Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(8)
“Four years. Just finished my residency. So much for that. It’s all ruined now.” Thoughts of all of my sacrifices, the lack of a social life, working myself ragged while putting in sixty plus hours a week, the fact that I hadn’t been touched properly by a man in a very long time or had a meaningful relationship since, spending all of my time focusing on my goal instead—of all of that being for f*cking nothing—to be wiped away by twenty minutes of false accusations and local news cameras, made me want to scream. The weight of my traumatic evening came crashing down in full force. Visions of my aunt’s mutilated corpse, my uncle’s severed arm, my family in utter distress; I couldn’t stop the tears that welled in my eyes.
He reached up, wiping one away with his thumb. “Hey. Hey. No crying,” he whispered as if he were trying to console a child.
I turned my face away from his touch. “Thanks to you and your false arrest, my career is over. Once whatever channel broadcasts this I’ll have my medical license revoked. You might as well keep the f*cking car too since I won’t be able to make the payments.” I glared at him. “Pray you never get shot, Officer, because there’s one less doctor who can save you now.”
I heard him growl, but whatever. I was beyond caring about his opinions.
“Ritchie,” Trent ordered, barking his words over his shoulder but never taking his dark eyes off of me. “Kill it.”
Apparently Ritchie or whoever was filming me didn’t take direct orders. The camera’s light continued to shine right on us.
Officer Trent stormed right up to the camera and reached out as if he were going to grab it. I could see the anger wafting off him. “Jesus Christ, Ritchie, this is done here. I said kill the f*cking feed—now.” He pointed a finger at the other guy. “Scott, call your boss. Tell him this footage never sees the light of day or I will hunt him down. You got me?”
The guy named Scott took a few steps back and I was relieved to see both camera operators shut their equipment down. Considering how intimidating Officer Trent was, I’d say it was a good call to listen.
The entire scene was perplexing. Why the hell do the police have cameras filming them now? My mind veered to recall the first officer I’d lost to a gunshot wound. It happened during my residency. Maybe this was another safety precaution?
Trent took his ball cap off and ran his hand over his head. His dark hair was cut short on the sides and spiky on top with that just f*cked finger-combed hairstyle. I imagined he crawled out of bed every morning looking just as gorgeous.
The hulking black officer strolled over, towering over me by at least an extra foot and a half in height, making his presence even more frightening as he eyed me one last time. “No priors. She’s clean.”
Trent nodded. “Cap, she needs to be released. The false plate has been removed but her paperwork matches the VIN and her ID.”
“Yeah, we’ve got nothing here,” the older man they called “Cap” agreed.
My lungs expelled the breath they were holding. Another cop nudged me to turn around, finally giving my arms relief. I heard the metal cuffs clank together when they were off.
“Mine,” Trent said curtly, holding out his hand for them, still glaring down at me.
I rubbed my aching wrists, feeling a phantom twinge of the cold metal as if they were still binding me. He clipped the cuffs back to some loop on his utility belt. Screw him; I glared back.
Damn, the whole package was sexy as hell with those full lips surrounded by a full shadow of stubble and that manly presence, but I’d had enough. As soon as they let me leave, admiring anything about Officer Trent would be done and over with.
I noticed that the cameras never left him. They’d been pointed wherever he was, capturing him at every angle, despite what the other dozen or so officers milling about were doing. Odd.
Officer Trent stepped in front of me again, getting even closer than before. “You see anyone around your car tonight or notice anything out of the ordinary?”
It was hard to think straight with the mounting stress and activity going on. “I was… I was inside the hospital all night. Wait, I did see someone… in the parking lot. I don’t know. It could have been anyone. It was too dark and he was too far away for me to get a good look at him.”
His eyes narrowed, almost scolding me. “Were you alone?”
I didn’t care for his assumption. “No. I wasn’t.”
“Good. You recall if he was white? Black? Hispanic?”
“Didn’t get that good of a look. He was definitely male.”
He nodded. “Sounds like you probably got there right before he attempted to steal your car. Surprised he swapped the plate.” That realization seemed to confound him further. He flashed his light toward the rear of my car and then down the driver side door and up the seals around the door windows. “Not a seasoned pro, taking that much time.” He leaned past me, shining his flashlight on the dash. “This has a pushbutton start. Huh. Why the false call to dispatch?”
I followed the path of the flashlight as he scanned the inside of my car again, trying not to allow my imagination to roam too far from his extreme closeness or his alluring scent. “What do you mean?”
“You have a theft tracking system in this car?”
I wished I knew what that meant exactly. Did I? I recalled hearing words like “anti-theft” during the sales pitch I got from Dan at my dad’s dealership, but did it have a tracking system? I had no idea. Having a decent paying job meant that I could finally afford a new car lease and not drive around in the trade-in clunkers my dad affectionately referred to as “life lessons.” Being stumped by the dash clock was as far as I’d gotten.