Cillian
A JAIL CELL IN THE DUBLIN POLICE DEPARTMENT
A glass of water has been placed on a little square table about five feet away from the jail cell I’m sitting in.
That puts it just barely outside my line of reach.
Which is unfortunate, because I have never been thirstier in my whole goddamn life.
It’s also extremely intentional, because these cops are the biggest fucking scumbags on the planet.
I try to swallow past my parched throat as I glance at the clock on the adjacent wall and make a quick mental calculation.
It’s eight o’clock in the morning. Which means I’ve been in this fucking cell for almost twenty-four hours.
The iron door at the far end of the floor clangs open.
A policewoman walks in. Tall, austere, very much no-nonsense. I notice she’s got her hair pinned up today.
Funny, because she didn’t seem too enthused when I told her last night how utterly ravishing she looked with it down.
I guess not all women like compliments.
“Officer Rian!” I greet, grabbing the bars of my cell and flashing her my best smile. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Mr. O’Sullivan,” she sighs. “You’re still here?”
I give her a pitiful puppy dog look. “I wouldn’t be if you just released me.”
She grumbles before her eyes fall on the full glass of water. She understands instantly that it’s there to taunt me.
I see a flash of sympathy before she wipes her expression clean of emotion.
“Thirsty?” she asks.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
She glances towards the door that leads to the holding area where most of her colleagues hang out. Then she picks up the glass and hands it to me through the bars.
I gulp down the water in three seconds flat.
Relief floods through my system. I’m so grateful I honestly just want to pull her in for a huge bear hug.
“Jesus. That was good,” I breathe as I hand the glass back to her.
She takes it from my hands and sets it back down on the table. Now that the thirst is no longer dominating my thoughts, I can concentrate on other things.
“Why were you surprised to see me here?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Your kind don’t tend to stay behind bars long,” she says, an edge of bitterness seeping into her tone.
“Hey now, Officer,” I protest, “we’re not all bad. Some of us are even nice.”
She almost cracks a smile.
Almost.
Then her face shifts. She looks almost… sad? That wouldn’t make any sense, so I dismiss it. But something is definitely up.