10-7: Field Sobriety TestbyTheHotJD©
Driving home from work at nearly two in the morning, Jen busied her mind with basic math. If she got home at three, she could be in bed at half past three, get three and a half hours of sleep, and be up at seven. Seven plus one hour to get ready would put her out of the house at eight and in the office at a little after nine. She would just have to survive on three and half hours of sleep. Jen had no trouble surviving a regular, eight-hour workday on less than five hours of sleep, but she hadn't had a regular workday in a long, long time. In fact, she had been averaging ten to twelve hours daily so far this month -- with non-stop work on the weekends.
She had the whole interstate to herself. The dim dashboard lighting of her sensible car made a little cocoon around her. The headlights made a little cone of light just ahead, but this was what the crime documentaries liked to call "an isolated stretch of road." Awful things happened to people along the Isolated Stretch of Road, especially after midnight. Jen herself was unnerved by the very real temptation to close her dry and burning eyes for just a second. A while back, she had read a story in the news about a couple who had run off a similar Isolated Stretch of Road on another interstate. The crash had not killed them, but their injuries were severe enough that they could not get out of the car, which was invisible from the road. It had taken them long days to die.
Typically, Jen rolled down all the windows, turned up her stereo and sang to the music for the duration of her hour-long drive. From time to time, she still wanted to close her eyes, just for a second, but she always survived to do it again another day. And there would always be another day, apparently. Jen's boss had finally abandoned his half-hearted efforts to tell her she wouldn't have to do this much longer. There was no end in sight, he admitted. He had told her she was the only one in the group he could trust to get things right on this project, but she knew better. The truth was that she was the only one who would put up with the hours, the poor organization, and the near certainty that she would not be rewarded for this in any meaningful way.
She reached blindly down in the dark to make sure that her cell phone was plugged in to the charger. Charles had insisted on a cell phone and a charger for her long commute. She had called him, of course, to say that she would be late again, although she didn't know why. The first time she was late, he had waited up for her. He had made all the right worried noises for about a week, even calling once on the cell phone while she was in the Isolated Stretch. The next week, he had fallen asleep on the couch, still dressed. On the night she had been so tempted to close her eyes, thinking of the couple trapped in their car, she had arrived at home to find him sound asleep in bed and the house in darkness. This time, when she had called, he had sounded asleep when he answered the phone. She had considered getting a hotel room just to spite him, just to see what he did if she really didn't turn up that night. But instead, she had dropped by the gas station for a bottle of Coke and headed dutifully for home.
She reached over for her Coke now, resting on the edge of the console next to her passenger seat. The plastic bottle slipped from its perch onto the floorboard, out of her reach. She cursed at it, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to reach down for it. It was still cold from the gas station, and it bugged her that she should have paid for a Coke only to have it drop onto the floor untouched.
She leaned over in the seat, glancing down at the floorboard, then up at the road. The car swayed toward the center line, then back again, pitching the bottle toward her fingertips, then away again. She cursed again, leaning over further, bringing the cool surface of the plastic bottle toward her, then away from her. The damned thing would probably be well-shaken by the time she got to it, she thought.
She had almost closed her fingers around the neck of the bottle when she saw the flash of light illuminate the dark highway. It was a regular pulse of lightning blue. She wasn't alone back here after all. She straightened up in the driver's seat and carefully pulled onto the shoulder. When she put the car in park, the Coke bottle rolled obediently to the center of the floorboard and stopped. She looked down at it as the pulse of light from the police car brought the foaming surface of the Coke into sharp relief.
The knock on her window snapped her back into reality. She rolled the window down and looked out at the officer.
"What's on the floor?" he asked. The shadow from his hat hid his eyes, but she could see his mouth and the clean line of his jaw in the light from his car.
"M-my Coke bottle," she stammered.
"Put your hands up on the wheel for me?" he asked.
She complied. Her stomach loosened. She felt a sudden uncomfortable pressure in her bladder.
"Look up at me," he said.
She faced him again. The lighting made the gray of his uniform a little metallic. The synthetic fabric stretched tight over his frame, and he seemed tall and broad from her place in the car. She wondered if he ever got hot wearing that polyester sheath. She wondered if he had on one of those white cotton undershirts under it. Her face went hot as she thought of his powerful form in the white cotton undershirt. He studied her for three very long seconds. She was in her standard work outfit. The pastel cotton blouse said business, and the tea-length floral skirt was supposed to say casual. She was wearing the standard suburban-issue pair of white Keds. She knew she was blushing.
"Let me see your license and registration," he said.
She reached blindly behind her for her purse, a huge, boxy thing that was supposed to hold her oversized date book and a paperback, just in case she had time to read. Her eye wandered down to his belt, a wide, utilitarian thing with a silver buckle, and then followed the line of buttons up his flat stomach. There was a little rectangular tag on his chest with the name "Trent" on it. She tried the name out in her mind.
His hand moved off the top of her car into her field of vision as she reached into her purse; she could see the breadth of it and the fine structure of his heavy knuckles as his hand moved toward his own hip. She finally broke contact with him to fumble for her license and the registration, buried beneath her health insurance card. When she put them out to him, she noticed that her hand was trembling. He took her license and registration from her hand and took a half-step away from the window.
On that wide belt of his, she could see the black holster that held his gun. The black metal caught the light, and she could see the texture of the gun's butt, ridged where he would need to have that big hand of his on it. She had never been so close to a loaded gun in her life. Her heart began to skip strangely in her chest. He could shoot her with it, she realized. He could kill her right here on the side of the road. She tried to steady herself, taking a deep breath through her teeth. What had gotten into her? She was back here in the dark, sweating and shivering as if this man meant her harm.
"You know why I pulled you over?" he asked, not looking up from her license.
"N-no," she lied.
"You were drifting from one lane to the other back there. You almost came off the road."
"I-I was trying to-to reach my Coke," she said.
He looked down at her again. She could feel cold sweat forming on her neck. The dark, neglected recesses of her mind opened quietly, and the thoughts that awakened there were of a different kind of menace. Her primal self recognized this man, Trent, as a potential threat, a predator of sorts. Here in the dark, he could do whatever he liked with her. He could put his hands on her. He could claim her and possess her in every way that a man of his size could claim and possess any woman he wanted. Her rational mind was trying to tell her that she was not a woman he wanted, but in the dark back room of her brain, she wasn't so sure.
"Turn off the engine," he said, "and hop out of the car."
She turned off the engine. She could hear him taking another half-step away from the car, to give her space to open the door and let herself out. The air outside the air was cool, and stalling a little, she leaned on the doorframe as she emerged from the sensible car to stand on the gravel in her sensible shoes. Reason kicked in again. She was just an overworked career woman in a frumpy, machine washable outfit. She drove a very safe, four-door sedan, beige and colorless like everything else in her world. She was not a woman that trained, disciplined law enforcement officers pulled over onto the side of the road to feel up.
"Come on," he said. "Come back here."
Together they went to the back of the sensible beige sedan. He was between her and the interstate, as if anyone would be driving back there at this hour. The hair stood up on her arms, and she hoped he did not notice how quickly and shallowly she was breathing. It would only take the slightest effort for her arm to brush against his, to really feel the power and authority that seemed to radiate from him. It would be so easy to do. He already thought she was drinking. But then they were at the back of her car, and he stopped there, next to her.
"How much have you had to drink?" he asked her.
"Not even what's in the Coke bottle?"
"There's Coke in the Coke bottle, and I couldn't even reach it. I was trying to get it when you saw me."
He went back to his car and leaned on the front bumper. Backlit by the headlights, he folded his arms across his chest and waited as she entered the narrow space between the two cars. He was only about ten feet away from her. Unsure of what to do next, she folded her hands in front of her and looked down.
"Okay," he said. "I want you to put your left foot on that white line in front of you. You see it?"
She looked down. There was indeed a faded white line there, possibly to mark the shoulder during some long ago construction project. She put her foot on it but did not look up.
"Now put your right foot in front of the left, so the heel is against the toe. See?" He assumed the awkward position from his place in front of the car.
She followed his instructions, still not looking up.
"Look at me," he said. "Now I want you to walk over here, heel to toe, until I tell you to stop."
She took two steps toward him before dropping her eyes again.
"Look at me, I said."
She looked up and in another two steps found that she was raising her arms like a child trying to balance on a curb. She wondered from a place far away in her mind if children even did that anymore.
"Put your hands back down," he said.
She took another few steps and found herself close enough to the car to see dust dancing in the beams of the headlights. He unfolded his arms, leaning back to rest those big hands squarely on the hood of the car. She took another step then, dragging the toe of her right foot around in a half circle until it was just in front of her left. Then she repeated with the other foot, swinging her hip around. His chest lifted with a deep breath that might have been a sigh of bored impatience or something else altogether.
"All right," he said. "You can stop and --"
But she did not stop. She kept coming toward him, tracing a half circle in one direction, then the other, until she was right in front of him. The headlights froze the two of them there on the side of the road in the blackness of night. The police car was still running. As she stopped, the fan kicked on, and she could smell the heat of the engine.
Her hand moved up and up and over in front of her eyes. She saw her fingers come to rest on his chest. She could feel the smooth surface of his uniform, the slight friction as she spread her fingers out across his broad chest. He felt hard and very warm under the shirt, and she could feel the beat of his heart, regular but rapid, there under her hand. She looked up at him, finally able to see his eyes under the hat. His eyes were the color of a robin's egg beneath sand-colored brows. His face was smooth and unlined, but at this distance she could see the faint halo of razor stubble on his face. She did not know state troopers could be so young. She realized that the tip of her tongue was on her own upper lip. Deep inside her, she felt a carefully banked heat begin to swell as her sex grew warm and ready.
"You think I'm drunk?" She did not recognize her voice. It was a low, sultry voice that belonged to another woman altogether. This new woman did not drive herself home from work at this hour. This woman's husband would not be asleep when she got home. All alone on the side of the road in the dark, this woman could do whatever she wanted with this man, Trent. She could claim him and possess him in every way that a woman could claim and possess a man.
Trent's eyebrow rose sharply under the hat, and the corner of his mouth lifted. He was smiling a little. It was an amused, curious look. But he did not move. He didn't move at all.
"Yes," he said. "I think you're drunk."
Her hand slid down his chest a little, not quite to his stomach, and then came back up again, stroking him. She flattened her palm against him and steadied herself there as she went up on tiptoe, rising until her face was roughly level with his. When he did not move or protest, she slid her face along his, relishing the feel of five o'clock shadow against her smooth cheek. She touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of his mouth.
"What if I can convince you that I'm not?" she asked.
He turned his face ever so slightly toward her. The look of amusement was gone. For just a flash of time, Jen's rational mind reasserted itself to remind her that she was a frumpy woman in Keds trying to seduce a state trooper on the side of the interstate.
"Go back to your car," he said. "Turn off the lights. Do not leave. Wait for me."
She lowered herself away from him without a word and returned to her car. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved, and her other self, so long forgotten, slowed down and tried to roll her hips beneath the floral skirt. Other-Jen knew Trent was watching her because she did not hear him move as she returned to the car.
Jen got back into the car and turned off the lights. She unplugged the cell phone from the charger, and then opened it to see if there were any missed calls. She didn't know why she thought Charles would suddenly have called her while she was making a bold sexual overture to a state trooper who had pulled her over for DUI. But now she knew that Charles had not called after all. She turned the phone off and put it into her purse.
Trent rapped on her window again. When she looked up, she could see his hand gesturing at her to get out of the car.
"Lock the doors. Leave your purse there. Then I want you to go back to my car."
He followed her to the passenger side of the police cruiser. He opened the front door for her and stood over her as she lowered herself into it. She watched his face as she eased herself down onto the front seat, and she noticed that amused, curious expression on his face again. The inside of the car was cool when he closed the door, and it smelled of leather. The seats were worn enough to be soft, and the neat interior gleamed black. There was no clutter or debris that would link the car specifically to any one trooper, but Jen could sense that a great many of them had been in and out of the car over the months and years. A voice came out of the radio, startling her. The other door opened to admit Trent.
When he shut the door, he turned off the headlights and the engine. He watched her with those innocent-looking blue eyes as he called in to the radio. "Thirty-four Delta is ten-seven," he said firmly.
"Thirty-four Delta, ten-seven," repeated the dispatcher.
He took off his hat to reveal a blond crewcut. Then he set his hat on the wide dashboard and with one broad thumb, turned off the radio. The switch made a loud click in the darkness.
It was very quiet in the car. She swallowed hard, feeling very close to this man, and very alone on the side of the road. Heat began to coil and build low in her body, and she could feel her core starting to iris open, growing slick and warm for him. She looked him in the eye and waited.
"So," he said. "You think you can fuck your way out of this. Is that what you were trying to tell me?"
"Yes," she said.
He shifted on the driver's side. The leather creaked a little beneath him, and she had a real sense now for the first time of just how big he was.
"All right," he said. "Come give it to me."
She sidled over toward him. As soon as her arm was in reach, he took hold of her. She pivoted on one knee on the leather seats and steadied herself on his shoulders as she straddled him. She lowered herself onto his lap, taking more time than she needed to. She caught her breath.
"Come on," he said.
She settled onto him, awkwardly making a place for herself with her back against the steering wheel. She could feel the smooth material of his pants between her legs. She caught the scent of her own arousal and reached boldly in the dark for his crotch.
He was hard in her hand as her fingers sought him out. The length of him filled her hand. Her fingers curled around his balls, first one and then the other. She looked up at him again to find his eyes had gone dark with hunger. A low sound issued from him, and his mouth pursed just a little as he appraised her.
"Take it out," he said. "Put your hands on me."
Her once shaky hands easily unfastened the belt, then the pants. She reached inside for him and found him impossibly long. She slid her palm up the length of him, carefully savoring the feel of him as if she were a virgin again, curious about the smooth skin over his hard shaft. She wrapped her fingers around his impressive girth, making him hiss and arch up toward her. His pulse beat against her hand, and she squeezed his big, long cock once, hard. Almost of its own accord, her hand stroked and pulled at him, up and down, setting her own pace, imagining his long, slow strokes inside her. Her mouth watered, and she swallowed hard again.
His hand slid up her bare thigh, rudely hiking up her skirt. He slid his broad palm against her panties, now soaking wet with her juices. Arousal raced through her and she cried out, bucking against him. He was watching her face when she closed her eyes tight, and she forgot everything except Trent's muscular hand on her pussy, already contracting greedily, hungry for his cock. Her hand went still around him.
"I didn't tell you to stop," he said, and then he worked his fingers beneath the sensible cotton panties to find the naked center of her, slick and wet. Her own thumb was sliding back and forth over the head of his cock, rubbing the pre-come over it, making him rock up and back. In return, he shoved three of his thick fingers into her, up as far as they would go, and she cried out again, a high, wild sound totally unfamiliar to her own ears. Her cunt grasped at him, trying to draw him inside her and keep him there. Eagerly, she worked herself around and around on his hand.
He pulled his fingers out of her just as abruptly and thrust them instead into his own mouth, sucking her juice off them loudly and crudely. "Too bad we don't have more time," he said.
She licked her lips, still moving her hips in time with his.
He put his other hand on her sensible blouse and made short work of the buttons with just his thumb and forefinger. He grabbed her breast through the thin fabric of her bra, digging his fingers in. When she bent back, pushing herself into his hand, he took the other breast into his mouth, sucking hard on the distended nipple. After only a moment, he raised his head again.