FoA S3 Chapter 2

“Motherfucker,” Vicky mutters, throwing her damp towel on the bed. You follow her lead, going to the wall. You put your palms on the disgusting wallpaper.

“I told you to spread,” the deputy repeats brusquely. Unlike Stark, she is impossible to read.

You and Vicky grudgingly comply, moving your feet farther apart. This is humiliating enough with clothes on. Like this, it’s downright dehumanizing. You seethe and Vicky’s teeth grind audibly.

Suddenly the woman’s hands are on your body. Your eyes widen in surprise and outrage. Is she fucking serious? She pats you down as though searching you, but what’s the point? You’re not wearing any clothes that could hide anything. She does the same to Vicky, taking her time with Vicky’s big breasts. When she’s done, she lets out a snort, then delivers a light slap to Vicky’s buttock, admiring the effect.

“You trapping out of here?” she asks, returning to grope you some more.

“No,” Vicky grinds out, watching the deputy squeeze and knead your breasts from behind.

“Don’t lie to me,” she says. “What else are you doing here naked?” She slaps her hand between your legs from behind, cupping your mound and squeezing it appreciatively.

“We were robbed,” Vicky says.

“By your clients?”

“We don’t have clients,” you protest, hissing in discomfort.

“Then who robbed you?”

There’s a pause. The deputy senses the hesitation and smirks, withdrawing her hand.

“Face the wall,” she snaps at Vicky, who’s looking back. Eyes blazing, Vicky does so. You both stare at the wallpaper miserably. The deputy is still behind you, but it’s impossible to know what she’s doing.

“Where are the ****?” she asks.

“What ****?” you demand.

“Public indecency. Solicitation. Peace disturbance. You ain’t bonding out. So unless you want those dicks to get a workout in the county jail, you best give me something. Give me your sugar daddy. Or give me the ****. If I look on Backpage will I see your faces?” You flinch as something cold runs down your back: the deputy is dragging her phone across your skin.

“Go look,” Vicky says.

“Oh, I assure you, I’m about to look,” the deputy replies. You got a glimpse of her name tag just now: Connell. Deputy Connell.

You hear the telltale snap of a latex glove behind pulled on.

It comes out of nowhere: Vicky just hauls back and elbows Deputy Connell full in the face. The deputy crumples with a cry, and Vicky turns around and kicks her, grabbing your hand and yanking you toward the door.

You burst into the muggy twilight. In panic, you glance toward the office, where you can see that teenager at the window, watching with wide eyes.

There’s nothing here but his pickup truck and Connell’s police car from the Virgin County Sheriff’s Department. There’s a moment of indecision as Vicky thinks fast. Stealing a police car is not a good idea, and getting that kid’s keys from him isn’t realistic either. He’ll certainly lock the door on you if he sees you approaching.

There are no good options.

Vicky pulls you down to the corner of the motel, then sharply off the pavement and down an embankment, into the swamp.