Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
“Darn,” I grumble, wondering just how much over the limit I was driving. Surely it’s not a crime to sing while driving is it? I know I was getting into it, but lots of people belt out ballads while they cruise, right? For a brief, fleeting moment, I consider how much fun it’d be to make the cops chase me through the rural country roads, but then I decide not to. I don’t want this to be an OJ Simpson-esque car chase through the Wyoming badlands. Better to pull over and be a good citizen than to end up in jail or worse.
I slide the radio dial down until the music is barely audible and slow my car to neutral speed. Clicking my blinker to signal that I’ll pull over as soon as I can, I gently ease onto the shoulder. Once safely on the side of the road, I consider my options.
Deciding that my best bet is flirting to get out of a ticket, I tug on my tank top so my cleavage is slightly exposed. But just as immediately, I realize how ridiculous I’m being and pull the shirt back up. Man, I’ve been watching too many soap operas and it’s affecting my decision-making abilities.
With a sigh, my shoulders slump. The sound of a door slamming rings in my ears, and I know the cops are approaching my vehicle. Maybe if I cry piteously, they’ll take mercy and just give me a warning instead of a ticket.
I slump a little lower into the driver’s seat and put on my best penitent face, ready to summon the waterworks. Heavy footsteps crunch up behind my vehicle, and sure enough, they stop at my door. Oh no. The time has come and I brace myself for the worst, wishing I’d stayed in my hotel room instead of facing this.
5
Brandon
The grayish-purple sky stretches out overhead; it’s a perfect, clear night. An ideal kind of night to be on patrol, despite the fact that we’ve been driving around for hours without much going on. What can I say? Sheridan isn’t the most crime-ridden place in the United States.
Meanwhile, in the passenger seat next to me, my twin brother Ben rests his arm on the open window, staring moodily out at the vast country beyond.
“I know it’s not glamorous work,” he says, still looking out the window, “but I like when the Sarge gives us road patrol.”
I glance at my brother and then rub my tired eyes. “Especially on nights like tonight,” I agree.
“Some days I hate working in that stuffy office,” Ben grunts, raising his hand to sample the pleasant breeze outside his window. “With idiots like Josh sitting not fifteen feet away, it makes for an unbearable eight hours sometimes.”
I nod but don’t say anything. I let my eyes skim the road ahead, as flat and empty as far as I can see.
“Yeah, our co-workers can be pieces of work. Especially when Peterson brings in those tuna salad sandwiches chock full of onions. Fuck, that stuff stinks to high heaven.”
I laugh because honestly, HR needs to talk to Peterson about his lunch choices. The entire staff has come to hate life when they include tuna salad.
“Better than Jefferson with his damn colonic cleanses,” Ben grunts. “I didn’t even know that shit existed before that idiot decided to describe the process to us in detail. It was fucking disgusting.”
I shake my head while rolling my eyes.
“Don’t even get me started.”
“Man, oh man.” Ben sighs while shifting his gaze back to the road. “What did we do to deserve this?”
Suddenly, my brother sits up, his gaze riveted by something in the dark.
“What’s that?” he asks, squinting a bit. Sure enough, there’s a sedan up ahead of us, bouncing and jouncing like it’s got springs for wheels.
“Interesting,” I remark. “Let’s take a look.”
I ease my foot onto the gas pedal, and we pull up close behind the sedan. Sure enough, someone inside is dancing and yelling while blaring the music on high volume. Now this isn’t a crime in and of itself, but the driver’s causing a ruckus even though the road is pretty empty. Meanwhile, my twin checks the radar for the car’s speed and grimaces.
“They’re going about twelve over the limit,” he tells me. “Let’s pull them over.”
Without a word, I switch on the siren and turn on my flashing overhead lights. It’s obvious when the driver sees us. One glance into the rear view mirror, and the car begins to slow. Then, the music goes off and the bobbing in place ceases. Slowly, the vehicle edges over until it stops on the shoulder.
“At least we don’t have a runner,” my brother jokes. “Although I wouldn’t mind a good car chase, come to think of it.”
I merely roll my eyes. Sheridan isn’t known for its vice, and we’ve never had someone try to outflank us. But every time we have road patrol duty, my brother makes this same absurd observation.