Page 13 of The Fed Sex Man

“Am I free to go?”

I was on a date with big-dicked cop-hater. I was headed to jail for sure, and I was wearing a crappy outfit.

Beads of sweat burst from my body’s every pore. I glanced around the interior of the car, looking for something to shield the hail of bullets that was sure to come, but found the car’s cabin meticulously spotless.

Then, it caught my eye. Wedged between the edge of Tyson’s seat and the car’s center console, was a pistol.

Oh. My. God.

Upon seeing the gun, my heart lurched into my throat, blocking me from taking another breath. I glanced up, wishing someone could answer the thousand questions that were rattling around in my head.

“Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?” The officer asked in perfect timing with my discovery.

We did have weapons in the car. At least one, anyway. It was hidden from the sergeant’s view by Tyson’s well-toned thighs.

My future was clear. We were a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. The possibility of pre-dinner sex evaporated. My feeble life flashed before my eyes. I filled with regret at my lack of accomplishments. At minimum, I was going to jail.

If I survived the gunfight, that is.

The search of my personal belongings would reveal six mini bottles of liquor, one of Jenny’s Xanax, my vibrator, and a bottle of CBD oil that I thought was legal but wasn’t quite sure. My contraband-stuffed purse was pale in comparison to the firearm that Tyson’s was shielding from view.

I wanted to bid farewell to my parents but knew reaching for my phone would end disastrously. Texas cops who were armed with machineguns shot anyone who reached for anything.

It happened at least once a week. Watching the evening news was proof.

“I have a license to carry,” Tyson said in a matter-of-fact tone. “My permitted firearm is at my side, officer.”

My entire body tensed in anticipation of the officer’s reaction.

“If you don’t touch yours, I won’t touch mine,” the police sergeant said.

“Barring a threat on my or my passenger’s life,” Tyson said. “It will remain in its holster.”

The sergeant’s glare bore through the window and warmed my pale flesh. As still as a stone and fearing for my life, I waited for him to shout things like keep your hands where I can see them, or no sudden movements.

Instead, he waved his hand toward the four police cars that were ahead of us. “You’re free to go.”

Tyson gave a nod. “Have a nice evening, officers.”

The air shot from my lungs. I looked at Tyson. Although my heart was beating as if I’d just completed running a marathon while breathing through a soda straw, he seemed calm and without an ounce of concern. I wanted to be angry with him. To scream and kick and demand that he let me out of the car, but that wasn’t at all how I felt.

Narrowly escaping the grip of death was oddly exciting. I hadn’t been pulled over by the police in years, but recalling the event wasn’t difficult. I followed the officer’s demands, had no weapons in the car, and received an expensive traffic citation in reward for my compliance.

Tyson, on the other hand, had been driving one hundred miles an hour over the speed limit, was armed and noncompliant. In exchange for his argumentative nature, he was released without so much as the speeding ticket he deserved.

I glanced at the pistol and then at Tyson. “Can I talk now?”

He maneuvered through the makeshift roadblock, waving at the officers as he drove past. “Sure.”

“Are you always like that with police officers?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Refusing their demands? Not following directions? Being argumentative?”

“He had no right to ask me to do anything,” he explained. “Contrary to common belief, police officers often lure unsuspecting civilians into incriminating themselves. They hide behind their shields and use deceit to lure those foolish enough to trust them into believing the lies they tell.”

“You don’t trust cops?”