Gets taken back for extra screening

Chloe stepped forward into the security lane, the fluorescent lights of the terminal catching the sheen of her skin and the bright colors of her uniform. She was wearing the full cheerleading outfit the team had decided to travel in for some promotional photos at the destination—tight white crop top with the university’s navy-and-gold logo stretched across her chest, the fabric clinging to the soft swell of her breasts and leaving a strip of toned midriff bare. The matching skirt was scandalously short, the pleated hem barely brushing the tops of her thighs when she stood still. Every step made it sway and lift just enough to tease the curve of her ass and the thin white panties she wore underneath. White crew socks with navy stripes rode high on her calves, and her clean white sneakers completed the look, the laces neatly tied. Her long blonde hair was pulled into the same high ponytail she’d worn the day they met, a few loose strands framing her face. Light makeup—glossy lips, a touch of mascara—made her already striking features even more noticeable under the harsh airport lighting.

The TSA officer at the scanner, a middle-aged man with a thinning hairline and a badge that read “R. Morales,” looked up from his screen and visibly stalled. His eyes dragged from the white sneakers, up the length of her legs, lingered on the short skirt, then climbed the flat plane of her stomach to the tight crop top. He cleared his throat, but the once-over was obvious.

“Step through, miss,” he said, voice a little rougher than it had been with the previous girls.

Chloe gave him a polite, unbothered smile and walked through the body scanner. The machine hummed. A yellow outline flashed on the secondary screen. Morales frowned, then glanced at his partner—a younger officer who’d been quietly watching the whole team file through.

“Secondary screening,” Morales called out, louder than necessary. “Miss, please step to the side.”

A few of the other cheerleaders glanced over. Jenn, already through and collecting her bag, smirked. Ellen looked concerned. Chloe’s expression didn’t change much—just a small roll of her eyes that only I caught.

I was still behind the line, waiting my turn, but the officer waved me forward as well. “You with her?”

“Yeah. Boyfriend.”

“Then you come too. Private screening room. Bags as well.”

Chloe turned her head just enough to meet my eyes and mouthed here we go with a tiny, amused tilt of her lips. She didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, she looked faintly annoyed that the process was dragging, but the confidence never left her posture. She collected her clear plastic bin—phone, charger, a small makeup pouch—and followed Morales toward a frosted-glass door marked “Additional Screening.” I grabbed my own bag and trailed after them.

The private room was small, clinical, and colder than the main terminal. A metal table sat against one wall. A full-body scanner unit took up the opposite corner. There was a curtained alcove for clothing adjustments and a single camera in the upper corner with a red light already glowing. Morales closed the door behind us. His partner remained outside, but the door stayed unlocked—procedure, apparently.