Page 31 of The Knight

Before he can, another voice speaks up. "I'll go with her. You don't need me tonight, Cole, and besides, I could use a little excitement."

I stare at Blake, lips parted, wondering if I really heard what I think I just heard. There's no way that Blake Lee himself, son of Jake Garrison, asshole extraordinaire, the coldest statue around, actually just volunteered to show up and protect me.

But no—he didn't mention anything about protection. He just sounded bored, and more than anything, eager for the conversation to be over.

Still, if he's with me, Hass won't do anything to me. He doesn't want witnesses like Blake, who has the money to protect himself from whatever he's got up his sleeve. That much I'm certain of. Even if all he does is slouch in the passenger seat staring at rare books, having him there is the only insurance policy I need.

"Fine." Cole shrugs. "You're right, we don't need you. The three of us can get this done all by ourselves. Just make sure Wilder doesn't scratch my car—I just paid for a new paint job, and I don't want to have the racing stripes redone."

Now I find myself staring at Cole with an open mouth—this time in disgust, not shock. "You haveracing stripeson your car?"

"No, but at least now I know you're listening. Here." Reaching into his blazer pocket, he pulls out a keychain and slides his car keys over to me. "It's the Maserati in the back lot. Blake knows the one. Just wave at the gate guard and he'll let you through—I have off campus privileges anytime I want."

"Must be nice to be rich," I mutter as I take the keys and slip them into my backpack."

"Yeah." Grinning, Cole stretches, his arm muscles rippling as he pulls them exaggeratedly over his head. "Itisnice to have money. Maybe one day, Wilder, you'll get a taste of it yourself. Once you do, I guarantee one thing: you won't ever want to go back."

Chapter 13

Cole's car has a manual transmission.

I don't know why this is such a shock to me. It's a European sports car—of course it's a stick shift. The thought of someone like Cole learning how to use a clutch and a transmission breaks my mind a little. He doesn't seem like the type with patience to shift gears.

"You do know how to use a gear shift, right?" Blake aims a droll, raised eyebrow at me. "Because there's no way I'm driving. I have notes to take for an essay due in two weeks, and unlike you I don't phone these things in at the last minute."

"I don't phone things in! And of course I know how to drive a stick. Wally taught me."

"Wally? Nevermind, don't tell me who that is—I'm sure it's just some boyfriend of yours back home who's missing his front teeth."

"You've really got to get new jokes."

"Fine: he's got a birthmark on his face the shape of a cowboy boot, and a twang in his voice you can hear from space. He's so bow-legged you could drive a semi between his knees. The tip of his dick has a little stetson on it. When he—"

"He's gay, and not my boyfriend. Are you done?"

Blake levels a dry, expressionless look at me. "I suppose."

"Good. Because we've got shit to do, and an asshole's life to ruin. So I don't want to waste any time."

Putting my right foot on the brake, and my left foot on the clutch, I turn the engine on. It purrs to life at the push of a button—keyless startup. Wally's truck always took some coaxing to come to life, but not this car. It was born to carry rich boys places in the blink of an eye.

I wonder, idly, if this is the car Cole's parents got him after the DUI. He must have been very good friends with Michael Yates to actually take the fall for him. It seems impossible to believe—out of all the parts of his story, that's the one I doubt the most. He has friends, sure, but he manipulates them, leads them, cajoles them, and enjoys their company. Taking the fall for them? Seems impossible.

So the fact that all my instincts tell me to believe him galls me to my core. Cole Masterson has a golden tongue; he could convince the sun to rise in the west and set in the east if he wanted to, just with a few liquid words. Of course he got a brand new car even after wrecking one and getting arrested. His parents wouldn't have said no to their golden boy—the eldest, inheritor of it all.

Staring down at the gear shift, hand on the leather, I wonder why it feels warm. As if his hand was just here beneath mine. Like our skin is not quite touching.

Blake clears his throat, and I jerk back to the present moment. "I put the address in my phone's GPS, since I know your shitty phone probably doesn't even have apps."

I grit my teeth to keep from snapping back at him, because the truth is that the GPS on my phone is basically useless, especially out on the country roads we're about to drive on.

"Just tell me what turns to take." Moving my foot from the brake to the gas, I rev the engine a little, and enjoy the way it vibrates beneath me like a predator eager to jump to life. "I'll get us there before anything goes down."

* * *

The thing about a Maserati is, it's a conspicuous car. Cole didn't lie when he said there would be plenty of space around the Great Falls Municipal Airport to park the car so Hass doesn't know it was here, but the thing about the airport being closed to any traffic except this one plane is, the entire public lot is empty. I can't exactly park this flashy blue Italian sports car in the middle of it and call this whole thing a stakeout.

"There—that dirt road over on the right, opposite the airport." Blake points out his window, and I squint in the direction of his finger, barely able to see the break in the trees. "Drive the car that way. I'm sure no one will spot us under the canopy."

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