Point of Entry

The car creeps up behind the line and stops. A guy with a cart hustles between bumpers while Matthew sits behind the wheel and Cindy kicks back in the passenger seat, replaying the trip that was supposed to be quick. A uniform knocks on the glass. When the window drops, another cop circles the hood and waves them out. Cindy forces a smile and gets moving. Matthew follows, half-confused, half-pissed. They slam Matthew into a metal chair in a box of a room. A mirror stares back at him. Cindy walks in next, shoulders tight, eyes on the floor. One officer stands behind her, the other plants himself in front of Matthew and drops the bomb: they’re suspected of running product across the line. Matthew blurts that they were just ocean fishing for his birthday. The cop smirks. Says Cindy’s surprise weekend wasn’t the only surprise she had planned. Cindy won’t meet Matthew’s stare. Her fingers twist in her lap. The second cop jerks her up, yanks a packet out of her jacket lining. Matthew calls bullshit, says they planted it. Cindy cracks, voice shaking, begging to talk to the officers alone. They drag her out. The door clicks shut. Left alone, the lead cop tells Matthew they already tore the car apart: panels stuffed with the same shit. Matthew slumps. The cop sticks out his hand. “ID.” Matthew hands it over. The cop pockets it, steps in closer, grin wide. “Full cavity search. Strip.” Matthew freezes, argues, tries to buy time. The cop talks cartel tactics, how they love to stuff couples. Says the faster Matthew cooperates the better it goes. Matthew peels off his clothes, hands cupped over his dick. The cop snaps on gloves, sets a bowl of lube on the table, tells him to drop his arms. Matthew looks at the ceiling and waits for the gloves to move.