Page 3 of Her True Blue
With one hand on my forearm and the other behind my back, I’m overcome with a weightless sensation. My tummy drops to my toes from the warmth that radiates and sparks where his skins touches mine.
“I’m okay. It’s fine,” I grimace, shifting out of his hold and plopping down on the chair with as much grace as a drunken college student on a bender. “And please, the love of God, please stop calling me ma’am. It makes me feel like I’m my grandmother.”
Officer Clawson gives a sheepish grin and shakes his head. “Sorry about that, ma’…I mean, Miss Bolton. Habit. How I was raised around here.”
Although he’s dressed to the hilt in his police uniform, navy blue from head to toe and a vest over his chest, I do notice a bright red flush that sprouts up over his neck as he pulls his notepad and pen out of his pocket, flipping it over so he can take notes. I pull the bloodied towel away from my chin, lifting it so he can get a look.
“Is it still bleeding? Do you think I’ll need stitches?”
He reaches out a hand, gently cupping my face in his palm and inspects the injury.
“You look good,” he says gruffly, but then follows it with a flare of humor. “I mean, I’m pretty certain you’ll live.”
I laugh at his lame attempt to make light of the situation.
“Anyway, let’s get started. It’s important we get your recollection as close to the time the robbery occurred, so you don’t skip any details. And by the way,” he says with a hint of remorse. “The FBI and county authorities will be here soon, too. Bank robbery being a federal offense, and all.”
He lifts his broad shoulders in a shrug.
“Have you investigated any bank robberies before?” I ask him, curious about the level of crime in such a small town off the beaten path.
I watch his forehead crinkle in thought, the tiny lines around his very blue eyes displaying his serious contemplation on the matter. From the looks of it, Officer Clawson appears to be about my age, maybe a few years older, so I’d assume he doesn’t have a long or vast history of this sort of thing.
He shakes his head and clears his throat. “No ma’am. Sorry, I mean, Miss Bolton. You’re my first.”
Just the way he says it, how he throws it out there between us, gives me butterflies.I’m his first.
Sucking my lower lip between my teeth, I try to hide the interest in my rescuer. Although the robber left me unharmed before police arrived, Officer Clawson is the first responder. He’s technically my white knight and hero, giving claim to the rescuer phenomenon, this strange, unexplained connection and bond we share. He’s now seen me at my most vulnerable state in life.
Although, I’d argue that was before any of this happened to me.
Officer Clawson begins asking me questions as my jumbled brain tries to answer through hazy recollection, hands still shaking like they’re in the spin cycle setting.
Did he have a gun?Yes.
Did he say anything?Yes and yes.
What did he say? I tell him the particulars of what I can remember.
Could I describe his facial features?Yes, his lips and eyes.
What color was his skin?White.
How tall was he?Maybe five-ten. Only a few inches taller than me.
Any remarkable things I noticed about his appearance?His mouth. He had a scar or something on his upper lip, half disguised by a patchy dark mustache.
“Oh!” I blurt, making Officer Clawson glance up at my unexpected exclamation. “He had a lisp. When he accused me of stalling and called me bitch, he spit all over the counter and glass. All I could think about in that moment was how gross it was and angry that I’d have to clean it off later.”
Officer Clawson slowly lifts his head, his eyes connecting with mine, an amused side-grin on his face. “Actually, that’s good for discovery. We’ll fingerprint and see if we can get DNA samples from that.”
He scribbles some notes before looking back up at me.
I take note of the warmth in his blue eyes. Like the sky on a perfect summer day, a tinge of white clouds trailing over the horizon.
“Miss Bolton.”
“Jordana, please.”
