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I frown at him. “I’m not a prostitute.”
“That’s what they all say,” he says, his eyes lingering on the V of my legs, where my skirt is playing peekaboo.
I understand the way I look isn’t helping matters any.
“Why don’t you place your hands against the car and spread your legs?” he says, putting the car in park and opening the door.
“Are you serious right now?”
“As a heart attack, sweetheart,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height.
He’s got to be every bit of six foot three inches, and my heart starts to hammer. I could run, but I know I would end up back in a bad situation. Not that my situation has gotten any better recently.
I turn and place my hands on the cold metal, slightly widening my stance, but not by much. His hands land on my body, slowly and meticulously going over my dress. He can obviously see I don’t have any weapons—there’s not many places to hide things. And I lost the metal bar when I fell. I’m a battered mess, and he’s taking advantage.
It takes everything in me not to rear back and headbutt him as he gets closer, pressing his body up against mine. I’m afraid that I might not be able to escape this situation, and then finally, his radio crackles, diverting his attention. He steps back, answering whatever it was they said to him, and I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
If I had any more tears to cry, I would. This has been a shitty day. Or however long it’s been. I’m assuming it’s nearing on twenty-four hours since I was at the gala with Connor.
“All right, put your hands behind your back,” the cop says, and my mouth drops open. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
I shake my head.
Just my fucking luck.
I slowly put my wrists behind me, and he grasps them, hooking cold metal cuffs around them.
“Like it a little kinky, huh?” he asks, and I know he’s looking at the red marks around my wrists.
“Something like that,” I mutter, not even trying to explain that this is the second time in a day that my hands have been bound—and not for anything remotely sexy.
“Might find you a nice place to spend your time when we get to the station if you have anything you wanna show me.”
His breath is on my neck, and I shudder.
“Eat shit,” I say, jerking my hands against where his hand is holding the cuffs.
“Get the fuck in the car,” he growls, opening the door and shoving me roughly inside.
Thank God.
I’m not sure if winding up in jail will work in my favor or not. At least Viktor and his men probably won’t be looking there tonight, and I will hopefully get to eat. It could be worse. This cop could’ve done way worse to me. I shiver again, glad it didn’t work out like that.
I’m silent as he drives, trying to adjust myself to where it’s more comfortable to sit in a car with my hands behind my back. No matter how I move, I can’t get comfortable. I wind up sitting sideways, staring out the window and watching as we pass by run-down apartments and houses, the area not getting much better by the time we pull up at the station.
He roughly takes me inside and drops me off at intake, where they start to book me in. It’s demoralizing really—the process of being booked into jail. I never thought I would be here, not even when I joined a crime family. I guess I thought I was untouchable. But it’s not like the last name Soltorre will ring any bells here in Chicago. I don’t even have that to fall back on.
I’m eventually shoved in a holding cell with two other women who look at me curiously before sitting back and closing their eyes. None of us talk.
I watch the clock on the wall outside the cell, and after two hours pass and it’s nine at night, I start to rethink the whole food situation.
“Do we get to eat in here?” I ask the two women, unable to hold out any longer.
There’s one who is dressed sort of like me, minus the injuries and dirt and torn clothes. I figure she’s in here for the same thing I am. And the other is stockier, wearing a lot of denim, and looks like someone I would steer clear of on the streets.
The denim-clad woman sneers at me. “This ain’t a fucking five-star hotel,” she says, shaking her head.
The other woman giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all day. Her red-rimmed eyes are wild-looking. I’m not sure she’s fully with us.
