hunt's wild ride.

“That just smacked the drunk out of me,” Bonne said.

Hunt was undeterred.

“Let’s go off roading!” He yelled, accelerating the car forward onto the grass and then backward into a parked mini van.

“Uh oh,” Hunt said.

We looked around, first assessing the damage and then each other.

“What do we do now?” Simon said.

“I don’t think anyone saw,” Bonne said.

We looked to the left and we looked to the right. The coast was clear.

Then we looked ahead, and there, blocking our path, was a campus police SUV with its headlights pointed straight at us.

“Uh oh,” Hunt said again.

He put the car into drive.

And then we went off-roading again, over the grassy knoll and onto a side street, and towards the nearest freeway just as fast as the little car could go.

“Are DPS like... REAL police? Or just kind of.... security?” Bonne yelled over the wind.

“I’ve never really thought about it.... I mean.... all they do is like... break up parties. And let you in when you’re locked out. So they don’t really seem that police-like to me,” I responded.

“I think that once we reach the freeway, that means they don’t have jurisdiction anymore,” Simon shouted definitively, to which we all nodded eagerly.

“Yes, yes!” We cried, hair blowing wildly. “They most certainly do NOT have jurisdiction!”

We ran a red light, and then another.

“Don’t turn around, Bonne,” Bonne said in a low tone.

“I won’t. Don’t you turn around either,” I said.

We nodded solemnly, and then slowly, stealthily, peeked over our shoulders to look.

The DPS cruiser was directly behind us.

“Faster, faster!” We whirled around. “We’re almost to the freeway!! JURISDIC-"

The shrill tone of a siren drowned out our cries, accompanied simultaneously by flashing blue lights and the low growl of a megaphone, “Sir, pull over the vehicle and step out of the car. SIR. PULL OVER YOUR VEHICLE AND STEP ONTO THE PAVEMENT. NOW.”

We all trembled as Hunt idled the car over next to a gas station and fumbled open the door.

“Be strong,” we whispered.

He was met by two burly officers who produced a pair of handcuffs: apparently DPS did do more than just break up parties. Hunt was locked in them and promptly shuttled to the curb. He sat, forlornly, waiting for whatever was to come. Meanwhile, the four of us in the car were being held under the vigilant scrutiny of one of the more disgruntled officers. We whimpered to each other as we handed around the pack of cigarettes, shakily lighting up one after another in efforts to calm our nerves. At one point Simon dropped the pack and ducked to retrieve it.

“Stop fumbling about in the car!” The DPS officer barked. “You’re making me nervous!”

Simon snapped back up in terror. He didn’t move a muscle for the next ten minutes.

We certainly didn’t want to give the officer reason for coming any closer when there were two cans of beer concealed under a sweatshirt by Simon’s legs. We were in the process of realizing just how dire the consequences of this situation might be, considering all the evidence that could be used against us.

Hunt was drunk, barefoot, and possibly high. He had no ID or license on him and the car was technically stolen since its owner was passed out cold in her apartment. He was from England and already had one criminal offense pending after he had been fined on Frat Row for walking around with an open container of alcohol. Any more misdemeanors, and he could legally be deported. Now we had remembered we had alcohol in the car and could only thank the heavens that Hunt had not secured any cocaine at the Radisson.

It was in the midst of all these bleak thoughts that LAPD pulled up. I thought I might wet my pants when I saw the squad car.

“It was nice knowing you guys,” Simon whispered, on the verge of tears. Bonne could manage only a small squeak in response.

We waited for the second time that night in petrified anticipation, a feeling of doom growing stronger with every second. Finally, the doors of the police car opened. We cringed. I closed my eyes in a brief prayer to I knew not what. As I opened them slowly, my first glimpse was of blonde hair. Then, a police badge pinned to a rather ample chest. I widened my eyes in shock. Could it possibly be?

It was. Not one, but two young, female, and I may say hot cops were striding confidently toward the place where Hunt was being held captive on the curb.

This might be time to add that Hunt is about as good-looking as one can get, a wavy-haired, blue-eyed Peter Pan with an endearing smile and model physique. He also has a charming British accent that he plays up or down according to the circumstances.

“Uncuff him,” the blonde said immediately.

The three of us in the car felt a simultaneous thrill. We snuck a glance in each others’ directions before turning to watch the scene unfold.

Hunt was released before being helped to a standing position. His hair flopped about fetchingly as he staggered upright, his half-way unbuttoned shirt revealing his defined chest. On his face was a look of absolute guilt and repentance. We couldn’t hear the exact things he was murmuring but we saw the blonde officer’s mixture of sympathy and bemusement as she shined a pencil-light at his pupils.