Heated Moments

Braking, Lola slowed the car enough to pull over to the side of the road. Her talent agent’s warning about trouble and not to screw up played through her mind as she moved the gearshift into the Park position.

Lola eyed the side view mirror and watched the officer get out of the police car. She rolled down her window and narrowed her eyes as he walked toward the Mustang. With his lanky build, awkward gait and uniform a size too big, he looked like a teenager playing cop.

He fumbled with a notebook before dropping it on the ground. When he bent over to retrieve it, his hat fell off. She shook her head at the sight of him trying to get himself together. If she weren’t facing what would undoubtedly be a pricey speeding ticket, she would have felt sorry for the guy.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, when he finally reached her car.

She removed her sunglasses. The officer blinked and then gawked at her, openmouthed. Lola was used to it. In a moment his face would register one of the looks she regularly got from strangers, recognition or, in the case of men, instant adoration.

She smiled, and his face flushed red. Yep, she thought, adoration.

“Officer.” Lola looked at the name tag pinned to the shirt of the baggy uniform. “Officer Wilson.”

The sound of his name appeared to snap him out of his stupor. “Um...ma’am, do you realize how fast you were going?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “The posted speed limit on this road is forty-five miles an hour. I clocked you doing ninety-four.”

Talking her way out of a ticket would be a chip shot, Lola thought. Feign ignorance, smile a lot and hit him with the facial expressions the camera loved.

Easy peasy.

You’re in the wrong. Take the ticket and be on your way.

Lola sighed. Maybe it was time for her to finally allow that inner voice to take the wheel.

“Sorry, Officer,” she said simply. No explanations. No excuses.

Her goal was to get to New York City as quickly and uneventfully as she could. Sitting here trying to sweet-talk her way out of a ticket would only delay her further, or even worse, get her into trouble she had gone out of her way to avoid.

The blush rose from Officer Wilson’s neck to his thin face. “I’ll need to see your driver’s license and car registration.” He fumbled with the pad in his hand, but this time he managed to hold on to it.

Leaning over, Lola opened the glove box and retrieved a small plastic folder containing both her car registration and proof of insurance. She handed it to Officer Wilson, then winced as it slipped from his grasp.

While he looked over her registration, Lola hefted her designer tote from the floorboard of the passenger’s side to the seat. Her arm muscles strained from the effort. Geez, she thought, if the thing got any heavier she’d have to put wheels on it and roll it around like a piece of luggage.

“Your registration is in order.” Officer Wilson returned the plastic folder. “Driver’s license, please.”

“Just a sec.” Lola stuck her hand inside the black hole of the oversize pink bag in search of her wallet. She rifled through the contents, unearthing a camera, next a flashlight and then a packet of protein powder.

One of these days she was going to have to clear out this bag, she thought, her arm elbow-deep in the mouth of the purse. She pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and a pocket pack of tissues.

“Do you need help, ma’am?” The officer leaned down and peered through the open driver’s side window.

“No, I got—” Pain sliced through her hand, and Lola yanked it from the bag. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

Blood oozed from her palm and dripped down her arm. Damn scissors, she thought, looking at the wound. She should have pulled them from her bag weeks ago.

Lola glanced up at the officer, holding her bloody hand in her other one. “I know I have a first-aid kit somewhere in my purse. Maybe you could empty it and...”

The cop stepped back from the Mustang on wobbly legs, and the color drained from his face.

“Blood,” he whispered, staring at her hand.

“It’s just a little cut,” Lola said, though it hurt like hell. She positioned her arm to give him a better look. “See, it’s not a big...”

His eyes rolled back in his head, and the poor guy looked as if he was about to drop on the spot.

“Officer Wilson,” Lola yelled, throwing open the car door.

She reached out to steady him with her good hand, but was a second too late. He crumpled to the ground. Lola heard a horrifying thunk as the back of his head hit the gravel, cushioned only by weeds poking through.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Lola hissed.

Her cut forgotten, she knelt beside him.

“Officer Wilson?”

No response. She lifted his head to her knee and noted from the rise and fall of his chest that the cop was still breathing. Thank God, she thought, sending up a silent prayer. He didn’t appear to be bleeding, but with her hand still dripping blood she couldn’t be sure.

Grabbing the two-way radio from his belt, she pressed several of the buttons.

“Officer down,” Lola yelled into it, imitating the lingo she’d heard on TV cop shows. But unlike television there was no reassuring voice saying the cavalry was coming to the rescue, only the hiss of dead air.

Closing her eyes briefly, she shoved aside the panic threatening to consume her.

“I’m just going to my car for my phone to call for help,” Lola told the unconscious officer.

She rested the cop’s head on the ground as gently as she could, and then dived inside her car. After snatching her cell phone off the passenger seat with trembling fingers, she hurriedly called 911.

Lola clutched the phone to her ear. Silence. She glanced at the screen. The words No Service had replaced the dots indicating signal strength.

The panic she’d banished was creeping up on her now. Looking down the barren road, she saw the tractor still inching through a field in the distance. It was too far away. She ran to the police car, hoping its radio would be more effective than the one the officer carried. Her efforts were rewarded with static and then more silence.

Returning to the unconscious cop’s side, Lola exhaled a shaky breath. She had no idea if she should move him, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t leave him here to go for help.

She was going to have to take him to help.

Lola rounded her car to the passenger’s side and flung open the door. Back at the officer’s side, she sucked in a deep breath before crouching on her haunches. She lifted his head and then his shoulders as gently as possible, finally managing to weave her arms under his.

The cop, who she would have described as scrawny when he’d stepped out of the patrol car earlier, was a lot heavier than he looked.

“Come on, Officer Wilson,” she pleaded. “Help me out here.”

Slowly, Lola dragged him across the hot pavement toward the passenger’s side of her car. Rivulets of sweat rolled down her back as the sun beat on it, and for once she was grateful for years of torturous Pilates classes that had not only kept her lean, but made her strong.

Still, she was gasping for breath by the time she managed to get Officer Wilson slumped in the passenger’s seat.

Back in the driver’s seat, Lola snatched a wad of tissue from the pocket pack to stem the blood still oozing from her hand. She used her free hand to start a GPS search for the closest hospital.

“Hold on, Officer Wilson,” she said, as the route to a facility a few miles away appeared. “I’ll have you at Cooper’s Place Community Hospital in a flash.”