Hangster | Teen | 6.4k
Meet-Ugly, different first meeting, flirting in the holding cell, it's a bit unhinged
"I want my phone call," Jake says. The cop leading him toward the holding cells raises her eyebrows at him. "I know my rights."
"And you'll get it," Officer Asshole tells him. Well, it's Officer Ashbey by Jake thinks asshole is a fair assessment. He's still pissed that he got arrested along with the dumb ass who hit him. It's not Jake's fault he defended himself. If anything, he did that guy a favor— if Jake hadn't hit back the dude could have really hurt him and that would probably make any charges against him worse. "When the line has cleared up."
Jake sighs internally, but doesn't say anything. It's bad enough that he got arrested, he doesn't want to make it worse by pissing off the cops. His grandpa raised him to respect authority, his mama raised him to give it the middle finger, his sisters taught him to know the time and place for each option. Right now respect is winning out. Ashbey opens the cell door, she un-cuffs Jake before he steps inside. That's nice, he can see a couple guys still cuffed in the little row of holding cells.
His cell is blessedly nearly empty, only a big bald guy with a face tattoo, handcuffed to the bench he's sitting on, and a a mustached guy wearing a shockingly nice suit, the top button undone and an ice pack pressed to his forehead. Jake's a little jealous, all he got was some tissues to shove up his nose to stop the bleeding. Baldy and Mustache are sitting on opposite sides of the cell, so Jake takes the bench in corner, far enough away from Baldy that he can't reach him, far enough from Mustache that he hopefully won't start a conversation. Jake's not sure why, but he's got a feeling the dudes a chatter.
Across the way he spots Dicky—the real, actual name of the guy who punched Jake—he's sitting with an ice pack on his face. Jake bets he's going to have a hell of a shiner; he can't help the smirk on his face Dicky catches his eye across the way. He's still spitting mad, but that's not on Jake. Not his fault the guy can't handle his darts. Or losing. Well, that part might be Jake's fault. Whatever. He leans his head back against the wall, nothing let to do but wait now.
"What are you in for?" Mustache asks. Jake tips his head to the side to look at him. He seems to be asking earnestly; Jake wonders how long this guys been stuck in a holding cell for him to be trying to make casual conversation.
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