Chapter Two
“The drunk tank. This one, for sure. I don't know about the other one. We’ll let her off for now.”
“She’s not that bad, Officer Oslo,” Cheyenne protests, conveniently setting her beer down and turning on what I affectionately refer to as her mom voice.
Officer Porter Banks is nowhere to be seen, but the other cop, the officer that I all but ignored while drunkenly sucking Mr. Oktober’s face off, is pissed.
I could die. I could seriously die right now.
Officer No-Fun (Officer Oslo) just happened to see me trip and fall into the bushes, which was seriously not even a big deal. It could actually happen to me while sober. I’m a naturally clumsy person. And he assumes I’m drunk in public.
Which I am.
But still. So is everyone else at Oktoberfest. There is an elderly woman painting a flower pot at the Krafty Korners booth and I would give you fifty to one odds that she’s more fermented than most bottles of wine.
“I’ll give you a lift to the jail to sleep it off." He points at the little golf cart with the word POLICE emblazoned across the front and sides.
I stare at him, horrified. “No thank you, sir. I’ll just call an Uber.”
“It’s not an option.”
“But I’m the city librarian! Do you understand what it would look like if you put me in the…golf cart of shame and truck me through downtown? What will I do at reading hour when I read to small children next week if they know I’ve been in jail?” I fold my hands, pleading.
“What about the small children who saw you assaulting an officer of the law with your tongue?”
I shrug. “Spreading the love?” I offer.
He doesn’t even crack a smile. Or take off his aviators, even though it’s after twilight.
“She’s fine,” Cheyenne tries to interject again.
“Do you want to be arrested too, Miss?” the officer asks.
“Cheyenne, please. Don’t get yourself into trouble. I’m begging you.”
Cheyenne shoots me a pleading look. “I can’t let you go alone, Zoey!”
“You owe me from that time I vacated the apartment for an entire week so that Archer Edwards believed that you were living as a tortured artist from New York City because you thought he’d be into that sort of aesthetic.”
She sighs. I’ve got her, and she knows it.
“Into the police vehicle.”
I turn to the cop. “Don’t you mean the golf cart? That really can’t qualify as an actual police vehicle you can arrest people in. It doesn’t even have seat belts, and I think we both know that’s a law.”
“Get in the cart, then, if you don’t want to be charged with drunk and disorderly.”
Is drunk and disorderly a thing? I begin to panic. I’m not used to the getting caught part.
I oblige, slipping into the back of the cart. “Can you just pretend you’re giving me a lift somewhere because my feet are sore from heels?”
“You’re not wearing heels.”
I groan. He doesn’t get it. He’s ruining my life and potentially my reputation and my career. He climbs in the front and starts the engine of the little golf cart, and all of a sudden, I’m being officially escorted to the police station in an actual golf cart.
“Don’t you actually have to determine my blood alcohol level before you’re officially able to arrest me?” I ask.
“We’ll do that at the station,” he says, not turning around.
“I’ll pick you up, Zoey!” I hear Cheyenne call.
I spy a plaid button-up—the type that trendy girls tie around their waists—lying in the back seat next to me, and I swoop it over the top of my head. I’m not going to let anyone realize it’s me. Our little Kansas town is small enough that I’m sure at least someone will recognize their poor awkward librarian.
I feel the cart begin to move, and I pretend not to notice that we’re moving slowly, and probably through a thick crowd, probably all staring at the tall drunk girl hiding in a golf cart underneath a plaid shirt.
After about ten minutes, the cart comes to a stop, and I hear a familiar voice.
“Wait. This isn’t…Carter. You didn’t.”
“She fell into the bushes, Banks. She was a danger to herself and the community at large.”
“I am not!” I sit up indignantly, peeking out from underneath the flannel. A sleeve falls into my face.
Of course it’s Officer Banks. Porter. Officer I-Sucked-His-Face-Off.
“I’m just hiding under this shirt because I don’t want to be seen!” I tell him. “It’ll ruin my career!”
“Your career?”
“I’m the city librarian?” I ask. “I take myself very seriously.” The sleeve falls into my face again, and I brush it out of the way.
He swallows hard, like he is choking back a smile. “If you don’t mind me saying, Miss…what is it, again?”
“Winston.”
“Yes. Miss Winston. You seem a little inebriated.”
I nod. “I’m not entirely sober. But, uh, I wasn’t going to drink any more. And this is Oktoberfest. And I didn’t hurt anything, except, like, maybe a branch on a brush. But you have to understand, my boyfriend Chet decided to advertise for a new girlfriend on Facebook, and maybe I got a little drunker than I meant to.”
His eyes widen. His eyes are so blue. “Your boyfriend—advertised for a new girlfriend?”
I snort. “Basically.” I cover my nose. I just snorted. In front of Officer Porter. I sound like a hungry little piglet. A hungry, drunk, decidedly unsexy little librarian piglet. What is wrong with me?
“Carter,” Porter says. “Is this really necessary? You’re doing this for a trip-and-fall while there’s a guy smoking weed on the corner that we’re ignoring right now.”
“So you want to bust the guy for weed?”
“No. I think we want to let the guy have fun as long as he’s not bothering anyone, and let the girl go back to falling in bushes. But maybe call her a ride so she gets home safely. Okay?”
Carter grumbles something under his breath.
“Do you want to go bother the frat guys drinking in the corner tent again?” Porter says. “That would be more fun, right?”
“Fine,” Officer Oslo says. He turns back to me. “You can leave.”
I pull the button-up off my head. “Thank you, Officer Oslo. You won’t regret this. I’m basically sober, I swear. Except I won’t drive. Except, thank you. And thank you, Porter. Thank you for being—hot. And for kind of kissing me back but not really because I know you’re on duty and stuff.”
I’m babbling. What am I saying? I am still drunk. For sure. I step out of the police-cart.
Officer Oslo scowls at me.
“Stay out of the bushes,” Porter advises, grinning at me.
“I’ll tell them you said hi.”