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Strip Searched by the Cop

Strip Searched by the Cop

Catherine DeVore

Copyright 2012 Catherine DeVore





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I ran down the sidewalk, my high heels tapping a staccato beat against the pavement. “Shit, shit, shit!” I swore, flinging open the door to my SUV. I launched my purse onto the passenger seat in a clatter of lipstick and compacts, jamming my keys in the ignition and roaring out of my driveway. I grimaced as my tires squealed against the pavement, but I kept jamming that pedal down anyway. I was late for a meeting—and not just late, but late late. It wasn’t the first time, either, and my boss had been pretty clear about what would happen if I did it again. Yet, here I was, doing it again!

As I sped down the highway, veering around other cars, I grabbed one of the wayward tubes of lipstick and started trying to apply it in the rearview mirror. I looked mostly put-together enough for a big meeting in my tight pencil skirt, blouse, and jacket, but I’d definitely skimped on the makeup to get out the door as quickly as possible. As I applied the red pigment to my lips, some asshole started beeping at me. Irritated, I rolled my eyes and flipped him the bird, wrenching my car back into my lane. Some people.

I’d just managed to get my mascara open when I heard that all-too-familiar sound of sirens behind me. I slammed on the brakes, hoping to get down to the speed limit before whatever emergency vehicle was behind me saw how fast I was going. No dice. My stomach dropped as my rearview mirror was filled with the familiar flashing lights of a cop car. It looked like I was up shit creek with no paddle.

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