Page 42 of Unmasked Rivalry
I meet his eyes, steady as I can manage. “Fine. I’ll set up an appointment today.”
He bares his teeth, something between a smirk and a snarl. “That’s my girl. Don’t fuck it up.”
I flip him off as he leaves, but he’s already halfway across the porch, tossing a cigarette to the wet ground and grinding it with his heel. The door slams, the echo rattling the kitchen. I want to scream or throw something. Instead, I pull my phone from the counter and dial Knox.
He answers on the first ring. “You good?”
“Define good.” I run my hand through my hair, trying to keep my voice even. “Ralston wants me to access the accounts. He said there’s money in my name, and I need to make it official, like he’s doing me a favor by laundering his own shit through my inheritance.”
A pause. I hear the rumble of an engine, far off, and then his low voice. “You want back-up?”
“I need to go to the accountant’s office and then the lawyer. If you want to keep an eye on me, I won’t stop you.”
There is a smile in his tone. “I’ll be there in ten.”
I hang up, spend the next five minutes pacing, then another five standing in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to remember what my face looks like when it isn’t braced for impact. I barely recognize the girl staring back; she looks tired. Dangerous.
Knox’s bike is already purring in the driveway when I step outside. He’s leaning against it, sunglasses on, arms crossed, and if I don’t want to take him right there. I slide on my boots and stalk down the steps. He holds out the helmet, but instead ofhanding it to me, he uses it to tug me closer for a kiss. It’s hot and rough, and for a second, I forget what the hell I’m even doing.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mumble, pulling away and buckling the helmet. He grins, swings a leg over, and I straddle behind him, arms around his waist, face as close to him as I can manage. He smells like soap and cigarettes and gasoline, and god, I am obsessed.
We ride.
The morning is cool, but the sky is bright and blue, and God help me, I love the feeling of the wind, the sense that if I just let go, I’d fly straight out of this fucked-up town and never look back. There is a feeling that you get when you’re on the back of a bike, this feeling that nothing in the world can touch you.
It’s incredible.
The accountant’s office is a sad little cinderblock building. Knox waits outside while I go in and face what I have been avoiding for so long. It takes over an hour. A pale man in a Target tie walks me through the balances, then makes me sign a stack of documents.
Then, just like that, I own it all.
I feel sick.
Knox is still waiting when I get outside, as if I haven’t been gone for so long. He is unbothered and drops the cigarette on the ground as I approach. “Good?”
I exhale. “One down, one to go.”
He drives me to the lawyer’s office, a little more posh than the accountant. This one takes longer; the lawyer is less nervous, more invasive, her questions pointed and sharp. I get it, she has to make sure everything is covered. Nobody has come forward to argue, and Ruger and I are the only family left to claim what my uncle left, and because Ruger is in prison, it is a fairly easy process.
I sign.
It’s done.
I join Knox again, climbing back onto the bike.
He guns the engine, and we’re off again, but this time, instead of heading back to the house, he takes a hard left and rockets out of town, past endless miles of cornfields and scrub. We ride for hours. I don’t say a word, just let myself be held up by this roaring, gleaming beast, the man piloting it.
We stop at an abandoned rail bridge.
I climb off, groaning as my legs protest. Knox grunts, a grin on his face, but my look warns him not to say anything. He doesn’t, instead, he looks out over the water below the bridge, his hard body behind mine, his chest against my back, making me feel scarily safe.
“You know what I think?” he finally says into my hair.
“What?”
“I think you hate how much you want to survive.”
I snort, try to wriggle away, but he holds me tighter. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, buddy.”
