In which Dallas Winston has a soft spot for more than one Cade, and Gloria's kid brother gets caught up in a murder rap.
𝑭𝒂𝒔𝒕-𝑻𝒂𝒍𝒌 • verb
\ ˈfas(t)-tôk \
to influence or persuade
by fluent, facile, and u...
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"OH GOD, DAL," I say, grabbing his arm. "What do we do?"
"Just relax," Dally says. He slips my non-injured hand into his. "Don't say anything, let me do the talking."
A pair of cops get out of the first car, and a third, from the other.
"FREEZE!"
The officers form a semi-circle around us, their weapons in hand. Shaken, I tighten my grip on Dal's hand, and he squeezes back.
"Dallas Winston, put your hands up!"
He gives my hand one more squeeze before letting go, and slowly raises his hands behind his head.
"You, there!" One of the officers nods his head at me. "You Gloria Cade?"
Hesitantly, I nod.
"You're gonna need to come with us. Any resistance and you'll be cuffed, too."
Next thing I know, two of the officers are putting handcuffs on Dallas.
"He didn't do anything!" I plead, helplessly as they manhandle him, stripping him of his switchblade, and a flask I didn't even know he had.
"Your turn, honey," the third cop says. "Lift your arms, for me."
Disgusted by his choice of words and tone of voice, I scowl as I follow orders. The officer pats down my arms, and down from there, not failing to grope my breasts in the process. Angrily, I can't help but stomp on his foot, causing him to lash out.
"That's it," he growls, whipping out his cuffs.
Immediately realizing that I'd only made matters worse, I anxiously glance at Dallas, as the cop clicks me into the handcuffs. Dal has his full attention on me now, even as the other two cops push him towards the first car.
"Get your dirty fucking hands off her," Dallas yells.
Angered and insulted, the cop continues to pat me down. He forces me to turn slightly, right before he smacks my ass and squeezes it, just so Dally can see. Naturally, my wrists strain against the cuffs behind my back, but I'm rendered helpless against the act.
Dally loses his shit. "You motherfucker!" He starts thrashing around, trying to get back towards me, but the officers slam him into the side of the car, and somehow force him inside.
The other officer finally finishes the harassme– "pat-down," and escorts me to the front seat of the second cop car.
I refuse to look at the cop beside me, so the whole drive to the station, I focus on the license plate of the car in front of us.
"Relax, honey. We're just bringin' you and your boyfriend in for questioning–"
"–He's not my boyfriend."
I can feel the officer's eyes on me, and out of the corner of my eye, I watch him bring one hand off the steering wheel and place it on my thigh.
"Don't touch me," I mutter, trying to lean as far away from him as possible. He slowly slides his hand further up my thigh, and I shiver in disgust. One more inch, and I reach my breaking point. "Don't fucking touch me!" I scream, jerking my leg away.
