Ivy and the Cop (Power Play) by Selena Kitt Page A

Nothing. Nothing, nothing and more nothing. Ivy rested her forehead on the steering wheel, trying not to cry. It was after two in the morning—the Forresters had stayed out until bar closing time—and she had no desire to spend the night on the side of the road sleeping in her car. So now what?
    She tried to remember what was around her. Farm houses. She could walk up the road and knock on doors, ask to use the phone. That thought made her cringe at this late hour. And walking alone, even out here where she was likely not to meet much except a raccoon or a deer or two, wasn’t all that appealing either.
    She took her iPhone out of her purse, pressing the round “home” button on the bottom again and again, hoping, like she had with the car, that some miracle of electricity would happen, but there was nothing, just the blank, black screen of a dead cell phone. This is what she got for texting Savannah all night, both of them tuned into and giggling over Magic Mike on Netflix, with no regard to the dwindling battery.
    “Guess I’m walking,” she whispered to no one, tucking her phone back in her purse, tossing her keys in too, and opening the Civic’s door. It creaked nois ily in the cricket-quiet night. There were no other sounds, and no lights at all. Thankfully, there was a full moon, casting enough of silvery glow to walk by. She pounded the lock down and slammed the door shut for good measure, glancing down at her shoes and regretting her fashion choice. Why had she dressed up to meet Savannah for coffee before she went to the Forresters? Well at least they were low heels and not the four-inch spikes she liked to wear clubbing when she was back at school.
    They didn’t make for easy travel on gravel though. Still, she slung her purse over her shoulder, put her head down, and started walking. She was sure to come across a farm house within the next half a mile. A mile at the most. Of course, a mile in these shoes might kill her. Ivy stopped to wiggle her already aching toes, glancing back at her car. Had she really only come that far? The length of a football field, at most! She squinted and frowned, peering down the dirt road, trying to determine if what she was seeing was what she thought she was seeing. Were those… headlights?
    Oh thank god, they were headlights! They were just pinpoints, but they were growing. She started walking back toward her car, praying it was someone a) not drunk and b) responsible enough to have a charged cell phone so she could call for road service. She was already making a mental note to thank her father for insisting she pay extra for towing and breakdown coverage on her insurance.
    The car got to hers before she did, and she sighed in relief as she saw it pull up behind . They were stopping to help! That had to be a good sign. Her little white Civic looked like a pale ghost car at the side of the road in the moonlight and her heart leapt when vehicle behind it came to life. She’d never been so grateful to see flashing red and blue lights go on in her entire life. It was a cop! She was saved!
    She practically ran back to her car, getting a stitch in her side by the time she reached the Honda’s hood. The o fficer was still sitting in his, probably running the plate, but he opened his door when he saw her approaching.
    “Ma’am?” he called, walking toward her, and she saw his hand near the butt of his gun. “Are you all right?”
    “Hi! Hello!” she called breathlessly, waving. “My car died. And my phone. I was—”
    They both stopped at the Civic’s driver’s side door, about five feet from each other. Ivy saw the recognition pass over Patrick’s face in an instant, and he must have seen the same on hers. His hand dropped from his side, his body visibly relaxing—at least a little. Ivy’s relief was replaced with a growing dread as they closed the distance, far more slowly than they’d started out.
    “Hey Patrick.”
    “Hello Ivy.”
    She cleared her throat.