Young Master Lopez was cursing Tobby Curry's ancestors out loud in the detention center. But when he saw all his friends had been arrested and brought in too, he couldn't help but feel a real sense of admiration for Tobby. He looked at him like he was some kind of madman.
When all twelve of them were locked in the same iron cell, someone glared at me and yelled, "You're done for!"
I was sitting at my desk writing up the evening's report, not bothering to acknowledge these guys.
It was probably the first time in their lives that this group had ever been treated like this. Not only had some beat cop gone toe-to-toe with them, he'd actually laid hands on them too. Now look at this cramped holding cell, smaller than the bathroom at their own homes, where twelve grown men were packed in together. The insult of it was enough to make them explode.
Young Master Lopez still had blood in his nostrils. He squatted, gripping the iron bars with both hands as he stared at me and said coldly, "Do you even know what you're doing?"
I, still writing my report, replied impatiently, "Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing? Do you even know what you were doing? You broke the law!"
Young Master Lopez: "I want to see your chief."
"Sorry, it's late. Everyone's off work," I said.
"Why'd you take our phones?" someone sneered, "You had the balls to bring us in, but now you're scared we'll make a call and give you trouble?"
"Detention means detention. You think this is a vacation where you can play on your phones? You'll get all your stuff back when you're released. Not a thing will be missing," I said. By now my report was just about done.
"Tobby Curry, is it?" Young Master Lopez fixed me with a look that could kill and enunciated, "You've got some fucking nerve."
I put my report on the desk, adjusted my police cap, neatened my uniform, and headed out for another patrol, leaving the furious rich kids cooped up in their tiny cage, kicking around with nowhere to vent.
Tobby left like nothing had happened and went back out to patrol. Meanwhile, Kyle Miller and the others were in chaos—they had no mind to patrol at all. When they got back, they found those rich kids locked up, completely at a loss, because Tobby had taken the cell key with him.
"Let us out. My patience has a limit," Young Master Lopez glared at Kyle and the others, letting out a cold snort.
Kyle had no idea what to do. Other officers started to reach for the phone to call the chief, but Kyle stopped them. He whispered, "Why are you calling the chief?"
"If we don't, once their parents make a fuss, we'll all be screwed."
Kyle said, "Pretend we didn't see a thing."
The other three stared at him, wide-eyed, "What? But that's a bunch of rich kids!"
"So what," said Kyle. "Tobby just did something I've always wanted to do. Adam't tell me you actually like putting up with these spoiled brats?"
The three of them paused, looked at each other, then gave a nod of agreement.
"Old Miller, that's not like you, you old fox," someone said, looking at Kyle, not quite able to believe it.
Kyle had to laugh at himself. "This city is worth its weight in gold, built by the rich elite. Sure, they're supposed to get special treatment, but that doesn't mean they get to look down on everyone else's dignity. No one gets involved in this, got it? Let those rich kids know—a little beat cop has his dignity too!"
The other three gritted their teeth, nodded, and then washed their hands of the matter.
But paper can't cover fire—the next morning, the chief's phone blew up with calls from the families of all those young masters. He only found out about it when he turned on his phone and immediately rushed in, finding the group still locked up.
"What happened?" The chief asked the officer on duty.
"Chief, Tobby Curry brought 'em in last night. Here's the report." The officer looked just as wronged—he'd already switched shifts and had no idea what the hell had gone on, so all he could do was hand over Tobby's report from the previous night.
The chief frowned as he read, then ordered, "Open the doors, let them out."
According to the report, the group had insulted and attacked a police officer. But now they'd spent a night in there, so he figured that made them even.
The duty officer said awkwardly, "Tobby took the key with him."
The chief was at a total loss, glancing at the listless young masters in the cell, covered in mosquito bites. He muttered, "Call him and have him come unlock the door."
Meanwhile, I had finished my shift and was at home, sleeping like the dead. The sudden call woke me up. Grumpy, I sat up, checked the time—only noon or so—changed my clothes, and stepped out of my room, right as an air hostess with disheveled hair walked out of the other unit. She was wearing a loose off-the-shoulder knit sweater, white camisole underneath, the exposed skin of her shoulders looking lazy and alluring.
When the woman saw me, she stared wide-eyed. She had probably just woken up, and hadn't adjusted to the fact that I had knocked a wall down so the two apartments were now combined. Before she could say a word, Brittany Scott came home at noon, opened the door, and walked in, ready to make lunch.
For a solid three seconds, the three of us made eye contact, like we all had to pass through a security check. Then, in perfect unison, the two women blurted out: "I'm not with him, don't get the wrong idea. (I'm not with him, don't get the wrong idea.)"
After a one-second pause, again in perfect sync: "You're his girlfriend, right? (You're her girlfriend?)"
And then they both froze.
Brittany Scott muttered to herself: No way. With a guy like Tobby Curry, there's no way he actually has a girlfriend, right?
But seeing how bold and stylish this woman dressed, and looking pretty hot, she thought Tobby must have brought home an escort, and immediately her gaze toward the beautiful air hostess filled with disdain.
The beautiful air hostess picked up instantly on the dirty look in Brittany's eyes and shot her a glare. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she snapped.
Brittany didn't answer, but when she turned to look at me, all you could see was disgust.
"No wonder you're single, with all these overnight call girl hobbies." She flung the cutting words at me as she headed into the kitchen.
Clearly, in Brittany's mind, the beautiful air hostess was just an escort.
The air hostess's face turned bright red with anger, her pretty eyes practically sparking. "What do you mean by that? You throwing shade, huh?"
Brittany snapped back, "Well, daylight's here, so you better hit the road."
The air hostess marched over, ready to take Brittany on for a full three hundred rounds, but I quickly stepped between them, forcing a smile. "Jeez, you women really jump to conclusions. Where are your brains at?"
I turned to Brittany and said, "You've got it wrong. She's just another tenant, like you."
Brittany blinked her big eyes, while the hostess crossed her arms and huffed.
"Sorry about that," Brittany said sheepishly, then actually apologized.
The air hostess still shot back in a mocking tone, "You ever see an escort that looked like me? You think I could afford someone of my grade?"
I was speechless. This beautiful air hostess, honestly, her IQ had to have some gaps too. Did she just call herself an escort, for real?
So I coughed. "If you are, name your price."
The air hostess immediately kicked at me in heels. "I'll kick your ass! I haven't even started getting back at you yet!"