Page 4 of Unmasked Rivalry
She sounds about twelve, but I ignore that.
“Brantley, this is Callie,” I whisper-scream into the phone. “You need to call 911.”
“Are you being murdered?” she asks, her voice suddenly on high alert.
“Not me. The rats. They’re murdering each other in my living room, and I can’t sleep with this, Brantley.” I realize I’m shaking. “I need a weapon. What’s the fastest way to get a gun? Like, legally, but quickly?”
She goes silent, like she isn’t sure if I’m some kind of crazy person, or if this is serious. There’s a muffled conversation on the other end, then a familiar voice takes over. “Well, well. Thought you were tough,” Knox drawls.
“Oh, eat a dick,” I spit back, and immediately regret my lack of creativity. “I need firepower or a really big dog.”
“Hate to say it, but rats are probably the least dangerous thing in that house.” He sounds entertained. “What happened, you lose a staring contest with a field mouse?”
I debate hanging up, but there is a weird comfort in his mocking. “Bring a bat. Or a flamethrower. Or—” I rack my brain for weapons. “Shit, I don’t know, anything large and terrifying.”
Knox chuckles, in a scary, low way. “Can’t be givin’ you a gun, girly.”
“Ugh, you know what, screw you. I don’t have time for this. I’m sleeping in the car, because I refuse to lose this bet.”
I hang up the phone and stare at the open window in my car, my eyes wide. I don’t know if this is the smartest idea, but it has to be better than going back into that house. I settle into the front seat, pulling my phone out and praying for the best.
My phone dies before I can even relax enough to sleep.
There is a muffled scurrying from the direction of the porch, my porch, now, apparently. I nearly doze off, curled with my knees up in the driver’s seat, when a presence eclipses the dome light on my ceiling. I jump. I scream a little, and scramble so fast my elbow connects with the horn, blaring furious in the dead quiet.
It’s Knox.
Correction: It’s Knox, in the flesh, shirtless, a beer dangling from two fingers, his expression amused. He’s got the kind of body that makes my core clench, and the tattoos across his chest and abs are a thousand tiny stories about violence, disregard for authority, and questionable family values.
“If you’re here to try and win the bet, don’t bother. I’m not caving.”
He leans down so his eyes are level with mine, which is unfair, because I’m still trapped in the car, clutching my phone. “Thought you’d like a little excitement,” he says, voice all low and rough. He raps on the window and, against immense personal pride, I hit the unlock button.
“Beer?” He offers the bottle. It’s already half-drained. I shake my head.
He takes a slow survey of my car: the ratty blankets, the plant on the dash, the emergency graham cracker supplies. “You gonna camp out all night, or you want me to deal with your little rodent problem?”
“I am open to suggestions,” I say, not moving.
His eyes flash again, and he turns, striding to the house without a care in the world. I follow, because I kind of want to see what he does, and also, I’m too scared to stay outside alone any longer.
I try really hard not to stare as he walks.
His jeans hang off his hips; the waistband of his boxers peeks out, and a gun is tucked in there, there’s a slash of tattoo right above, something inked in black. His back muscles flex as he moves, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and run my fingers over them.
The man is impeccable, what can I say.
“Is that... is that a gun?” I whisper.
“What, did you want me to talk to the rats and tell ‘em to leave quietly?”
“Yes,” I squeak.
Inside, the air smells less of death and more of organic, free-range bleach. The sounds are worse, the rats aren’t even bothered that we are here. Hell, they own the place and they know it.
Knox reaches around, pulling the gun out and cocks it, strolling in with me on his heels.
“Nice place,” he says, and I don’t miss the sarcasm as he takes in the house. “You ever shot one of these?”
