I was done crushing on Jake Bishop, no matter what he was doing to my insides. With an effort, I pulled my gaze from Jake's and zoomed in on Trey, who'd just returned from checking out the stranger's car.
Trey cleared his throat and tapped the guy on the shoulder.
The guy whirled on him. "What?" he bellowed.
"Your tags are expired," Trey said.
"Huh?" the guy said.
Trey pointed toward the guy's vehicle. "The license plate. The sticker says last year."
"Fuck off, pipsqueak," the guy said.
"Sir," the older cop said, returning from the police car, "for the last time. Cut the profanity." He glanced toward the guy's car. "And," he said, pulling out a citation book. "Did you know your plates are expired?"
"Told ya," Trey said. "So who's the pipsqueak now?"
"Get bent," the guy muttered.
The older cop finished writing a ticket and handed it over to the big guy, who snatched it out of the officer's hand and said, "I'm still pressing charges."
Across from him, Jake laughed. "For what?"
The guy glared over at him. "Assault, vandalism, reckless driving." His gaze narrowed. "Being a douche."
"I haven't been calledthatbefore," Jake said.
"Actually," Trey said, "you have. Just yesterday, in fact."
"Yeah, well." Jake reached up to rub the back of his neck. He turned to the younger officer. "Are we done here?" He turned to flash me a quick grin. "I've got to get my girl back home."
I swallowed. His girl? I knew he was joking, but my stomach did that fluttering thing again just the same.
"Yeah, we're done," the officer told Jake. "Unless you want to press charges?"
"Hey!" the stranger said. "Aren't you listening?I'mthe one who wants to press charges."
Jake gave a low chuckle. "Is that so?" He flicked his head toward Trey. "Show him," Jake said.
Grinning, Trey held up his video recorder.
The stranger's gaze narrowed. "What the hell is that?"
Now Jake was grinning too. "Guess," he said.
The guy looked heavenward and closed his eyes. "Fuck," he said. "Not again."
"Not what again?" I asked.
"I'll show you later," Jake said.
From somewhere in the crowd, a female voice called out, "Jake! Jake! Over here!"
Jake turned to look. So did I. The voice belonged to a buxom blonde in a tight white T-shirt. She was bouncing up and down and waving at him with both arms. "I love you!" she called.
As we all watched, she started tugging at the bottom of her T-shirt. She'd lifted it just above her navel when the guy next to her yanked the fabric down and gave her a murderous glare. Gripping her forearm, he started hustling her off toward a nearby building – some three-story apartment complex called The Meadows.
I sidled closer to Jake. "Who was that girl?"
