Actually it was quite comfortable and well lit all things considered. Conor wasn’t really sure what to expect, but it wasn’t a brightly lit building with trim paintwork and professionals as the guards.
He found himself in the “pokey” because, in the end, he was helping a damsel in distress. The McKinney city police officers that transferred him to the jail said that he’d probably be out in a few hours. They had indicated that they needed to go and talk to some folk …
… apparently the American penchant for bureaucracy didn’t allow for men to come to the defense of young ladies being drugged and kidnapped without at least going “downtown” to a jail cell until things got sorted out.
Back home in Galway the local Garda Síochána officer would have probably bought Conor a beer for what he’d done… helping save two girls from rapine or worse. Of course back home the local Garda would probably have known the two girls personally … and the bikers too … and their parents. It’s funny… but for a country that prided itself on its frontier spirit and the Cowboy myth… they were worse than Germans when it came to doing things by the numbers.
Conor’s shoulder hurt. A lot. One of the big biker goons ripped a fine gash in his left shoulder with a tire iron. Cold Iron most certainly wasn’t one of Conor’s favorite substances in the world. In fact, one might call it his Kryptonite… as it were. The gash itched and was quite red, puffy, and aggravated. One of the nice lady Sheriff’s office personnel …
(her name was Keri by the way… nice girl, great cheek bones… and that uniform did absolutely nothing to conceal her great big pair of… blue eyes)
… had put a gauze on the wound and some soothing gel disinfectant. However, Conor just knew that it would be angry and sore for a while. Man-made medicine had nothing to help a Fae creature’s iron “allergy.”
Since he had no idea how long he was stuck here, he decided to at least do something physical. He had the entire cell to himself so … staying back from the iron bars as best he could … he started shadow boxing. He was trying very hard to remember all the times his fight coaches back in Connemara tried to sink lessons into his head. They told him he needed to work on his footwork and not rely on his thick skull and strength to win matches. Turns out they were right… but not because of boxing.
When he was pretty much done with his workout … or perhaps “completely bored to tears” he lay down on his bunk and thought about the situation with the kidnapped girls and his life so far. Maybe it shouldn’t always be about fun and games, girls and songs. But if not those things… what?
About that time an officer of the county (not Keri… more’s the pity) came by.
“All right Mr. Kelly, you’re being released. No charges. You’re free to go. Please come with me to get your things.”
(Glamour is a wonderful thing Conor thought to himself… the county had booked and processed a fellow by the name of Sean Kelly… who looked only a little like Conor amazingly enough… curious)