Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(7)

I was handcuffed and he was intimidating; my options were limited. I gave him a quick nod.

I watched another cop retrieve my purse and place it on the front hood right next to me while two others searched through my car. Officer Hottie’s eyes narrowed as he opened the zipper and held a flashlight to it. “It in here?”

I wanted him to get out of my purse before he found my tampon stash and those feminine wipe sample things I’d gotten in the mail. “Yes. It’s in the black leather wallet.”

He searched the entire contents while some emotion I read as disappointment flashed over his face. “Why is someone like you tangled up in this?” he muttered to himself, fumbling to open my wallet. His eyes narrowed on my license.

I felt as though my world was collapsing. Regardless of my innocence, I was definitely going to prison tonight, just like last time. Guilty before being proven innocent. The images that erupted from that horrid moment fourteen years ago made me tremble all over again as new fear and utter desperation clutched at my chest. “I’m not. Please. Please, believe me, sir. Please, sir.”

His gaze whipped back to mine, as if I’d just insulted him. His body stiffened and his jaw clenched and flexed, though his dark eyes and heated stare said something altogether different.

“Trent, we found a Bill of Sale in the glove box,” another officer announced, waving the papers in his hand.

Ah, so his name is Trent, my mind repeated while he glared at me.

The forty-something cop with the goatee strolled over with my sales documents in hand. “Seems just license plate is different.”

Officer Trent stopped burning holes through me when they compared the information against my registration card.

“Did you put a different plate on your car?” Officer Trent asked me while scrutinizing my driver’s license.

This night kept on getting progressively worse. “Why would I do that?”

He frowned and then illuminated my windshield with his flashlight. “Patrick, check the VIN.”

The officer with the goatee and dark hair called out each letter and number from the little plate mounted on the dash.

“All right, it matches this,” Trent said, holding up my paperwork. “Mrs. Novak—” he started.

“Miss,” I corrected.

A wisp of a smile flashed on his face and then quickly morphed into focused intent. “Where was your car parked earlier?”

“In the lot… The lot off of Eighteenth across from the hospital. It’s where I park every night.”

“How long was it there?”

I had to recalculate. “Fif… almost sixteen hours.”

“Sixteen?” He drew in a hard breath through his nose and wrote it down. “Okay, let’s clear up the blood issue, just so I’m sure.”

I nodded, noting he was wearing a bulletproof vest under his black coat. It was a revolting thought to imagine people shooting at him. “My, um, hospital ID…” I glanced at the long zipper of my coat, wondering how to open it while wearing handcuffs. There was no way I was going to reach it unless I used my teeth to lower the zipper. Maybe I could push it down with my chin? The steel handcuffs bit into my wrists, reminding me that I was still in big trouble.

The tips of his black boots came into view. “Can I help you with something?”

His gruff tone had completely changed; his words brushed me with something resembling compassion. Oh officer, you get me out of this mess and I’d be forever grateful. More of my hair came undone from my hair tie, covering my eye. Could this night suck any worse? My luck, there’s going to be a dead body in my trunk, I just know it.

“Hey, eyes on me,” Officer Trent ordered softly. His thumb swept under my bangs, giving me an unobstructed view of his slight smile. For a moment, I thought he actually cared.

“There are those gorgeous blue eyes,” he whispered and then froze, as if the words in his private thoughts weren’t meant to slip out from his appealing mouth.

Regardless of his attempt to cover up his gaffe, I still heard him, astonished that he said something like that.

Another camera operator crouched down with his rig on his shoulder near us, apparently getting another angle of my horrific experience. I tried to hide my face by tucking my chin into my jacket, but cameras surrounded me on both sides.

“My hospital identification is inside my coat. Can you please… can you please tell them to stop filming me?”

I saw him stiffen again, and then, as if something else were driving him, he reached out for my zipper.

“Where? In here?”

I nodded, wishing he’d remove the cold metal cuffs instead of undressing me. Something told me he preferred me restrained for the moment. “Officer, please,” I whispered my plea, trying to block the cameraman from getting me on film.

“May I?” His hands hesitated near my chin.

I acquiesced, though he didn’t ask for permission the first time he opened my coat.

His eyes locked on mine as he painstakingly lowered the zipper, almost as if he were savoring the act while two other cops looked on.

My laminated identification card dangled from where I had it clipped to my scrub top. I realized at that moment in my haste to go home, I’d pretty much clipped it over top of my right breast.

“You look too young to be a doctor.” With just the faintest touch of his leather-gloved fingertip, he angled my ID, shining his flashlight once more. “How long you been over at University?”