✨As the World Falls Down✨

I painstakingly rendered his face and abs only to cover it all with sunglasses and filters smh ... Here he is tits out

You're behind the wheel of a brand-new, bright blue Chevy Bel Air. It's a Sunday afternoon, quiet and warm, and you've taken the long way out past the edge of town just to enjoy it. The windows are down, your elbow resting lightly on the door, spring air threading through your hair as the road stretches out ahead of you.

There's no rush. You let the car glide, taking in the soft blur of fields. The tires hum along the pavement, steady and calming. For a while, it feels like nothing could touch you out here with the sun warming your arm through the open window.

Until you spot movement in your rearview mirror. A police cruiser edges out from behind a cluster of bushes and falls in line behind you.

Your grip on the wheel tightens just a little. You check your speed– a smooth thirty-five– but ease off the gas anyway. Your posture straightens, spine stiffening like a rod. Both hands are on the wheel now, driving more carefully than you have in weeks. Every movement feels scrutinized under the cruiser's gaze.

Still, it isn't enough.

The sharp whoop of a siren cuts through the quiet afternoon, followed by the flash of red lights coloring your mirrors. Oh dear.

You signal and guide the Bel Air onto the grassy shoulder, tires crunching softly as you come to a stop. Putting the car into park, you twist the key, and cut the engine.

The afternoon sun glints off of the chrome trim of your vehicle and casts shadows across the road, turning the golden fields to amber. Distant cows moo in a pasture nearby, unaware and unconcerned. A single crow circles overhead before flying away, as if even it knows something is wrong here.

The cruiser's driver door swings open. A beat later, the passenger side follows. Two officers step out.

They're both wearing dark uniforms and mirrored aviator sunglasses that catch the sunlight. You track them in your mirrors, your pulse thrumming as they approach. The one on your side taps the trunk as he passes.

He comes up to your window, resting one hand on the roof. His knuckles rap lightly against the glass. You swallow. Somehow, you manage a small, uncertain smile, looking up at him from behind your sunglasses.

You take him in as he stands there: clean-cut, crisp uniform, a bright brass badge and name tag reading 'Coyle' catching the light against dark blue fabric, his hat set just so. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Got your license on you, Sweetheart?"

You turn toward the passenger seat, reaching for your purse, and you notice the second officer. He's standing right outside your door, silently watching.

You look away, quickly fumbling inside your bag until your fingers find your license. You hand it over. Officer Coyle leans against your door frame, taking his time as he looks over your identification card. You can feel the seconds ticking by. The warm breeze does little to combat the chill running down your spine.

"Out for a Sunday drive, are ya?" he asks, tapping your license against his palm, "Nice car. Real beauty."

"Yes, sir. I just bought it last week."

"Is that right?" He glances at your license again and then at you, "Y'know, a pretty thing like you shouldn't be out here all by herself. Never know what kinda characters might be lurkin' about on these back roads."

His eyes linger on your neckline before he looks back at your face, slipping your license smoothly into his pocket as he speaks, "You know why I pulled you over today?"

"I… I was going the speed limit, wasn't I?"

"Speed limit's part of it, but you were driftin' a bit. Weavin' into the other lane. You been drinkin'?"

"No! Of course not. Just enjoying the drive," you explain.

"Hm," he straightens up, looking toward his partner who's now standing by the front of your car, examining the grille, "What do you think, Barksdale? She seem like she's been enjoyin' herself a little too much?"

Barksdale walks over and peers into your car. His eyes scan the interior before landing on you.

"Vehicle looks clean. No open containers, but…" he pauses, adjusting his stance, "She does seem real nervous."

"See now, that's what I thought, too," Coyle says, gripping his duty belt, "Nervous people usually have somethin' t'hide. You got somethin' worth hidin', Miss?"

"No! I've just never been pulled over before," you argue, trying to keep your face from showing your frustration.

Coyle grins, "Well, there's a first time for everything. Go ahead and step out of the vehicle for me, please."

Your fingers tighten against the wheel reflexively before letting go. Your heart's beating too fast now, loud enough that you're sure they can hear it.

"But I haven't done anything wrong," you protest, refusing to move.

"Feisty little thing, ain't ya? That mouth on you says you're either drunk or lookin' for trouble. Which is it?"

When you don't respond, he leans down, bringing his face closer to the open window. His aviators reflect your bright red sunglasses and matching red lipstick, framed by the bright blue of your car.

"Step out of the vehicle, ma'am," he repeats, firmer this time.

The wind moves through the car, lifting a strand of your hair across your cheek as you reach for the door handle. For a split second, you consider staying put. Saying no. Driving off.

Your Bel Air isn't outrunning a specially made police cruiser. That would turn this ordeal into something else entirely.

With a curt sigh, you push the door open. The grass and gravel crunch softly under your kitten heels as you step out. The world suddenly feels much bigger and much less safe than it did moments ago.

The officer straightens, stepping back just enough to give the illusion of courteously allowing you space.

As you stand, your heels sink slightly into the soft earth of the shoulder, nearly tipping you backwards. You catch the car door and steady yourself, smoothing out your dress before looking up at the man in front of you.

"You seein' this, Barksdale? She can't even stand on her own two feet. Classic sign of intoxication," Coyle shouts to the other officer.

"Some women just can't handle their liquor, Sergeant," Barksdale calls out, earning a bark of laughter from Coyle.

So that's how this is going to go, huh? Immediately, you roll your eyes at his comment. You're hoping he didn't notice.

"Alright, alright" he says, directing you to the front of their patrol car with one bold hand on your lower back, "Name's Sergeant Coyle. We need t'make sure you ain't impaired. Real standard procedure. Hands on the hood, Honey."

You comply. The hot metal of the car burns through your palms as you lean on the hood. From this position, you can see the reflection of both officers in the windshield. Coyle approaches from behind while Barksdale stands to the side, arms crossed.

"We're gonna do a few tests. First, I'ma need you t'walk heel-to-toe in a straight line."

"I can do that easy," you reply, turning around to try and show him.

"Hold on, now," Coyle says sternly, "Face the car 'til I tell you otherwise."

You turn back, pressing your palms harder against the hood. His hands land on your shoulders, gripping them in a way you definitely wouldn't consider professional.

"You're real tense, Miss," His thumbs press into your shoulder blades, "You hidin' somethin' under that dress? Somethin' you ain't supposed t'have?"

"What? No!" you try to shrug him off, but his grip is firm.

"That's what they all say, ain't it?" Coyle laughs, "Stand still. Just makin' sure you don't got anything on you."

His hands slide down your back. Pressing along your spine until he pauses at your waist, his fingers press into the fabric of your dress. You can feel his hot, rotten breath on your neck.

"I'm not hiding anything," you insist, voice trembling, "There's nothing to find."

"Well, I got t'look for myself t'be sure 'bout that," he tells you, "Officer Barksdale. You watch and learn. See how things are done 'round here."

Coyle's hands slide around your stomach, laid flat against your abdomen. His fingers move higher until they brush the underside of your breasts before cupping them fully.

"You sure you ain't hidin' anything… interestin' under here?"

"N-no," you somehow manage to say while your heart jumps into your throat.

Barksdale shifts beside you, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses, "Sergeant, maybe we should–"

"Learnin', Barksdale," Coyle cuts him off, "This is how you separate the innocent from the guilty. The guilty ones, they get nervous. They tense up."

He squeezes harder, making you gasp.

"See? She's hiding somethin'."

"I'm not. This isn't right!" you shout, frustration boiling over. You push back against him.

"Easy! Can't have you fussin' at me," he says condescendingly, shoving you harder into the car, "This'll go quicker if you just cooperate."

You huff at him. Cooperation is the least of your worries as his duty belt digs into your lower back.

"Go on and spread 'em, Sweetheart," Coyle commands, kicking your legs open at the ankle before you can do it yourself.

"You can't do this," you gasp and take an instinctive step to the side.

"Wasn't askin'," he growls.

Coyle's arms wrap around you, grabbing the front of your dress, right at the neckline. Fabric tears. Buttons fly through the air, pinging off the hood of the patrol car and disappearing into the grass. The top half of your dress hangs open, exposing the cream colored slip and pink bra underneath.

Barksdale tenses up to your right as you stand there in shock, readying himself to step in if you decide to put up a fight.

"You payin' attention, Officer Barksdale? You got t'be thorough," the stubble of his beard scratches your skin, "You never know where they might be hiding somethin'."

He continues by roughly groping your stomach, taking his time feeling every inch of your torso until he's had his fill and moves on.

Once Coyle crouches down, he starts again by grabbing at your ankles. His fingers trace a slow path up your calves, then your thighs. They press firmly against the soft skin, pushing under your dress, petticoat, and past the edge of your silk slip.

As the calloused tips of his fingers inch higher and higher up, you clench your thighs together. Your chest tightens while your hands shake.

"Please, stop this," you whisper, hot tears of humiliation stinging your eyes, "Please. I don't have anything on me."

You turn your head to look at Officer Barksdale. He's got a hard look on his face, and when you glance down lower, an equally hard bulge in his uniform slacks. You can't do anything but laugh in disbelief.

"Somethin' funny?" Coyle asks, roughly squeezing your ass and making you jump.

"This– This is ridiculous!" your voice rises with anger, "When I get back into town, I'm reporting both of you."

A hearty laugh bellows from behind you as Coyle straightens up, removing his hands from under your dress. He pats your hip and gestures at Officer Barksdale to come closer.

"Alright, Barksdale. Your turn. Show me what you learned from that little demonstration."

Barksdale shifts his weight, gravel crackling beneath his polished shoes. He glances towards town, then back at you, "Sarge, I don't know if this is–"

"That's an order, Rookie," Coyle cuts him off, "You wanna make sergeant someday, don't you? This right here is part of the job. Now get over here and do your duty."

The other officer's jaw tightens before he reluctantly moves to stand behind you, taking Coyle's place. His hands, when they finally touch your back, are light and hesitant. They barely make contact with your dress before Coyle steps forward.

"No, no," he grabs Barksdale's wrist, pressing his hand firmly against your back, "You won't feel nothin' doin' it that way. I already warmed her up, made your job easier. Do it like you got some sense."

Barksdale's touch becomes more confident at Coyle's instruction. His hands slide around to your stomach, then slowly move upward. At first, they're still somewhat gentle, but as they cup the underside of your breasts through your slip and bra, his grip tightens.

"Wait a minute," Barksdale says quietly, "I think I feel somethin' hard in here."

"That's just underwire," you snap, not caring how much attitude is souring your voice now, "It's how bras are made now."

Coyle steps closer, interjecting himself, "Underwire, huh? Can't be too careful. Criminals are gettin' real creative these days."

You scoff.

"I'ma need you to investigate further, Officer. Protocol requires an exhaustive search," The Sergeant explains with a smirk on his face.

"Protocol… Right," Barksdale hums as his hands move to the top of your bra, and hooks his fingers under the edge.

In a flash, the officer yanks your bra down enough for your breasts to spill over. A whistle cuts sharply through the air from Coyle, and your hands fly up instinctively to stop Barksdale from exposing you any further. Your palms press uselessly against his much bigger hands, trying to push them away.

"Get off of me!" you cry out, your voice cracking pitifully.

Barksdale reacts fast. He grabs your wrists and twists your arms behind your back like he's been waiting to do it all day.

"Resistin' an officer? You just askin' for it, ain't ya?" he grunts, clicking the metal cuffs around your wrists as you wriggle in his grasp and sob, "You see Sergeant? Poor thing's hysterical."

Coyle laughs and you almost mistake his sly grin for something friendly, "You're impeding an investigation, Honey. What are we gon' do with you?"

The frigid bite of the metal against your skin sends you into overdrive. Adrenaline floods your veins, surging through alongside the building rage. You wrench your body sideways and twist, trying to get enough leverage to get away from Barksdale's grip.

"Let! Me! Go!" you shriek, kicking backwards with your heel. It connects with the officer's shin, and he grunts in pain, grip faltering for a second.

It's plenty enough time. You pivot in place and snatch your arms free. Stumbling forward, you can see the hope of freedom just a few feet away. If you can just make it back to your car–

"Uh-uh, we ain't done yet," Coyle grabs a handful of your ragged dress and yanks you back, "Officer Barksdale, that was a real poor example of how we conduct ourselves in the field. 'Bout let this criminal scum get away…"

"Sergeant, she–" Barksdale begins to plead with his superior, but the Sergeant cuts him off, yet again.

"I didn't ask for excuses. How in the hell do you let a woman get the upper hand on you?" The Sergeant chides, wrapping a hand around your wrist, and marching you back toward their patrol car.

"Well, sir, I ain't used to 'em fightin' back like that," Barksdale huffs while fiddling with his duty belt.

His cheeks are an odd shade of pink as he turns to walk ahead of you and pop open the back door of the car. Walking by, the officer won't even look up at you, opting to stare down at his shoes.

He's embarrassed! Hah!

You smirk when he finally looks up at you. Barksdale frowns, the corner of his mouth twitching. You could be making things worse for yourself, but knowing you got under his skin made you feel invincible, even for just a moment.

Coyle reins you in like a horse by pulling back on your arms, bringing you to a halt in front of the open door. He leans into your back, breathing hot against your ear.

"Surprised you ain't had a man put you in your place, yet," he whispers, "Don't worry, Honey. We can fix that today."

You're only given a grunt of warning before he half-pushes, half-throws you into the backseat. You land awkwardly on your side with your hands pinned painfully between you and the backrest. He slams the door shut, cutting you off from the rest of the world with a heavy thud.

Through the windows, you watch them. Coyle leans against the driver's side door, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He taps one out and lights it, the flame briefly illuminating his face. Barksdale rubs his shin where you kicked him, then joins Coyle, accepting the cigarette when it's offered to him.

They're talking, but you can't hear the words. Just the low murmur of their muffled voices and the occasional laugh. Coyle gestures towards the car with his hand. The cigarette nestled between his fingers sends out smoke signals, curling around his fingers and going nowhere.

You can't stay here. There's no telling what these men are capable of. Your chest heaves as you start to panic. Quick breaths stutter out as you try the handcuffs again. They don't budge.

You twist around, trying to contort your body by pulling your knees to your chest. The thick fabric of your dress skirt, combined with the petticoat and slip, is too bulky of a barrier. You can't get enough room to maneuver your legs through.

Frustration brings more hot, angry tears to your eyes. You're trapped.

Coyle takes a long drag from his cigarette. He catches your eye in the side mirror, giving you a slow smile before exhaling a plume of smoke.

Tense, tight cramps build up in your legs from being bent at such an odd angle. You lift one leg to stretch it out and accidentally tap the window with your heel. You freeze, and if someone was looking closely enough, they might be able to see the figurative light bulb appear over your head.

You haul one leg back, hiking up the thick skirt of your dress to bunch around your hips and expose your thighs to the sunlight. After a grounding breath, you experimentally line up the tiny kitten heel of your shoe.

Aiming for the corner of the window, you rear your leg up and kick as hard as you can.

An explosive crack echoes through the quiet of the afternoon. The safety glass spiderwebs, then shatters. A glittering cascade of tiny, crystalline pieces rain down onto your bare calves, scattering across the seat and floorboards.

Outside, both men shout in unison, their casual cigarette break so rudely interrupted.

"What the hell–"Coyle yells, immediately followed by a string of curses. He's at the door in an instant, ripping it open.

"You have any idea how much paperwork that's gonna be?" Officer Barksdale shouts, leaning over the Sergeant's shoulder to look at you, "Destruction of government property is a serious crime, you fuckin'–"

"Enough!" Coyle barks, "Let me get those things off her before she does any more damage."

"Fuck you!" you spit.

Sergeant Coyle reaches in, grabbing for your ankle. You kick out wildly, connecting your heel with his forearm. He grunts but doesn't let go like you hoped he would.

"Knock it off. This is for your own good, Sweetheart."

He works the strap of one heel, then the other. Once both are off, he tosses them out onto the grass beside the road.

"You'll get 'em back once you start actin' more ladylike," he says, patting your knee.

You can't see him, but you can hear him brushing the shards of glass from the seat. When his hands wander up your leg, pushing your bunched-up dress higher, you don't know what to do. Once his hot touch reaches your thigh, your first instinct is to kick your leg out again.

Big mistake.

Coyle catches your leg in his grasp, holding you tight.

"Barksdale," Coyle calls out, "Get in here and give me a hand with this."

The opposite door opens, letting in a cross breeze to float through the backseat and give you a moment of cool relief. You tilt your head back, straining your neck. Officer Barksdale braces a knee on the seat and leans in over you menacingly. The closer he gets, the more the air thickens with the smell of nicotine and the distinct, sharp scent of Aqua Velva.

"Shit," Officer Barksdale says, "She's shakin', Sarge."

"Just means she's guilty, Barksdale," Coyle corrects.

Sergeant Coyle runs his fingers over your panties, dipping the tips of his fingers inside the leg band and tracing the sensitive skin there.

"Come on, Darlin'," Barksdale says, grabbing your upper arms, "Let's get you situated."

He pulls you roughly toward the edge of the seat until your head hangs over the side, upside down. Blood rushes to your head, making the world spin. Your breasts shift uncomfortably, fighting the effects of gravity.

You squirm and kick out at Coyle again, aiming for any part of him you can reach.

"St-op!" the word catches in your throat as you cry out.

They just laugh.

"You just don't know when t'quit, do ya?" Sergeant Coyle growls.

He shimmies your panties down your thighs, catching the elastic on your knees before ripping them all the way off. Something clicks in your brain.

This is actually happening.

So, you scream. High-pitched and shrill, pouring every ounce of rage into it, you do not stop.

Above you, Barksdale jumps like he wasn't expecting that sound to come out of you, but quickly laughs, playing it off. Down by your legs, Coyle climbs further into the cramped backseat with you, forcing your legs apart to settle himself between them. It's not long before your voice breaks into a hoarse moan. Your vocal chords are fried.

"Shut her up," Coyle grunts, "Can't focus with all that noise."

"Yes, sir. I got somethin' that'll keep her real quiet," Barksdale says, looking down at you with a smirk.

His hands fly to his belt buckle and the blood rushing in your ears deafens you. Your body shakes as you sob, begging with a litany of 'no, no, no's.

At the same time, Coyle spreads you open with two fingers, exposing your cunt to the open air. He makes a god-awful sound deep in his throat, then drops a glob of spit onto your clit. The pad of his finger moves in harsh little circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It's overwhelming.

Too much direct stimulation so quickly forces your hips to buck up off of the seat. Whichever hand he isn't using to hold you open shoves down on your stomach, and your ass slumps back against the vinyl.

"Keep still, Sweetheart. Ain't gonna say it again," the Sergeant threatens.

Your attention is drawn back to the man hovering over you when he hastily pulls out his dick, proceeding to bump the head of it against your cheek. Pre-cum smears across your lips as he drags the tip to your mouth.

"Open up and show me what them pretty lips of yours can do other than fuss," Barksdale demands in an overly soft tone that fails to match the severity of your situation.

Tears burn, streaming from your eyes, flowing into your hair and then dripping onto the ground below. You can't even breathe from how stopped up your nose is.

How does he expect you to do this?

"I-I," you hiccup and your lip quivers, "c-can't. Ple-ease."

"C'mon now, you ain't even tried, yet."

You shake your head adamantly. He hooks a thumb behind your lip and pries your jaw open. As soon as his finger is between your teeth, you bite down. It isn't hard enough to do any real damage, but it does make him yank his hand away.

"You fuckin' bitch!" Officer Barksdale hollers, "She bit me!"

"Hey! Listen t'me, girl," Coyle shouts, gripping your thigh firmly, "You bite my Rookie again, I'll break your fuckin' jaw. I got three hours of paperwork that'll say you resisted."

Begrudgingly, you open your mouth.

"Hold her still, Sarge" Barksdale says to his Sergeant, "I don't want her squirmin'."

"I got 'er," Coyle's fingers dig in harder, "Get on with it."

Barksdale follows orders. He slips his cock into your mouth, and your eyes water immediately. There's no getting used to it, just his size forcing your jaw to accommodate.

At the same time, Coyle's fingers roughly prod between your legs in a half-assed attempt at preparing you. He hooks your knees with his forearms and folds you in half, pressing your thighs toward your chest until your lower back lifts off the seat. The position leaves you completely exposed, warm air hitting places the sun wouldn't normally see.

Barksdale's cock tastes like sweat, the salty tang shocking your taste buds. It grounds you in the moment whether you want to be there or not. When he sinks deeper, your throat seizes, forcing you to gag around him.

"Easy," he whispers as his hand finds your breast, thumb dragging across the nipple and making you jolt, "You're fine. Just breathe through your nose."

You would if you could.

He rolls his hips in short thrusts, knocking your sunglasses off your face. They hit the ground, and Barksdale's boot comes down on them a moment later, the crunch barely audible over the sound of him fucking your throat.

"Oops," Officer Barksdale huffs out a laugh, "Those were real cute on you. Shame."

Impatiently, Coyle enters you with a vicious stroke, sending your back arching off the seat. The backseat is way too small for all three of you, and he uses the constraint to his advantage, pinning you in place with his body.

"Jesus," he breathes.

He pulls out and thrusts in again, rocking you further onto Barksdale's cock.

"All that attitude back there– fuck– shoulda known it'd just take some proper handlin' to shut you up," Sergeant Coyle groans.

Barksdale wraps a hand around your neck, feeling the way his cock bulges in your throat with each snap of his hips. His thumb presses painfully into the hollow beneath your jaw.

Drool escapes the corners of your mouth, trailing down your cheeks. It mixes with your tears, and the combination drips onto the ground in tiny puddles.

Static hisses from the radio hooked up to the dashboard, "…unit 247, status on that 10-55…"

Barksdale and Coyle both freeze mid-thrust.

"Don't make a fuckin' sound," Coyle threatens, reaching over the back of the front seat to snatch the receiver and respond, "10-15, dispatch. Standby."

He drops the receiver onto the seat and returns to hovering over you. His thrusts start up again, slowly building back to that brutal pace.

Suddenly, Barksdale pushes forward until your nose is pressed into the coarse hair at his base, and he holds you there. Your lungs are begging for oxygen, hitching uselessly. Your vision narrows, and you buck against the cuffs. You whimper around him, but your protests are muffled by flesh.

He groans, tightening his grip on your neck, and you feel the warm pulse of him coating your throat with cum before he finally pulls out.

Air rushes in, but it has nowhere to go. You turn your head and cough, bringing up more than saliva. Cum and spit spills everywhere; all over your cheeks, up your nose into your nasal cavity, burning behind your eyes.

Coyle takes this as an opportunity to get a better angle. He hauls your hips higher until your dress is nearly covering your face and your knees are almost touching your shoulders. The new depth sends a high pitched, broken whine from your swollen lips. He doesn't acknowledge you.

You can't tell where he's looking because of the stupid aviators, but you turn your head away from him anyway. Still trying to catch your breath, a handful of violent hiccups has you clenching involuntarily around his cock.

"Fuck!" Coyle grunts through gritted teeth, hips stuttering as he cums deep inside of you.

He leans down and grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"You know what resisting looks like on a report?" Coyle growls, "I say you went for my weapon. Now, who they gonna believe? Some hysterical hussy or fifteen years on the force?"

He pats your cheek before pushing off of you and exiting the backseat, leaving you wide open and wet. You hear the rustle of his uniform, the strike of a lighter, and then the smell of tobacco drifts in through the open door.

Cum tracks down your inner thighs, cooling quickly in the warm air. You're still trying to regulate your breathing when Barksdale leans back into the car. You flinch, expecting more, but his hands move behind your back, to your wrists. The cuffs release with a click.

"Up," he says flatly, "Out."

You sit up slowly, every muscle protesting. Your wrists are ringed with red and raw where you had pulled against the metal. You scoot down the seat and climb out on Coyle's side, your fingers clutching the torn edges of your dress top together. You step onto broken glass, but you couldn't care less. You snatch your shoes from the ground, and turn toward your car.

Coyle exhales a cloud of smoke, watching you through the haze.

"You goin' somewhere, Honey?"

"The other officer–" your voice cracks, so you clear your throat and try again, "He took the cuffs off."

"Did he now?" he taps ash onto the ground near your foot, then takes another drag, "I'ma let you off with a warning… but there's no tellin' what might happen if I catch you out here again."

You stumble toward your Bel Air, glass and gravel biting into your soles, face sticky with fluid.

Once inside, you toss your shoes to the passenger floorboard and engage the door locks with shaking hands. The sound of the mechanisms snapping shut is the first thing that's felt like safety since you were pulled over.

You reach for the keys. They're still in the ignition, but your fingers won't close around them properly. The metal keeps slipping. You try three times before you realize you're crying, tears falling in fat drops onto your torn dress. A sob catches in your chest right as a scream tears from your aching throat.

You rest your forehead against the steering wheel, trying to slow your heart before trying again.

When you finally look in the rearview mirror, you barely recognize yourself. The red lipstick you'd applied so carefully has migrated in jagged smears around your lips. You raise a trembling hand to wipe it off, but your fingers come away with something else, too– something pearly and drying. You're only making it worse. Even your mascara has dissolved into black smudges around your eyes.

You know that you should drive straight to the sheriff's station immediately and file a report, showing everyone what they did.

But you won't… you can't.

The patrol car revs behind you. They pull up alongside you, and you see Officer Barksdale's face turned toward you in the passenger window. He doesn't wave, just stares at you; long enough that Sergeant Coyle has to elbow him before accelerating past you.