I’m in a holding cell, feeling like shit.
Last night’s a blur.
The police suspect drugs in my system; I’ve told them that I must’ve been spiked.
Thankfully, I don’t feel violated, other than being locked up for no good reason.
While I wait to be released, I daydream about Carlos.
We met at the hotel, he was swimming as I lounged with a book, waiting for the kids to vacate so I could take a dip.
You see, I’m tall for a woman and more than a little overweight, and kids can be cruel.
“Come and join me,” I remember him saying.
I declined, he was persistent, and eventually I did.
We got to know each other over the next few days, and turns out he’s a student in Boston, too.
Turns out we were on the same flight home.
On the last night, yesterday, he took me to a bar for drinks.
I think we had a good time, but honestly can’t remember. Someone must’ve spiked my drink while Carlos and I were dancing.
I woke up to Carlos knocking on my hotel door. If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve missed my flight.
He was a gentleman and helped me to the airport.
“Miss,” an officer brings me back down to earth, “the x-ray has come back and you have what we believe to be 50 wraps of cocaine in your digestive system.”
It all makes sense now.
Carlos, the jackass, has used me as a mule.