Page 21 of The Accident

But the officer’s already looking at me.

“Your turn,” the guard rasps, settling back into his chair. The smirk is back, as wide as ever.

I feel like I’m going to throw up. The thought of doing what Stella just did—of undressing, performing lewd acts, being watched by this grinning, half-aroused stranger—makes my pulse pound in my ears in a bad way. But the alternative is worse: Trevor coming to bail me out, or worse, my mom, her lips thin with outrage and disappointment.

I take a deep breath, but my lungs don’t work. My hands are shaking.

Then, before I can overthink it, I stand, walk to the front of the cell, and press my forehead against it.

“Can I just go to the bathroom first?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Morris raises an eyebrow. “No bathroom breaks until you’re ready to deal.”

I back away, clutch my phone, and slide down to the bench, dress rumpled under my thighs. I blink back tears, but they won’t fall. I stare at the wall, trying not to listen as Stella’s whisper echoes in my ears.

“You can do it,” she says in my head.

But I can’t. I can’t show my body to this stranger. I don’t even know him, and besides, this is sexual coercion! It has to be against the law!

As a result, I sit there and wait for the next thing to happen, knowing that whatever it is, it will be worse than anything I can imagine.

And somehow, I still find myself hoping that Trevor will come for me.

I count the minutes. Not out loud, not even on my phone’s useless face—just in the clutch and release of my own jaw. The fluorescent lights never change. There’s no clock, no windows, nothing to mark time except the shuffling of police shoes outside and the wet coughs from the other cells that I can’t see. They’re like ghosts.

Stella’s gone. Her cell is empty, although her voice lingers—a phantom echo in the concrete. I keep imagining her: charming whatever officer’s on duty, and then sashaying out into the night. Maybe she’s at the 24-hour Walgreens already, snatching false lashes and allergy pills, her number blocked on every boy’s phone by morning. I miss her instantly, even as I want to murder her for leaving me behind.

The guard, Morris, has returned to his throne: chair tipped, boots up, arms crossed, face as blank as the walls. Every few minutes, he glances up. Each time, he looks at me just a little longer.

I try not to look back. I scroll my phone anyway, as if I could will a signal into existence. My hands shake. My heart pounds so hard I can feel the pulse in my gums.

I don’t want to be here when dawn comes.

I don’t want my stepbrother to see me like this—dress torn, makeup running, hair a greasy pelt. But I also can’t think of any way out.

I consider what Stella did. I picture myself doing a striptease. The thought makes me want to puke.

For a while, I just sit and let the horror marinate. My knees locked together, my heels digging into the bench for leverage. The air tastes like pennies.

Suddenly, inspiration strikes. It’s not great. It’s not something I want to do, but maybe it’ll get me out of this hellhole. I stand and approach the bars. Morris glances up, all lazy interest.

I say, “I have something better than a striptease.”

He uncrosses his arms. “Yeah?”

I swallow. “I have photos. On my phone.”

His eyebrows climb a notch, then he stands and walks over, slow. The metal of his keys rattles against his thigh. “Photos of what?” He’s close enough now to see the sweat on my hairline.

“Dirty ones,” I whisper, instantly wishing I hadn’t said it. “X-rated to the max. I’ll show you, if you let me out.”

He grins, a mouth full of teeth. “Really.”

I nod, then turn my phone to face him and tap my Photos file icon. At first, it’s just the regular selfies. Me in my room, lit by string lights, face all blush and gloss. Then the ones in the mirror: dress pulled tight, my tits squashed and mouth half-open, hair in wild blonde spirals. I swipe quickly, skipping the chaste ones, until I land on my “Homework” folder. This is the naughty batch.

Morris leans closer. His shadow blocks half the corridor, and I can smell cheap cologne mixed with sweat. Eew. But I take a deep breath and steel myself because I have to do this.

The next shot is me: on my bed, braless, one hand lifting a big breast, the nipple almost the color of my lips. The next: me, nude, legs spread a little, my fingers parting the pink of my pussy just enough to show a peep of my clit. I can’t breathe. I keep swiping. The photos get worse: me with a huge clear dildo, pout in a perfect O as I stroke the girthy shaft; me sucking it, lips stretched around the fake cock, eyes half-lidded; me lying back, the toy just a tad inside, one hand cupping a giant breast as I moan aloud.