Page 98 of Spinner's Luck

That photo album.

Those fucking pictures.

The realization that Ashlynn—Thea—had know exactly who I was the whole goddamn time.

She lied. She targeted me.

And my mother helped her.

Those two bitches were playing me.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached as I fired up the engine. I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Just gunned it straight to the one place I swore I’d never set foot in again.

Her apartment was in some cookie-cutter complex on the east side of town, the kind that looked nice enough on the outside but was rotting under the surface.

Just like her.

I killed the engine and stormed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. By the time I reached her door, my blood was a fucking storm. I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Just pounded my fist against the wood so hard the hinges rattled.

A pause.

Then the click of a lock.

When the door cracked open, I shoved it the rest of the way and stepped inside, my mom barely scrambling back in time.

Her dark eyes met mine—just like mine—but there was no warmth there. Never had been. She only knew how to love herself.

“Well,” she sighed, smoothing a hand down her silk blouse. “To what do I owe this visit?”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at her.

Because Ashlynn was sitting on the couch.

She curled up like she belonged there, a glass of wine in her hand.

But this time?

She wasn’t smirking.

She was afraid.

“Spinner...” she started, her voice small, her grip tightening on the wine glass. “I can explain—”

I slammed the door so hard the frame shook.

“You knew,” I said, my voice flat, even as rage pulsed through me.

Ashlynn set her glass down, slow and cautious. “Knew what?”

“Don’t fuckin’ play with me.” I took a step toward her. “You knew exactly who I was before you ever stepped foot in that clubhouse.”

She flinched. Her lips parted like she wanted to lie, but I saw the truth in her guilty-ass face.

“Guess that depends on your definition of knowin’ someone,” she murmured.

The cold, detached way she said it snapped something in me.

I turned to my mother. “Why?” My voice was a demand, cutting and ready to slice. “Why would you pull this shit?”

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