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I rattle it off before I can think it over, and he saves it.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he says, leaving a wad of cash on the table. "Pick up for me."
He backs away, keeping his eyes on mine until he reaches the steps.
After weighing my transportation options, I down the rest of my drink. Then, I head downstairs to close my tab from earlier.
"Oh, it's you." The bartender rolls his eyes as I approach.
"I guess." I shrug. "I need to close my tab and get my ID back. Can you help me with that?"
He sets down a glass, giving me a blank stare.
"I really need it back so I can get home, "I say, pointing to the ID box. "Can you hand it over?"
Still not acknowledging my presence, he uncaps a beer and slides it to a different customer.
Then he picks up the phone.
"Miss Warren would like her license back, sir," he says. "Yes, she's at the bar."
I'm tempted to reach over the counter and grab it myself, but a guy in a navy blue suit grabs the box and smiles at me.
"Follow me, Miss Warren. I can certainly help you."
"Thank you." I follow him past the bar and into a small office.
He shuts the door behind me, and his smile instantly vanishes.
"Officers, this is the young lady I called you about tonight."
WHAT?!I see a group of cops standing by the exit door.
"Hand over your purse and empty your goddamn pockets," the tall one says, his voice firm.
"Wait. What's going on?" I swallow. "I didn't steal anything, I swear."
"Don't make me ask you again, Miss." The officer holds out his hand. "You heard me the first time."
Too stunned to think, I follow his command, and he dumps my purse onto the desk. While one cop snaps my picture with a super bright flash, another rummages through my wallet. He plucks out the credit cards individually before pulling out my driver's license.
Then he takes out myotherdriver's license.
Then another one…
"Rebecca Warren, Tate Jensen, Isadora Jacobs, and…Genevieve Edwards," he says. Only this last ID is yours. It's also the only ID with a marked age of under twenty-one. Why is that?"
"Because, um…I was planning to turn the rest of them in to the ‘lost and found,’ eventually."
"Oh, I'm sure you were." He rolls his eyes and takes a picture of each one before tossing them to his colleague. "You're lucky the bar owner is a fellow Exeter alum who called your school instead of insisting on your arrest."
"I can explain," I say. "I only come here whenever there's a Poetry or Special Performance night, so it's not—"
"Spare me." He cuts me off. "There's no good excuse for identity theft or underage drinking. You're not twenty-one. Hell, you're not even eighteen."
I bite my bottom lip as he checks the pockets in my purse, even the hidden ones. He pulls out a packet of condoms and shakes his head, but he doesn't make any comments.
"You can put everything back inside your purse now," he says, motioning for me to clean up his mess. "I'm letting you off with a citation tonight, but every bar owner in this town will receive a flyer with your face on it first thing tomorrow morning. If any of them call me within the next four years, you're going straight to jail. Do you understand?"
