Page 27 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“What are the charges?” he asked.
“For one thing, the two of you are disturbing the peace, and we also observed you engaged in lewd conduct,” the shorter cop announced.
“Lewd conduct? What makes you think we were engaged in lewd conduct?” Libby stammered.
A good question.
“We observed a sexually charged act intent on stimulating another in front of a person or persons,” the taller cop rattled off like he was giving his usual order at a coffee shop. Bloody hell! Did people throw sex toys at each other so often in this city that the cops had the ordinance memorized?
Bugger. This was bad.
“That’s not what was happening. I can assure you of that,” Libby pleaded.
“We saw what we saw, Miss Lamb. Getting off on throwing sex toys at your boyfriend in front of a group of bystanders is considered lewd behavior,” the taller cop explained while the shorter one mumbled into his radio.
“But I’m not his girlfriend,” Libby stammered.
The tall officer’s demeanor sharpened. “You throw vibrators at random people for fun? Be careful how you answer, miss. That’s a crime, too.”
This had gone tits up in a hot second.
“Libby, I’ve watched enough American crime dramas to know we need to stop talking and play nice,” he cautioned.
“We’re being arrested?” Libby blurted.
“You are,” the shorter cop answered, then started reading them their bloody rights.
“Just give me a second. I need to let my friends know what’s happening,” Libby blathered, the words spilling out in a frantic tumble as she removed her mobile from her pocket and hammered out a quick text.
He watched as the light from her cell lit her face and pulled his mobile from his pocket. It wasn’t a bad idea to reach out to friends. Rowen could hack into the police database and erase this, or Mitch could cook for the cops and charm them with his delicious food. Maybe Landon could sing or play guitar or piano—whatever the hell he did. Jesus, his thoughts were reeling as he banged out a message to the bloody prick chat group.
Erasmus Cress: How’s your Friday night going, chaps? I’m getting arrested.
Brief, polite, and to the point. Quite British of him, if he should say so.
He pocketed his mobile, then glanced at the boxing gym. Augie stood there with his mouth ajar and a toothpick hanging from his lip.
“Hold tight, Raz. I’m working the phones to see what I can do,” Briggs called, pacing across the pavement with two mobiles, one pressed to his ear as the agent stared at the other.
“Bloody hell, plum,” he huffed. “What have you gotten us into?”
Libby released his hoodie and scoffed. “Do not blame me. This is a result of your cocky, beef-tastic karma. You put this energy out, and now we both have to pay for it.”
The nerve of this woman.
“I can’t believe you’re blaming me for this. And by the way, girls don’t seem to mind my cocky, beef-tastic ways,” he snarled.
She barked a little laugh, brimming with skepticism. “Maybe that’s true. But I’m no girl. I’m a woman. A woman who finds your arrogant act ridiculous and a danger to others’ auras and sense of chi.”
“There you go again, talking crazy! It’s no wonder we’re getting arrested,” he chided as the officer gestured for them to put their hands behind their backs.
“Handcuffs!” he eked out.
“This is as much for your protection as it is for ours,” the shorter cop replied, eyeing Libby warily. And the cop was right. The shaken, wounded bird version of the yoga babe had vanished, and in her place, this plum nutter looked ready to scratch his eyes out.
The click of the cuffs added to the snap and flash of a dozen photographers capturing this salacious moment.
What a bloody catastrophe!
