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I shrugged. “I’m just excited about having a new story to tell at Christmas dinner. My relatives were getting sick of hearing the same public erection tales year after year.”
Either she wasn’t amused or she didn’t hear me. I suspected it was the latter—her expression told me she was very genuinely scared of yet another scandal hitting cyberspace.
“My mother’s been on the job for over fifteen years without a single arrest under her belt,” she said. “But me? I get three seconds worth of unpaid action and I’m facing a six-month sentence.”
“You’re not going to jail,” I assured her. “You’re not even going to get charged or fined. This is all going to disappear. My father will make sure of that.”
“He couldn’t make the picture of you paying me two bucks disappear,” she said. “You said it yourself, once it’s out there, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And this isn’t out there yet. I called the lawyers over an hour ago and, trust me, this is their top priority. Two hours from now, it will be like my father paid God to turn back time.”
She looked relieved. I was glad. I didn’t actually feel like talking about prison. I had far more important things on my mind.
“You know,” I said, jokingly casting a furtive glance toward the cot on the left wall, “if we really wanted to, it’s not too late to turn this into another public erection story.”
“That’s a joke, right?” she said. But she was smiling, even giggling a little.
“Walsh hasn’t made an appearance since he locked us in here.” I coyly slid my arm around her shoulder like a teenage boy trying to score at a movie theatre in 1962, then began kissing her neck. “The way I see it, we’re going to be alone for at least another hour with no other way to entertain ourselves.” I lifted my mouth to her ear. “Unless you brought your harmonica.”
She giggled again. “You certainly seem to have gotten your flirt on,” she whispered, nuzzling me with her nose. “I like it. What’s the deal? Do you have some kind of prison fantasy?”
My lips kissed their way up the side of her neck. “I do now.”
And just like that, we were kissing so hard our teeth were practically touching, and she was once again climbing onto my lap. I maneuvered one leg over the bench so that I was sitting astride it. She maneuvered one leg over my hips so she was sitting astride me. My hands on her hips, I pulled her in tight so I could feel her pressed up against my insta-rection. Once again, her fingers unbuttoned, then unzipped, my pants.
“Seriously, Clara?” a voice said.
With my hand glued to her boob and her hand just inserting itself down my pants, we turned our heads toward the woman standing outside the bars of our cell.
Clara stood up and walked toward the cell door. “Mom?”
CHAPTER 35
Clara
“It’s not what it looks like,” I told my mother for the second time in one day.
“Really?” she said. “Because you said the same thing this afternoon when I saw a picture of you accepting two dollars through a car window. Then an hour ago, I get a call saying my daughter’s been arrested for having sex in a ditch, and then when I drive all the way here at a hundred miles an hour to fuck the arresting officer, I walk in to find you giving a hand job in a prison cell.”
“We weren’t having sex in a ditch, okay?” I said. “We were just making out in the car. Which, yes, happened to be in a ditch.”
“Just let me have this one,” Mom said, looking smug. “You’ve been getting on my case about my career since you were fifteen years old and nowyou’rein a cell giving your fellow prisoner a hand job. This time I get to be the morally superior one.”
“I wasn’t giving him a hand job,” I said. “Although trust me, it’s not for lack of trying.”
“An attempted hand job with a guy you just met,” Mom said, milking her victory down to the last possible drop. “Interesting. What’s that thing you always say about nurturing a relationship and taking it slow?”
“Yes, it’s true that in chronological time, Ian and I have only known each other for ten hours. But in terms of what we’ve been through together, we’ve been married for about thirty years. So actually, what you just saw was way overdue.”
Mom leaned in closer to the prison bars. “The way I see it, you need me more than I need you right now, so why don’t you just throw in the towel and hand me my victory?”
“Fine, Mom,” I said. “You win. Are you happy? I’m finally following in your footsteps.”
She reached through the bars and squeezed my cheeks. “I’ve never been so proud.” Her victory achieved, she let go of my cheeks and crossed her arms in thinking position. “So, now that we’ve agreed that I win, let’s come up with a new game plan.”
“A new game plan for what?” I said.
She thumbed toward the hallway behind her. “No way in hell am I blowing that guy in the squad room,” she said. “He looks like an escapee from a box of Raisin Bran. I’ve never slept with anyone who fought the Redcoats and I’m not about to start now.”
