On The Road Again

By Samantha

"Damn!! How could I do this to myself? Damn!! Two months on patrol and my cruiser is on the side of 15! In the middle of nowhere. No juice, lotsa gas, just no juice. No radio. Shit! How did I do this? I'll probably get written up -- when they find me!" Those were my thoughts that night.

I'd worked hard to get this job. Always having wanted to be in law enforcement, I was forced to take my time. Divorced with two little kids, I had to work nights to get the education just to pass the tests for the academy. And work out to pass the physical. My first night out on the freeway on my own, and there I was. If it weren't for a major flu taking everybody down, they wouldn't have let me out there for a year by myself.

A serious sort, they thought I might be too sensitive for this job. I decided to show them, and I did. Graduated third in my class. I'd carried my badge well they told me, in the first two months in the CHP. But that night, it could have been all over.

Considering what to do, I decided to follow "regs". Stay in the car, locked, til they missed me and came looking for me. I knew this could be a long wait on a lonely stretch of 15. Cars passed, one after another, about every 4-5 minutes. No one slowed down, no one was curious what a CHP patrol car was doing, dark on the shoulder.

After about 25 minutes, a big white convertible pulled up behind me. It was too dark to see much until the headlights of this car beamed behind the silhouette of a man walking toward me. I readied my service revolver, as I watched through my side mirror. I decided to face this directly, and turned myself in my seat to watch this man approach. Of medium height, about 160 pounds, and probably in his early thirties, this fellow was trim and nicely built with short hair. As he walked up to my window, I showed him my revolver by momentarily pointing it at him. "Steady, girl, this is probably a good Samaritan. Don't get shook," I tell myself." Who am I kidding, I am shook!"

This gets a reaction. The would-be Samaritan raises both hands above his head, calling, "Easy there, Chica, I stopped to see if you needed help!" He cocked his head, hands still up and looked me in the eye. "Do you need help, Chica?"

"I'm not a Chica, I'm a CHP officer! Have some respect!"

"OK. But can you put that thing away? You are scaring me." He looks innocent enough. I lay down the gun.

Down come the hands and he leans them on my door. "That's better, Officer Chica. Is that more respectful? Now, what can I do for you?" This was no ordinary Samaritan. This was Adonis with a Latin accent. Holy Somethin'. He was gorgeous. Why couldn't my ex have looked like that? I might have found some redeeming social value in him. Those eyes! I've never seen eyes like that before or since.

"Chica, I asked you, what can I do for you?"

"Sorry," I temporized, realizing I was flat out staring at him. "I was memorizing your description. Part of the job. I need you to drive to the nearest telephone and call CHP. Tell them..."

"I can't hear you. What did you say?" His eyes were full of questions.

"I said call the CHP for me," nearly shouting.

"And where is that? What do I do? Where do I go again?" He threw up his hands in a giant question mark. I guessed he wasn't too bright. Too bad. Darned if I was going to shout all this. I rolled my window down a little bit.

"I need you to call the CHP. From the nearest telephone. Tell them where I am."

"I'll be happy to do that for you, Officer Chica. However, you should know there is a 12 car pile-up about 50 miles from here. I just heard it on the radio. It might be a long wait. What's wrong with your car? Maybe we can fix it, eh?" he ventured.

"Not fixable. I have no electrical. Otherwise I'd have called myself. Who are you? Let me see your driver's license." The guy reaches into the back pocket of his pleasantly tight slacks, and pulled out his wallet.

"Morales, at your service, Officer Chica." So he was. Morales Pittman. Description and photo checked out. Of course I couldn't check him out without juice. "Officer Chica, why don't I take you to your station, eh? Then they can come and get your car later." This wasn't wise. I immediately saw the page of the book. But the book didn't say anything about 12 car pileups either. Maybe I should. We were so short staffed as it was.

"If you don't mind me bringing my service revolver pointed at your head, fine, Mr. Morales."

"Sure! I can do that!" he negotiated. "But not if you call me Mr. Morales. No, no! Morales. That's my first name. Come, let's go before your car gets a year older."

"Thanks, Morales." We locked my cruiser and headed for his car. He opened the door for me, a uniformed officer!

"Now, Officer Chica. Do you have a name?"

"Sandy. Sandy Bronson. Glad to meet you, Morales. Thanks for the lift."

"No problem. Always glad to do what I can for a chica in distress." Morales started the car and headed for my station, some 40 miles away.

"So you know what I do for a living. What do you do Morales?" He turned to me with a heart-stopping penetrating look. Oh, those EYES!

"You might say I'm in the entertainment business." Gulp.

I managed to eke out two words. "What kind?"

"It falls into the main category of 'dancing', you know, Officer Sandy? I do a lot of dancing." Sounded romantic -- that body certainly could do some great moves. WHAT AM I THINKING-- SENSIBLE, DOWN TO EARTH ME!!

"Well, the entertainment business certainly can be fascinating! It's quite a gamble, though, isn't it?" I asked.

"Chica, you have no idea! There is a lot of gambling in my work." Morales pulled onto an off-ramp. "Pit stop," he said, pulling into a gas station. He got out to use the rest room. There was a pay phone right there. But for reasons I will never be able to explain, I was frozen to the seat of his car. Morales returned to the car, coming around to the passenger side, his body leaning in a bow over me. Mama mia! "Are you hungry? I am starving!" He looked a little hungry to me.

"Well, I could use a little something." Morales then came around to his side and got in. "Let's pull over to that diner over there. We'll get some takeout." He started the car, and pulled across a large lot to the darkest place in the area of the diner. He shut off the motor, and laid his hand gently on my thigh, with a killer soft look, "What are you hungry for, Chica?"

"Um, uh, oh, uh, I can't think. Why don't you pick something? I like ev-ev-erything," I stammered.

"Everything, Chica?" his eyes move first to his hand which itself has begun to move, then they came back to my eyes, closer, and closer, and closer. "You have too much on, Chica," his lips murmured into my ear. He blew just a little bit. "Si. I think I better do something about that."

"WHERE IN THE WORLD ARE MY SENSES? They have vanished," I thought. This gorgeous Latin had stolen my every synapse, drawing each one to his eyes, his moves, his touch, his hands unbuttoning the front of my shirt. My belt with my holster disappeared somewhere on the floor. And I was glad to be rid of it!

Morales grasped both of my shoulders, gazing into my eyes. He slowly, very slowly pulled me to him, leaving little moist trails with his tongue into the cleavage over my bra. Pulling himself up to me, his lips covered mine, his tongue exploring my mouth. He drew gently away to whisper, "We cannot do this here. Come with me." I couldn't help myself. I followed him into the back seat. He managed without missing a beat or losing the mood to free me of my shoes and socks. My service slacks and panties were not far behind, as he maneuvered me out of them, with the moves and confidence of a very practiced lover.

Tracing a line with his fingers, he traveled from my toes to the back of my knee to my fanny. I shuddered with his touch, as it moved its little path to the places no one but my husband had been. Little by little, step by step he brought me to the height of rapture. Never had it been like this before. Only then, did he remove his own clothing, begin anew, and consumate himself with me...and then, again...and again.

How much time had passed, I do not know. Morales spoke little and asked nothing. There was no need. My cries of passion told him everything he wanted to know. Finally, he came to his senses. "Officer Sandy, soon they will look for you without you asking. I must get you to your station."

"You are right, Morales. Let's move." I didn't want to move. I didn't want this to end.

Morales pulled over to the telephone booth. "Make your call that you're coming in Officer Sandy, I'll get us something to eat on the way." I made the call and Morales appeared with some burgers and cokes. We ate our takeout on the way to the station.

I walked in, advising Joe, the desk sergeant, I was there. "Hey, Sandy, can you ask this guy if he can take you back to the cruiser? We have a tow truck on the way."

"Glad to, Joe, if he's still out there." I ran to the door, and Morales was just about to pull away, but saw me. I ran down to ask him to wait, and back to Joe to let him know I had a ride to the cruiser.

We drove in silence. Just a mile before, Morales pulled over. "One for the road, Officer Chica?" he asked, as he pulled me to him, once more playing with my breast through my patrol shirt.

"Morales, I've already been around the world. I need to get back." I told him.

"Suit yourself. I wanted a little souvenir of you." he countered.

He dropped me off at the cruiser, and we said a fast goodbye. "Perhaps we'll meet again, Officer Chica!" he smiled, as he returned to his car. The tow truck was pulling up. Morales pulled away.

The driver jumped out and ran up to me. As he began his paperwork, he asked me for my badge number, looking at my shirt. "Hey, Officer, where's your badge?" I couldn't help smiling. Morales had his souvenir.