“Are you okay?” I shouted over to Milo and Brisco. They both nodded, even though Milo was still on his knees surrounded by a mess. Finally Brisco tugged Milo to his feet, and they weaved their way toward us.
“I’m sick,” Milo said, pointing big brown eyes in my direction. He was a disgusting mess. His shirt was ruined and he smelled like someone had dumped pure alcohol over his head.
“Whose fault is that?” I asked, smirking at him.
He flipped me off. “It wasn’t mine! Jägermeister gets me every time.”
Brisco wobbled. “I’m too drunk for this shit.” He scrubbed at his face.
While we stood there staring at all the activity, the cops turned and scanned the gathered crowd, looking for something, but it was anyone’s guess what. Another cop car came into the lot, this one without the siren blasting, and I sighed.
We weren’t going anywhere.
Micah still had his hands over his ears, and I tapped his left one, but he only shook his head at me. The cops fanned out and started talking to people, and one big, muscled guy with a serious scowl came toward us. Micah cringed against my side, and I tilted my chin back, not bothering to hide any of my ink.
I looked like someone who was up to no good, and I was fine with that.
For years it had been true, and my father had encouraged me every step of the way. That was part of why I’d moved across the country to go to school. Dad wanted me out of California because something was going on with the family business, but I also never would’ve paid attention to college classes if I’d stayed at home. I had too many friends and too many other things I could’ve been doing.
“Micah,” I said, raising my voice a bit so I could be heard. “Put your hands down.”
He shook his head, and the cop was staring at us as he walked my way.
Shit.“Yes. The sirens are done. Come on? Please?” I tried to put my arms around him again, but he shook his head, and I just patted his side.
“What’s going on?” the cop asked as he got closer, but before I could say anything, Milo put a hand on his gut, gave me a terrible look, and lost his stomach all over the pavement, splashing the cop’s shoes and the hem of his navy blue uniform pants. We all stared at the mess in horror, including the cop.
“How is there still that much inside you?” Brisco asked, then immediately started cackling.
The cop closed his eyes and shook his head before glaring at Milo. “Seriously? For real? You boys aren’t driving drunk tonight.” It wasn’t a question, he was telling us, and he pointed at Milo, then dragged his finger down the line to stop on me. “Are you driving them, sir?” he asked Micah.
Thank God, Micah finally lowered his hands. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
The cop sighed. “The boys. Are you driving them?”
I hated that Micah had to answer when he still looked like he was three seconds away from fainting. He caught my eye, and I nodded.
“Absolutely,” he said, but he didn’t sound very confident in his answer.
The cop glared at his messy shoes, then at me again. “I’m Officer Rogers, and I’m telling you to stay put. Someone will be around to take a statement. We need to know if you saw anything of interest.”
“Guessing he doesn’t mean that girl who was dancing with her shirt off earlier,” Brisco said with a chuckle. Officer Rogers heard him and raised an eyebrow, and Brisco tried to stop laughing, but just ended up hiccuping, which was almost worse somehow.
“I’m tired. We have to go,” Micah called after Officer Rogers, but he just shook his head and moved on to another group of people.
Frowning, I spotted Micah’s Kia, and we walked over to it. I opened the back door and patted the seat. “Come lie down,” I said.
Micah furrowed his brow and crawled into the car on his hands and knees, almost like he’d forgotten how to get into a vehicle because he was so messed up, and I sat down. He blinked when he hit the other door and was on his knees. I laughed while he rearranged himself and smiled down at him when he rested his head on my lap. I nudged him closer and hummed when his warm breath puffed through my shirt, but then he hid his face against me, pressing harder into my abs, and I stifled a groan. I dug my fingers into his curls and prepared to be tortured for however long it took the cops to let us go.
Brisco glanced around nervously and shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” Milo asked, the question slurred.
“I can’t stay here.” Brisco stared at the police cars.
“Why?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I just can’t. I have to get out of here.” He turned and started walking away.
