Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63055 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63055 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
It strikes me now that she’s too thin, though. Or maybe I’m just seeing the effect of stress on her body. Stress I knew had to be there, but she hid from me before.
“Whose house is it?” I keep my voice down—I have from the beginning.
“It’s my aunt’s. And I am not going to let you fuck it up with whatever this is.”
I perch on the edge of her desk and casually cross one ankle over the other. “So what are you going to do?” I challenge.
I fucking love the blush that crawls up her neck and tinges her cheeks as she probably realizes she sure as hell can’t physically make me move.
“I’m going to scream.”
I shake my head. “First of all, we both know that’s not going to happen, Legs. You’re going to keep your mouth shut and tolerate my presence in your life until I decide you’re not worth shadowing. Do you know why?”
Her lips thin to a straight line.
“Answer me, Legs.”
Her nostrils flare. “Why?” she grits.
“Because I own you now. You ring any warning bells, I will let loose everything I know about you, princess. About the Porsche. And the Mercedes. And your dealings with my brother. I will sing my song like a canary to every fucking cop in this city. And you’ll end up in jail, where you really belong.”
She has the nerve to cock a hip and toss her hair. “Well, I’m a minor, so jail time is questionable.”
Wrong move, sweetheart.
My brother’s life has just been ruined, and she’s gonna throw that shit at me?
Fuck no.
I slide off the desk and advance on her.
I think she realizes immediately that she went too far, but at that moment, a woman’s voice calls out—“Sloane, Rikki! Dinner’s ready.”
“Coming!” Sloane shouts immediately. She snatches her t-shirt from the floor and yanks it over her head, still maintaining eye contact with me.
I stop my advance, but tension runs through the space between us, aggression radiating from me to her, a repelling push, like a magnet turned the wrong way, shoved back at me.
She doesn’t go down easily, I’ll give her that.
Not a submissive little thing, this one.
No, she’s bold and strong with a warrior’s heart. Too bad she’s not a wolf. Too bad we’re on opposite sides of the line.
“You’d better be gone when I get back,” she says, hand on the doorknob.
“Dream on, Legs. I’ll be right here.” I flick my brows. “Waiting for you.”
She flips me the bird as she shuts the door.
Cute. She’s damn cute. Beautiful people get away with so much more than ordinary people. My mother used to tell me that as a warning. You’re going to get away with murder out there because you’re good-looking. Don’t use it to screw people over. Don’t screw girls over, Bo.
Between her and Coach, I’ve had the respect for women thing drilled into me. Too bad it didn’t stick.
Because I feel extremely disrespectful toward Sloane right now.
As soon as she’s gone, I start searching her room. Uncovering her secrets.
Because I know this girl conceals more secrets than a priest’s confessional. And I want them all.
Lives with her aunt.
Why?
Needs money—a lot of it. Again, why?
Who put her back up against a wall? Why is she afraid of me screwing things up—like she doesn’t think she belongs here or something. Did she run away from home? Was she a troublemaker back there?
But why leave her precious Tyler?
Kicked out, then.
But why the money need?
Maybe someone’s sick. Dying, even. A parent who can’t take care of her, but she feels like she needs to raise money to take care of them. Maybe huge medical bills.
I don’t know. It’s all conjecture.
The room doesn’t hold much, as far as secrets go.
The bulletin board is blank, except for the cross country meet schedule. The desk only has school-related items—pencils, erasers, pens, textbooks, notebooks. Nothing of interest.
I search her backpack and open her wallet. She still has a wad of cash in there. I count it—four hundred and fifty. Not a ton, considering what she must’ve made on the Porsche deal. Where did the rest of it go?
I check her ID. It’s not an Arizona driver’s license. It’s Michigan. Grosse Pointe. And her eighteenth birthday is this Saturday. She may have been underage when she stole the last two cars, but the next one would carry adult felony charges and penalties.
And that thought puts my teeth on edge.
Despite everything—despite the fact that she’s trouble, and she fucked my brother’s life over, and my mom and I may never get to see him again, I don’t want her ever going to jail. I don’t want her to suffer any consequence worse than the ones I bring down on her.
And I do want her safe.
Which means figuring out why she’s boosting cars.
Not that I think it’s actually that. No, she’s stealing for a reason, and I intend to find out what it is.