Running Into Love (Fluke My Life)(9)

By: Aurora Rose Reynolds



“You guys are good sisters,” I tell them, happily ducking my face down into the huddle to ward off the cold I feel biting my cheeks.

“The best,” Mac agrees, and I frown, wondering who put a disco ball outside as red-and-blue lights flash around us. Then my body freezes when I hear the all too familiar bweep, bweep.

“Oh no,” Libby whispers, voicing my fear as we turn to look over our shoulders and watch two officers get out of a squad car that has pulled up behind us.

“Ladies, if you could walk back toward us, that would be appreciated,” one of the officers says, placing his hand on the butt of his gun as he stops beside the hood of the squad car.

“Just play it cool,” Libby says, straightening her spine and shoving her shoulders back before sauntering toward the cops, which I realize a little too late is a bad, bad idea. “What can we do for you, Officers? Is there a problem?” she purrs, but the words are slurred and she stumbles in her heels, taking her from sex kitten to klutzy drunk in two seconds flat.

“Is this your normal track?” the cop on the driver’s side asks, and Libby stops and tilts her head to the side, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“Pardon?”

“Is this your normal track?” the cop on the passenger side repeats, and Libby looks at Mac and me, frowning.

“Do either of you know what they are asking?”

“They think we’re prostitutes,” I chime in blandly, not surprised. That old saying if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck comes to mind, and seeing how we look like prostitutes, are dressed like prostitutes, and have no coats in the dead of night when it’s freezing out, I’m sure the cops are putting two and two together and coming up with ten.

“We’re not prostitutes. We just dressed up like them,” Mac says, and both the officers look at her.

“Do you ladies have IDs?”

“Someone stole our coats, and our IDs were in the pockets,” I explain. The cops look at the three of us, and I know they don’t believe us at all—not that I can blame them, because I wouldn’t believe us, either.

“A prostitute was murdered two blocks over. Do you know anything about that?”

“No.” I shake my head, wrapping my arms around myself, feeling a chill that has nothing to do with the cold creeping over me.

“Can we go? It’s kind of cold,” Libby whispers, and the officers look at her, then me and Mac.

“We’re gonna have to ask you ladies to come down to the station to answer a few questions.”

“We’re really not prostitutes,” I tell them, and they nod, like, yeah, sure you’re not as they open the back door to the squad car.

“At least we’re not out in the cold anymore,” Mac says once we are all tucked into the backseat, and I turn my head and look at her in disbelief. “What, just saying.” She shrugs. Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the window, thinking this can’t get any worse.

I really should know better.





Chapter 3

FLUSTERED

FAWN

“It will be fun, they told me. Live a little, they said,” I huff, staring at my sisters through our reflection in the mirror in front of us—and ignoring how horrifying I look right now. My makeup has melted off, and my hair is now a hundred times bigger than when we left the house. I look like something the cat spit up before dragging home.

“It was fun.” Mac yawns, and I turn my head to glare at her. She shrugs. “What? Even you have to admit you had fun tonight.”

“No part of being arrested is fun.”

“We technically weren’t arrested,” Libby puts in, and I transfer my glare to her. She rolls her eyes. “Well, we weren’t—they didn’t even read us our Miranda rights.”

“We’re sitting in an interrogation room at a police station,” I point out.

She looks around, muttering, “This is true.” She bites her bottom lip like she just realized where we are.

“God save me.” I drop my head to the top of the table with a thud, then lift it quickly and sit up straight in my chair when the knob starts to turn. As soon as the door opens, my eyes widen and the color drains from my face. “This cannot be happening,” I breathe, watching Levi step into the room. His head is down; he’s looking at a stack of papers in his hand, so I can’t see his beautiful face, but I have no doubt it’s him. I’d know his broad shoulders and thick head of hair anywhere. Scooting as low as I can in my seat without crawling under the table, I lower my face toward my chest and try to hide, praying he doesn’t recognize me.

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