She dressed professionally, wearing a plum-colored fuzzy v-neck sweater that contoured to the swell of a rack I remembered so well, legs encased in a slim pencil skirt that embellished those creamy hips I could imagine naked with a flicker of memory, lips painted fire-engine red and that maniac-inducing fifties pin-up girl look that I'd dismissed as silly when the girls in college wore it - but that made her smoking hot.
God damn Charlotte, my ex-girlfriend, had to be here, of all places. At a bachelorette party where I was a stripper, dressed in a cop uniform with pants that suddenly got way too tight.
And she had to be so fine.
"Ooooh, honey, you're one big officer," said a sultry voice behind me as I watched Charlotte in the other room, chatting with the bride.
A hand stroked my hip and hesitated before sliding a bit lower, filling a palm with my ass. "Arrest me, Officer. I've been a bad, bad girl."
With one look at the source of the voice, my night went from Oh, man to Oh, no.
That voice? That hand?
That was my mother.