a badass."

Turner, kindly but firmly, pushed me into the chair and fiddled with the key ring on his belt, unlocking the handcuffs behind my back. Hissing as I stretched out my wrists, I barely felt the blood return to my hands before he snatched them again, this time locking me into a new set of cuffs that were attached to the table.

I groaned, holding up my shackled wrists. "Aw, come on, Officer, I'll be nice!" When he sat down in front of me and cocked an eyebrow, I let my hands drop to the table. "Fine," I grumbled.

"Are you fit to answer questions?" He asked, eyeing me up. Despite the niceties, I could tell he knew the answer already.

Chuckling, I mumbled out my answer. "More fit than you," I chortled. "I work out at least twice a week."