I have to admit, I enjoy this part of flustering women. The amount of control I feel. It’s a hit of adrenaline I haven’t found a replacement for. The exact opposite of that feeling slaps me across the face when I clear this machine a third time.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
This time she looks embarrassed. Like she feels bad for me. As if she’s taking pity on some kid who can’t read the signs plastered all over the walls—no sharp objects, handbag restrictions, 100 ml rule. Gigantic signs, with bright yellow borders and bold red letters. Impossible to miss unless you’re someone who is distracted because the girl you love broke up with you less than seventy-two hours ago and you need to get the hell out of town.
I startle at a firm tap.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to follow me,” demands a sturdy security officer.
That’s when it hits me—the switchblade in my back pocket. I found it in the top drawer of my nightstand when I was packing my bags this morning. It seemed like a smart thing for a hand crew recruit to bring at the time. Only, I didn’t anticipate forgetting to transfer it into my checked bag.
“Listen, man.” I chuckle. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Arms in the air,” he barks, and I extend them up like the limbs of a tree, adding a good two feet to my already six-foot frame.
He begins at the top of my right arm, waving a wand down the front of my body and up the other side before swirling it in front of me in a gesture to turn around. I do what he asks, and the wand reacts ten seconds later when it hovers over the back pocket of my pants. The officer pats my ass.
“Like what you feel?” I say as his hand dives into my pocket and fishes out the object.
Whether or not the blade is extended is irrelevant as he jabs it in the air and pins me with a glare.
He reacts quickly, gripping me by the arm like I’m a common criminal. His other hand closes in on his gun holster.
“Looks like a concealed weapon to me,” he scolds, jerking me in the direction of a nearby door. Ten strides later, he pushes it open and reveals an interrogation room. It’s dermatologist white. Empty, minus a round camera attached to the far corner and a single foldout chair and table. A long beam of light stretches overhead.
I glance behind me, my dad gaping from the other side before I’m shoved into the opening. He mouths,What the hell, as the heavy metal seals shut.
“What are you doing with a concealed weapon?” The officer circles my body like a starved vulture.
“Well, it’s not concealed anymore, is it?” I wink at him. By his beady eyes and scowl, that was the last thing I should have said.
He shoves me down onto the metal seat and continues his pacing in slow, even strides.
“What’s your name, kid?”
I let my gaze follow his dance.
“Reed Morgan.”
He grabs a clipboard from the table. Jots something down—I’m assuming my name—then tucks it under his arm. He stops in front of me, bending at a forty-five-degree angle to look me in the eye.
“Why do you have a knife on you, Mr. Morgan?”
If he’s trying to scare me, it’s not working.
“Used to,” I remind him.
“Excuse me?” he spits.
It’s entertaining how personal he’s making this encounter. Mad at a complete stranger for not following his trusty rules.
I smirk at his hand. “Iused tohave a knife on me.”
He tracks my gaze and squints. Then a sly smirk twists across his lips.
“Is that how you get everything you want in life, Mr. Morgan? Attention?”
I don’t know, if I were to flag that female security officer over here, would I be able to get out of this situation?
