Trisha Wolfe

Police and government officials have a tendency to make even a saint question their morals.

“You’re not a girl,” I say, my tone bordering on lethal. “You’re an irritating inconvenience that is begging to have her ass reddened.”
Her pupils dilate. “And don’t you just hate how much that excites you.”

The pain webs my body like a fine mesh to coat the numbness.
But I still see her—feel her.
Want her.