Page 7 of Savage Lover

I walk around the car so we’re both standing in the glare of the headlights.

As I get closer to the cop, I realize that he’s younger than I thought—probably only about thirty or thirty-five at the most. He’s got close-cropped blond hair, buzzed at the sides, and a tanned face. His uniform is stiffly starched.

He’s smiling at me, but I’ve never been so scared of someone in my life. He’s literally holding my fate in his hands, in the form of a plastic bag of pills.

“Do you know what this is, Camille?” he says.

I look at the pills. They kind of look like Flintstone’s vitamins—stamped in the shape of school buses, pale yellow in color. So I’m guessing it’s Molly.

“Yeah, I know what they are,” I say. My voice comes out in a croak.

“Illinois has strict laws against MDMA,” Officer Schultz says, his voice low and pleasant. “Possessing just one tablet can result in a felony conviction. Fifteen or more tablets means a mandatory minimum sentence of four years in prison. I’d say you’ve got about a hundred and fifty tablets here. Plus the ones in your brother’s pocket.”

“Those are mine, too,” I say. “He didn’t know what it was. I asked him to hold it for me.”

There’s a long silence while the officer stares at me. I can’t read the expression on his face. He’s still smiling a little, but I have no clue what that smile means.

“Where do you live?” he asks me.

“On Wells Street. Above Axel Auto. That’s my shop—my father’s shop. I work there, too.”

“You’re a mechanic?” he says, looking at my clothes.

“Yes.”

“You don’t see a lot of girl mechanics.”

“I doubt you know a lot of mechanics at all,” I say.

It’s not the best moment for sarcasm. But I get so sick of the comments. Especially from men. Especially the ones who don’t trust me to work on their car, when they wouldn’t know a piston from a plug.

Luckily, Schultz chuckles.

“Just one,” he says. “But I think he’s ripping me off.”

The silence drags out between us. I’m waiting for him to slap the cuffs on my wrists and throw me in the back of his squad car.

Instead, he says, “Axel Auto on Wells Street?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come see you there tomorrow.”

I stare at him blankly, not understanding what he means.

“Get your brother home,” the cop says.

He drops the pills into the backpack and zips it up. Then he throws the bag in his trunk.

I’m still standing there, frozen and confused.

“I can go?” I say stupidly.

“For now,” he says. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

I get back in my car, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs. My mouth tastes like metal, and my brain is screaming at me that this is very fucking weird.

But I’m not going to argue. I’m drowning in trouble—I’ll take any life preserver thrown at me.

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