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put the car in park, the Coke bottle rolled obediently to the center of the floorboard and stopped. She looked down at it as the pulse of light from the police car brought the foaming surface of the Coke into sharp relief. The knock on her window snapped her back into reality. She rolled the window down and looked out at the officer. "Whats on the floor?" he asked. The shadow from his hat hid his eyes, but she could see his mouth and the clean line of his jaw in the light from his car. "M-my Coke bottle," she stammered. "Put your hands up on the wheel for me?" he asked. She complied. Her stomach loosened. She felt a sudden uncomfortable pressure in her bladder. "Look up at me," he said. She faced him again. The lighting made the gray of his uniform a little metallic. The synthetic fabric stretched tight over his frame, and he seemed tall and broad from her place in the car. She wondered if he ever got hot wearing that polyester sheath. She wondered if he had on one of those white cotton undershirts under it. Her face went hot as she thought of his powerful form in the white cotton undershirt. He studied her for three very long seconds. She was in her standard work outfit. The pastel cotton blouse said business, and the tea-length floral skirt was supposed to say casual. She was wearing the standard suburban-issue pair of white Keds. She knew she was blushing. "Let me see your license and registration," he said. She reached blindly behind her for her purse, a huge, boxy thing that was supposed to hold her oversized date book and a paperback, just in case she had time to read. Her eye wandered down to his belt, a wide, utilitarian thing with a silver buckle, and then followed the line of buttons up his flat stomach. There was a little rectangular tag on his chest with the name "Trent" on it. She tried the name out in her mind. His hand moved off the top of her car into her field of vision as she reached into her purse; she could see the breadth of it and the fine structure of his heavy knuckles as his hand moved toward his own hip. She finally broke contact with him to fumble for her license and the registration, buried beneath her health insurance card. When she put them out to him, she noticed that her hand was trembling. He took her license and registration from her hand and took a half-step away from the window. On that wide belt of his, she could see the black holster that held his gun. The black metal caught the light, and she could see the texture of the guns butt, ridged where he would need to have that big hand of his on it. She had never been so close to a loaded gun in her life. Her heart began to skip strangely in her chest. He could


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shoot her with it, she realized. He could kill her right here on the side of the road. She tried to steady herself, taking a deep breath through her teeth. What had gotten into her? She was back here in the dark, sweating and shivering as if this man meant her harm. "You know why I pulled you over?" he asked, not looking up from her license. "N-no," she lied. "You were drifting from one lane to the other back there. You almost came off the road." "I-I was trying to-to reach my Coke," she said. He looked down at her again. She could feel cold sweat forming on her neck. The dark, neglected recesses of her mind opened quietly, and the thoughts that awakened there were of a different kind of menace. Her primal self recognized this man, Trent, as a potential threat, a predator of sorts. Here in the dark, he could do whatever he liked with her. He could put his hands on her. He could claim her and possess her in every way that a man of his size could claim and possess any woman he wanted. Her rational mind was trying to tell her that she was not a woman he wanted, but in the dark back room of her brain, she wasnt so sure. "Turn off the engine," he said, "and hop out of the car." She turned off the engine. She could hear him taking another half-step away from the car, to give her space to open the door and let herself out. The air outside the air was cool, and stalling a little, she leaned on the doorframe as she emerged from the sensible car to stand on the gravel in her sensible shoes. Reason kicked in again. She was just an overworked career woman in a frumpy, machine washable outfit. She drove a very safe, four-door sedan, beige and colorless like everything else in her world. She was not a woman that trained, disciplined law enforcement officers pulled over onto the side of the road to feel up. "Come on," he said. "Come back here." Together they went to the back of the sensible beige sedan. He was between her and the interstate, as if anyone would be driving back there at this hour. The hair stood up on her arms, and she hoped he did not notice how quickly and shallowly she was breathing. It would only take the slightest effort for her arm to brush against his, to really feel the power and authority that seemed to radiate from him. It would be so easy to do. He already thought she was drinking. But then they were at the back of her car, and he stopped there, next to her. "How much have you had to drink?" he asked her. "Nothing!" "Not even whats in the Coke bottle?" "Theres Coke in the Coke bottle, and I couldnt even reach it. I was trying to get it when you saw me." He went back to his car and leaned on the front bumper. Backlit