Love Unrehearsed
Page 41
The front of my shirt was speckled with brown spots of dried blood.
My entire left cheek ached and I wished I could wipe my face.
The last time I’d felt nearly this battered was when I was sideswiped by an SUV, but my mortification level this time was off the charts. How lucky for me to feel this bad twice in one lifetime. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t fracture the same wrist for the third time.
I stared in a daze at the stacks of paper and files piled on the inspector’s desk, and tried to stifle the spins and the full body tremors, desperately wishing I could rewind the last few hours of my life. This wasn’t just an “oopsy,” this was a monumental fuckup.
I knew I needed to be calm. An attempted explanation that I was shoved unwillingly, instead of their assumption that I actually meant to incite a riot and attack and assault the officer, was also better delivered if I wasn’t babbling through tears. Needless to say, being detained by the police in a foreign country was beyond terrifying.
The scant contents of my small purse were strewn about on the inspector’s desk. He scrutinized my lip gloss as if it were a chemical weapon.
It’s cherry-flavored, asshole.
“I don’t remember the name of my hotel,” I repeated with renewed frustration. “Our travel arrangements were made by Ryan Christensen’s agent. We were driven by a chauffeur to the hotel from the airport. I’m telling you I don’t know.” My last words cracked from my throat as the handcuffs pinched my wrists. “Please, just let me make one phone call so we can clear up my identity.”
My request was ignored.
Tired of looking at his smug face, I glanced up the wall at the large, round clock, snuffling back my tear-induced runny nose.
Ryan’s interviews should be over by now.
Surely his team ushered him on to the next item on his agenda—the open photo call. I could only imagine how angry he’d be with me once he discovered where I was.
My thoughts were swirling. Would this incident be a deal-breaker for Ryan? Too embarrassed by my getting arrested to want to continue a relationship with me? Heck, if standing on a table to propose to me was enough to incite panic in Marla, what the hell would me getting arrested in Paris do to him?
Once they throw me in a cell, would Ryan be forced to leave for Barcelona tomorrow without me? What choice would he have? I knew nothing about France’s laws or how long I’d be sent to prison. If the lengthy forms the inspector was filling out were any indication, surely that’s where I was headed next.
The inspector continued to toss his false accusations to the point of madness.
“I was
not reaching for the officer’s gun nor was I attacking him,” I strained with urgency. “Why won’t you believe me?” My brain kept repeating,
five to ten for assaulting an officer. God, I should have listened to Ryan. I should have stayed in the fucking hotel when he said no to my request.
Waves of remorse were coursing in like the tide, pressing hard on my chest with each surge.
“You have no passport, no identification.
You claim your information is at a hotel which you cannot name,” the inspector continued to drone.
Damn, he was irritating. This was the first time I was ever out of the country. I didn’t even think to grab my passport this morning when I changed purses. I almost left with nothing on me, deciding a credit card and lip gloss were my only necessities. I wanted to slap that accent right out of his mouth. I glanced at the antiquated computer sitting on his desk. “My name and signature are on my credit card. And if you don’t believe me, just search my name on the Internet. That ought to give you enough photographic proof.” My glare was definitely a challenge, hoping that a few hundred pictures of me and Ryan would be enough.
The slight smirk on his face indicated he really didn’t care. His callous attitude morphed my sadness into anger.
“Remind me to never come back to Paris if this is the way you treat foreign visitors. Do I have the right to call an attorney, or is that against your laws, too?”
The bastard ignored me and kept writing.
“The paparazzi took plenty of pictures of your officer’s knee in my back. That ought to do wonders for your tourist business once that hits the media.”
Inspector Clueless tore his eyes away from his paperwork long enough to glare at me and snip something under his breath in French. I could tell by the slur in his tone that whatever he said, it wasn’t meant to be pleasant.
My pinched shoulders were starting to ache worse than where I nailed my knee on the macadam. “What happened to the women who assaulted me and stole my shopping bags? Why aren’t they in handcuffs?”
My entire left cheek ached and I wished I could wipe my face.
The last time I’d felt nearly this battered was when I was sideswiped by an SUV, but my mortification level this time was off the charts. How lucky for me to feel this bad twice in one lifetime. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t fracture the same wrist for the third time.
I stared in a daze at the stacks of paper and files piled on the inspector’s desk, and tried to stifle the spins and the full body tremors, desperately wishing I could rewind the last few hours of my life. This wasn’t just an “oopsy,” this was a monumental fuckup.
I knew I needed to be calm. An attempted explanation that I was shoved unwillingly, instead of their assumption that I actually meant to incite a riot and attack and assault the officer, was also better delivered if I wasn’t babbling through tears. Needless to say, being detained by the police in a foreign country was beyond terrifying.
The scant contents of my small purse were strewn about on the inspector’s desk. He scrutinized my lip gloss as if it were a chemical weapon.
It’s cherry-flavored, asshole.
“I don’t remember the name of my hotel,” I repeated with renewed frustration. “Our travel arrangements were made by Ryan Christensen’s agent. We were driven by a chauffeur to the hotel from the airport. I’m telling you I don’t know.” My last words cracked from my throat as the handcuffs pinched my wrists. “Please, just let me make one phone call so we can clear up my identity.”
My request was ignored.
Tired of looking at his smug face, I glanced up the wall at the large, round clock, snuffling back my tear-induced runny nose.
Ryan’s interviews should be over by now.
Surely his team ushered him on to the next item on his agenda—the open photo call. I could only imagine how angry he’d be with me once he discovered where I was.
My thoughts were swirling. Would this incident be a deal-breaker for Ryan? Too embarrassed by my getting arrested to want to continue a relationship with me? Heck, if standing on a table to propose to me was enough to incite panic in Marla, what the hell would me getting arrested in Paris do to him?
Once they throw me in a cell, would Ryan be forced to leave for Barcelona tomorrow without me? What choice would he have? I knew nothing about France’s laws or how long I’d be sent to prison. If the lengthy forms the inspector was filling out were any indication, surely that’s where I was headed next.
The inspector continued to toss his false accusations to the point of madness.
“I was
not reaching for the officer’s gun nor was I attacking him,” I strained with urgency. “Why won’t you believe me?” My brain kept repeating,
five to ten for assaulting an officer. God, I should have listened to Ryan. I should have stayed in the fucking hotel when he said no to my request.
Waves of remorse were coursing in like the tide, pressing hard on my chest with each surge.
“You have no passport, no identification.
You claim your information is at a hotel which you cannot name,” the inspector continued to drone.
Damn, he was irritating. This was the first time I was ever out of the country. I didn’t even think to grab my passport this morning when I changed purses. I almost left with nothing on me, deciding a credit card and lip gloss were my only necessities. I wanted to slap that accent right out of his mouth. I glanced at the antiquated computer sitting on his desk. “My name and signature are on my credit card. And if you don’t believe me, just search my name on the Internet. That ought to give you enough photographic proof.” My glare was definitely a challenge, hoping that a few hundred pictures of me and Ryan would be enough.
The slight smirk on his face indicated he really didn’t care. His callous attitude morphed my sadness into anger.
“Remind me to never come back to Paris if this is the way you treat foreign visitors. Do I have the right to call an attorney, or is that against your laws, too?”
The bastard ignored me and kept writing.
“The paparazzi took plenty of pictures of your officer’s knee in my back. That ought to do wonders for your tourist business once that hits the media.”
Inspector Clueless tore his eyes away from his paperwork long enough to glare at me and snip something under his breath in French. I could tell by the slur in his tone that whatever he said, it wasn’t meant to be pleasant.
My pinched shoulders were starting to ache worse than where I nailed my knee on the macadam. “What happened to the women who assaulted me and stole my shopping bags? Why aren’t they in handcuffs?”
