Cheyenne hummed happily as she gathered her tools and greeted old friends. She was pleased to see her ice and thick plastic bags had held up; everything was just as she'd left it. Ignoring the staring eyes, she sat down on the slimy floor and got to work.
Two hours later, Cheyenne shook out her cramped fingers and yawned. She was finally done and this was a masterpiece if she did say so herself. Not that anyone else was likely to admire her hard work. Mouth curving upward, she tucked the two precious parcels into her fanny pack, waved goodbye to her little room and began the unpleasant squeeze back to the outside world.
Daydreaming as she sped along the highway, Cheyenne excitedly drummed on the steering wheel. She'd get everything in place tonight and then tomorrow she'd have nothing to do but sit back, press a button and enjoy the show. She could almost see their faces, that wonderful split second of shock before the blood washed it away. "Hi--, hi--, higher," she shrieked along with Mariah. "You got me feeling emotions..." But suddenly Miss Mariah sounded a little off-key and Cheyenne turned the stereo down, frowning. Shit! A cop was the last thing she needed right now.
Moping around her cell, Cheyenne kicked at the grimy floor. How had this happened? If it hadn't been for the pot, she might have paid a fine and been on her way. She thought of the detonator, lying uselessly in the trunk of her impounded car, the fanny pack hidden under the driver's seat. Maybe they wouldn't search the car and she'd be able to pick it up tomorrow once she posted bail. She could just...her thoughts broke away at the sight of several grim-faced detectives heading toward her cell.
This was definitely not part of the plan.
* * * * *
I wrote this for the Indie Ink challenge. Alyssa challenged me with "the most awful instance of things not going according to plan" and I challenged Cedar with "the betrayal that wasn't."