The wind whipped through his curly hair as the red-and-white Fairlane convertible barreled along the road, a cloud of dust rolling over the fences. A wide, honest grin creased his freckled face.
Piloting Uncle Jake's retractable-hardtop Skyliner was a huge thrill for eighteen-year-old Joey.
Little Joe was blowin' on the slide trombone; The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang ...
Jake pounded the wheel, belting out Jailhouse Rock along with Elvis on the radio.
Driving into the sunset, he didn't even notice the black-and-white Ford with the cherry on top, parked in a grove of trees beside the road.
It peeled out into the dust behind him, cherry flashing and big, chrome siren screaming.
A couple of miles whizzed by before he noticed the red light emerge from the dust cloud in the rearview mirror.
Uh-oh.
Foot off the gas; slow down gently. No guilty-looking flash of brake lights from Mr. Cool Cat, no siree.
Watch for a place to pull off the narrow country road.
Turn into a wide spot, under a couple of big ole' cottonwoods.
Smile at Officer Wells as she comes over.
Black uniform: cap over dark wavy hair, tight fitted shirt, shiny Sam Browne belt, pencil skirt slit at the side, nylons, sturdy black shoes.
"Out, Joey."
Sheepishly, he gets out.
"Licence ... thanks. Over to the car."
Walks over to the old Ford Customline, parked under the trees.
"Hands on the roof. Lean over. Spread your legs."
Jeesh. It's not like Officer Wells — Mary to her friends — hadn't known him since he was a tyke. She'd visited his third-grade class to give them a safety lecture, for Chris' sakes.
"Do it, Joey."
He grins but leans and spreads, like in the gangster movies.
She pats his arms, shoulders, sides, down his thighs, legs, ankles. Between his legs, front of his dungarees.
Shit. A boner. Can't help it.
"Carrying a weapon in there, young man?" she asks sternly. He can't see her smirk.
"Uhhhh. No ma'am."
"Why so fast, Joey?"
"Had to pee, I guess ..."
"Yeah? Why didn't you just stop?"
"Dunno." Lame excuse.
"Don't move."
Cripes! Standing behind him, she slides her hands around him and unbuttons his dungarees.
His boner pops out through the slit in his boxers. Can't help it.
She sees the flush of red spread into the blond hairs on the back of his neck. Grins.
"Okay, go stand in front of the car. Make your water."
Oh no. Not a drop. He goes soft, caught in a lie.
"Here, mebbe this'll help."
She moves off to one side where he can see her, pulls the tight skirt up a bit, squats, opens her knees.
A strong stream of urine splashes into the dust.
His chest is tight. He can hardly breathe, suddenly remembering summer a few years earlier. He'd hear his mom creep out of the cottage at the lake. Sound of her peeing.
Moonlit nights he'd peek from behind his bedroom curtain. See her curvy body, pale in the moonlight. A dark triangle between her legs. Whack his boner till it spurted up his belly.
He can't shake the image as Officer Wells' stream puddles in front of him.
She looks at him.
He's so hard his erection curves upwards from tight blond curls, shiny head exposed. Still on the thin side, she thinks, but long. I could wrap two hands around that.
"Looks like ya' need help there Joey."
"No ma'am ... I mean, I don't know, ma'am."
She stands up. Walks over.
