Read BENCHED for Free Online Page B

now. The mob of reporters are still outside. I can see them milling around the freaking windows like we’re in a horror movie hiding from an army of zombies.
    I’d rather have the zombies.
    The kid is doing that look-at-me-look-at-her thing again. “Her name is Phoebe,” she says.
    “What? Who?”
    “My mom.”
    “Oh. Okay.”
    I shrug. Why is she telling me that?
    Phoebe Maguire.
    “I just talked to the chief,” the woman herself says, emerging from the kitchen. “The rest of the department and a couple state troopers are on their way here. You should be able to leave soon.”
    Her voice is cold, but something about that apron turns me on. The way it’s tied up with her tank top and the frayed legs of her shorts just poking out under the bottom, I could totally picture her naked under it. My eyes fall from her scowling face to the strong but feminine curves of her neck and shoulders. The little hint of sweat on her forehead and the way her hair has gone all frizzy and hangs in loose curls around her face makes my heart beat a little faster.
    She turns around and heads back into the kitchen and my eyes lock right on her slender back and her meaty ass. I always was an ass man.
    I get up and follow her, leaving the kid behind.
    She turns to face me. “What are you doing?”
    “Helping with dinner.”
    “Dinner is in the oven,” she says, thumbing at it.
    I lean down and look through the thick glass at the tray of On-Cor lasagna bubbling within.
    “That’s not enough for three people.”
    “No. It’s not. You’ll be able to leave soon.”
    “Look,” I say. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” Something in my head snorts at me. Wrong foot, Alex? She almost tanked your career over a chicken shit parking ticket.
    “Wrong foot?” she snaps, echoing that internal voice. “Mister Wright, you raced that stupid car past my daughter’s school at three times the normal speed limit. If a kid ran out in the road in front of you, do you think you’d have had any chance of stopping in time?”
    “Yeah. I got lightning fast reflexes.”
    She throws a dish towel onto her dryer rack and rounds on me, hands planted on her hips in a total mom pose. Her fury makes her seem twice as tall, like she’s my height.
    “The wrong foot,” she says again. “You’re a fucking Neanderthal, do you know that? I walk up to your stupid car just trying to do my job, and what do you say to me? Not ‘good afternoon, Officer, is there a problem’ or ‘aw shucks, I’m sorry I was speeding’ or just the courtesy of keeping your mouth shut. Do you remember what you said?”
    I shift on my feet. “I asked who sent me a stripper.”
    “Yeah. You asked who sent you a stripper and why they couldn’t get one with bigger tits.”
    “I’m sorry. I was…”
    “You’re sorry. You’re sorry . My little girl was at that school. First I see that fucking car racing past, then I get the same bullshit line I’ve already heard five hundred times, then I have to deal with your attitude while I’m picturing my child smeared on the front end of a lime green Ferrari.”
    “Look,” I try to tell her. “I’m sorry.”
    “What? That just makes it go away?”
    I grit my teeth. “No. I keep trying to tell you. I didn’t know there would be anyone there. It was Saturday afternoon. The road was deserted. I thought I was in the middle of nowhere. I just needed--”
    “Needed what?”
    “To get away,” I say.
    She snorts. “From what, your mansion?”
    “I have an apartment.”
    “Oh, really. Penthouse?”
    “No, loft. Just a one bedroom.”
    She frowns a little. “Doesn’t matter. You broke the law, and if you were anyone else you’d be in county for six months.”
    “I’m not anyone else. I get sick of being reminded I’m not anyone else.”
    She folds her arms across her chest. “Yeah, but you sure like flaunting it with your fancy car.”
    “I don’t drive that car to show off my money. I drive it because I like to