Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

Fuck. The fucking taillights. If this ruins my perfect driving record, I’m going to be so pissed.

I flip on my turn signal and pull over, then put the car in park and turn off the radio. While I wait for the cop to come to my window, I pull out my license, registration, and insurance, so I’m ready. I go ahead and roll the window down too.

I hear footsteps moments later, and when I check my side mirror, my stomach falls flat. Because who is striding up to my driver’s side door in full police uniform? None other than the ex-husband. The prick who doesn’t eat pussy. The jerk who wouldn’t let his four-year-old son get a purple cast.

I guess Dylan was right. He is a cop.

“Good afternoon, officer,” I say, but he ignores me.

“License and registration.” He spits the words robotically, so I hand him the documents and keep my mouth shut. He looks at my license for a long time, but he never does anything to suggest he recognizes me from the hospital. His uniform says Thompson, which reminds me of the way Jocelyn insisted I use her maiden name in the emergency room.

“You know why I pulled you over, son?” Officer Thompson asks, and I grit my teeth and force a smile.

“I think it’s probably about my busted taillights,” I say honestly.

“You think?”

“Pretty sure.”

“You knew both of your taillights were out and you still chose to get behind the wheel tonight? You know how dangerous that is, son? Negligent disregard for the law and the safety of the public,” he scolds, and his voice oozes condescension that makes my stomach turn. It’s broad daylight, and it’s not like I’m fucking hammered.

“What were you doing that was so important you had to put yourself and other people at risk?”

There’s a hint of suggestion in his voice that I choose to ignore. Even though he’s wearing a shiny pair of aviators, I can still feel his eyes on me. It’s creepy.

“I only just discovered they were busted. I was at Harvest View, and I think somebody must have busted them out in the parking lot. My place isn’t far from here, so I was going to drive home and then get them fixed this weekend.”

“You think one of the old folks in the home busted your taillights?” He scoffs. “Maybe they rammed it with their walker? You need to report a crime?”

“No, sir,” I say stiffly, his mocking tone grating on my eardrums. If he was anyone else, I’d point out how ageist his attitude is, but I’m not trying to get arrested.

“Maybe we should go round up all the little nurses over there for questioning,” he continues, but I stare forward and keep quiet. “You think one of those women did it? Maybe risk breaking a nail?”

Great. Sexist, too. What a gem. I’m not getting into an argument with this guy. It’s obvious he’s real friendly. Not.

When he realizes I’m not taking the bait, he taps my license on the door frame.

“Sit tight while I run these, son,” he commands, then turns and strides back to his cruiser.

I watch him in the sideview mirror until he climbs into his car, and then I rest my head back and watch the rearview mirror. This is the guy Jocelyn was married to? This clown is Jude and June’s dad? Officer Asshat? Un-fucking-believable.

It’s fifteen minutes before the ex comes stomping back to my window. He hands over my license, registration, and insurance card, and then proceeds to hand me two citations. One for each fucking taillight.

Seriously? Fuck this guy.

“Now, son, this address on your license says Chesterton, but you said you lived not far from here.” He speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “You’re supposed to report address changes to the DMV within thirty days of a move. That’s another citation.”

“I’m a senior at Butler University,” I tell him. “Chesterton is my permanent address.”

“So, you still live with your parents.” He chuckles darkly, but I can tell he doesn’t want me to reply. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “And if I were to look into your parents in Chesterton—” he makes a show of glancing back at my license “—Jesse Hernandez, would I find everything is in order?”

It takes me a second to grasp what he’s suggesting, but when I do, my vision blurs and my blood boils. I have to breathe slowly to calm the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. So not only is this guy a shit dad and a selfish fuck, but he’s a racist as well. Awesome.

I clear my throat.

“Feel free to look into my parents, Officer,” I say clearly and make eye contact. “You can Google Dr. Vanessa Hernandez right now if you don’t want to wait to get back to the station.”

He stares me down but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. The sneer on his face speaks volumes. Then he blinks and flashes me a toothy, smug smile.

“I’m gonna go ahead and follow you back to your place. Just to make sure you get there safely, what with the taillights bein’ out and all.”

Without another word, he turns and struts back to his cruiser and climbs in. Thirty seconds later, he flashes his brights at me because, apparently, I wasn’t moving fast enough. I signal and get back onto the road, and then the dick rides my ass—with the red and blue lights flashing—the whole drive to the condo. He waits at the curb until I’m in the building, and when I step out onto our balcony twenty minutes later, his cop car is still staked out on the street.

For the second time today, my skin prickles, and I know the fucker was waiting for me.