“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m just trying to do my damn job.”
His voice was bite and smoke and a challenge, all rolled into one. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I confirmed.
I thought he would let me go. I needed him to.
So of course he didn’t.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, he really showcased his inner bastard by doing the one thing I’d asked him not to.
His free hand spanned my thigh. “Does this feel like just doing your job?”
“No. It feels like you’re a giant tool who thinks it’s unbelievable to date me and the height of hilarity to squeeze my thighs.”
His head snapped back like I’d slapped him. “The fuck?”
“But if you keep it up, we’re gonna have a problem. Let me rephrase.” I pointed up at him. “You’regonna have a problem.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Why would it be unbelievable? And why the hell would I think touching you is funny?”
“Hey,unbelievablewas a direct quote, straight from your mouth,” I snapped. I was already angry, but the fact he was the kind of man who would resort to gaslighting really set me off.
Mostly because it managed to surprise and disappoint me.
“And it’s clear you think it’s so funny,” I continued, “because you smirk every time you do it. Now let me go.”
“Once you tell me why you think something so asinine.”
“Let. Me. Go.”
“Why, Lo?”
Badgering like that was an effective interrogation technique that I didn’t appreciate being used against me.
Especially since it worked.
I had the control to keep my volume to barely above a whisper, but every last word spewed out of me even as the smart part of my brain screamed that I had the right to remain silent, and I should exercise that right. “Becauseyousaid it was unbelievable to call me your girlfriend. And you’re right. Itisunbelievable. It’s all an act. I’m not confused about that. But there’s no reason to be cruel about it when all I want is to do my job. And there’s no reason to fuckin’ smirk every damn time you squeeze my fat fuckin’ thigh.”
“Thigh’s not fat.”
All I said, and that’s what he comes back with? A lie about the physical?
“Save it,” I said. “I’ve got eyes. I buy my own clothes. I know my legs aren’t dainty.”
“Never said they were.”
Ouch.
How can an agreement hurt my feelings?
I heard worse from the people I apprehended, the people I helped, the men in my precinct, and anytime I walked by a scary, mean-girl teenager. I never had to work to block out their commentary because it never bothered me.
Ididhave thick hips and thighs. There were times I disliked them, but that was before the academy. Thanks to the muscles within that thickness, my height wasn’t as big of a disadvantage as it could’ve been. I was able to catch up to runners, get myself over a fence with ease, and stay upright in a rowdy crowd.
Beyond the functionality, the curves offered balance because I also had big breasts. I had a thinner waist from staying active, but with a soft little curve at the bottom of my belly that made me feel like one of those lush, feminine models from classic art. There were paintings and statues that someone spent an inordinate amount of time and energy on to ensure those curves were emphasized enough.
Why would I be embarrassed when I would’ve been celebrated in the seventeenth century?
