Page 120 of Brazen Mistakes

“Yes, sir,” I manage, my voice tight. No way I’m correcting a cop.

“Can you explain what you’re doing out here tonight?”

I nod, eager to say something, even though this feels like a trap. “Yes, sir. I can. I got a call from my sister asking me to come home from college. She’s worried about my dad.”Let them know I’m not trouble, that I’m a good kid.“We live a few exits back. I was just leaving, but the wheel started shaking uncontrollably, so I pulled over. I thought I was a safe distance from the exit. If not, I apologize, sir. When I got out, all the tires were okay, but a lug nut was missing on the front passenger wheel, and the others were loose. That’s when the other officer showed up.”

His nostrils flare. “Is the car yours?”

“No, sir. It’s my roommate’s. Jansen Pierce.”

This makes the corners of his mouth turn down, and my heart beats so loudly I’m surprised the cops can’t hear it from where they’re sitting. “Do you know why Officer Grant stopped?”

“No, sir.”If I were someone else, I’d have assumed he was here to help.

“We had reports of a vehicle speeding and driving erratically that matches the description of your roommate’s car. And this isn’t the first such report. Where were you last night, around one in the morning?”

“I was at home, in bed, asleep.”

“Do you often borrow your roommate’s car?”

“No, not often.”

“Did you borrow it yesterday?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you had any drugs or alcohol tonight? Any pre-gaming for a New Year’s party?”

“No, sir. I rarely drink and I don’t do drugs.”

He doesn’t look like he believes me. Not for anything I’ve said.

“I’m sure you understand we’re going to have to bring you to the station and have blood pulled to prove that.”

Can’t you tell that I’m sober? Do you really need to do a blood draw to believe that I’m exactly what I look like—a sober college kid with car troubles?“Of course, Officer.”

He nods, and the other cop gets out. He types something out on his laptop beside him, and I stare out the window, another silver sedan passing. I squint, trying to see the license plate in the dark, but it’s gone too quickly for me to make it out. Four silver sedans. Suspicious.

When we finally head to the station, my wrists sore from where the cuffs dig into my skin, all I can do is pray that my dad isn’t getting into too much trouble. And that Jansen’s carends up someplace safe. Oh, and that I get to make a call at the station.

One I’m not looking forward to.

Chapter 43

Clara

Players and plus-ones mingle in the decorated space, elaborate masks and bright colors dominating the room. Only my guys and I are decked out in black and gold, and it feels like a uniform—the kind of uniform that says you belong on the team, not the kind that you’re forced to wear at a fast-food restaurant.

I was hoping to see Summer around, only Jansen said she never comes on New Years. He didn’t have time to say why before Trips motioned him over, so I can add that to the ever-expanding list of things I don’t know about Summer Jones.

The crowd of plus-ones has Trips on edge, and he’s convinced something feels off, so he’s started Jansen on picking pockets. Having never been to one of these things in an official capacity, I have no idea what the vibes are supposed to be, but I’m still paying attention. Just in case.

Walker’s behind the bar, the gold of his mask and vest making it easy to pick him out. He’s already sent me a delicious concoction, and Jansen added a plate of morsels that he’s been popping into my mouth at odd intervals. He’s so sweet about it, I have no choice but to chew and swallow. It almost tastes good, too. Maybe I’m getting better?

Trips flicks open his black book across the room, his watch the only gold he’s wearing, Jansen beside him in yellow pants and a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled back. Trips stops whatever he’s saying, brows low as he pulls his phone from his pocket, then hurries down the stairs. Trouble?

Less than a minute later, one of the guests comes up, searching the room, and I mark him as someone giving off odd vibes. He’s so nondescript that I’d struggle to pick him out again, and if that isn’t suspicious, I don’t know what is.

Glancing at RJ’s mask, I force my hand into a fist, so I don’t drum my fingers against my leg. Why do I feel so strange? Is it because RJ isn’t here with me?

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