Chapter 1
“Who are you?”
His voice comes out clipped, an undertone of annoyance filling the air.
Like I am somehow burdening him. I stare at the man in front of me, really taking him in.
I’ve seen photos, of course, Harper was obsessed with this dude, but they do no justice to the man standing before me.
Up close, he is far, far more intimidating and, dare I admit, gorgeous?
The photos certainly didn’t show just how green his eyes are, or maybe it’s because his skin is so olive, they just look like they’re popping.
His hair, dark, thick, and long, is tied up at the nape of his neck, and his beard is so perfectly shaped, I wonder just how much effort it takes to keep it looking so perfect.
He’s tall, he’s ripped, and he’s covered in ink.
I see a chain around his neck, the letter H dangling from the gold loops.
The girls who greeted me earlier didn’t seem to know about Harper, which I find interesting.
Why hasn’t he told them?
“I’m sorry,” I say, crossing my arms and tipping my head back to look at him. “The last words you said to me were get the fuck out, and now you want to come in here and ask me who I am? How did you even know where to find me?”
He takes a step forward, the faint scent of leather washes over me. I don’t take a step back, even when he gets right up in my face.
“I said,” he growls. “Who the fuck are you?”
Wow. A real charmer.
“I am Harper’s cousin, Callie.”
His eyes scan my face, as if he can tell if I’m lying by simply doing that.
“Why are you here?”
“None of your damn business, buddy.”
He leans back, arms crossing, mouth twisted. “You think you can just roll up and play the long-lost family card? How do I know you’re not full of shit?”
Is he serious?
I clench my teeth. “Not my problem if you’re poorly informed. Take it up with your HR department, or do you not have one of those in whatever biker cult this is?”
He bares his teeth in a semi-snarl. God damn, how can one person be gorgeous and terrifying all at the same time. “You got a mouth on you. Harper never said anything about a cousin.”
I shrug, not backing down. “Not my fault you two weren’t close enough to exchange genealogy reports.”
I try to step sideways, but he blocks me with a forearm that is bigger than my leg, I swear. Jesus. I meet his glare, making sure to keep my face blank. Unreadable.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, voice like gravel. “Why. Are. You. Here.”
I consider lying, but I actually can’t be bothered. “I inherited this shithole. My uncle seemed to think playing a cruel prank on me was his last wish. As soon as I get this dump cleaned up, I’m out. There, happy?”
He stares for far too long.
Finally, a slow grin tugs at the side of his mouth. It’s not friendly. It’s the grin of someone who’s just watched you slip on black ice and is now waiting to see how hard you land. “Good luck,” he says, voice melting to something less hostile, almost amused. “You’re gonna need it.”
Then he turns and walks out.
I stare at him, mouth agape. Oh hell no. Who does this man think he is? I march right outside after him, finding him leaning against a battered Ford pickup, lighting a cigarette.
“What the hell is your problem?” I snap, flicking my hair off my shoulders.
He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “You’re gonna last a week, tops.”
I fold my arms. “Wanna put money on it?”
He glances over. “You want to make a bet?”
Not really, but I also don’t want to back down.
“Why not. I need something to entertain me.”
“Plenty of critters in that house to do that.”
I ignore that, even though my skin crawls.
He turns, really looking at me, smoke curling from his lips. “What’s your stake?”
I rack my brain for something that sounds impressive, but all I can picture is the wad of twenties in my duffel and the rapidly dwindling balance in my checking account.
“If I’m still here in a week, you have to tell me you’re sorry for being such a dick and help me clean this place up to sell, and you have to do it without charging me anything. ”
His face flashes, something I can’t read. “And if you bail?”
I consider it. “Then you can keep the house and do whatever the hell you want with it, burn it down for all I care. That’s a pretty solid deal, I think.”
“Depends, if I keep it, can I clean it up and sell it?”
At this point, I don’t actually care what happens to it, though the money from the sale would be helpful, so I have no intentions of letting him win.
So, I nod in agreement.
He nods and flicks ash onto the ground. “Deal.”
“Deal,” I mutter. “What makes you so confident you’ll win?”
He pushes off the truck and opens the door. “You’re a city girl, ain’t no way you’re goin’ to be able to handle what comes out at dark. Sleep tight.”
He gets into the truck and drives away, leaving me standing, arms crossed, terrified.
What the hell comes out when it’s dark?
Help.
I LAST ABOUT FOUR MINUTES and twenty-seven seconds before rushing to my car and high-tailing it to the store.
Rat traps. For some horrifying reason, my body seems to know I’ll need them the most. I consider sleeping in my car, just to make it through the night, but the windows at the back don’t wind up, and that means I could end up stuck inside the car, with whatever creatures are out here.
I stop for cleaning supplies, air freshener, a six-pack, and a single pack of popcorn because I literally have to save every cent to try and fix this damn house up, which is why I plan on winning the bet.
I buy a plastic tarp because it feels like the sort of thing that I might just need, plus a blow-up mattress and sleeping bag so I can get some rest. By the time I get back, the sun is setting in that violently dramatic, orange-y way that feels like a red flag.
Like the earth itself is warning me: don’t go in there, girlfriend.
I unload the car, slow and deliberate. I drag it all inside, along with my favorite lamp that I brought from home, and the box of books I refuse to live without.
The air inside is thick, and I pray I’ve got enough light to get me through the night because there is no power to this place until I go in tomorrow and get it connected again.
First order of business: make a place to sleep that doesn’t require military-grade tetanus shots.
I decide the living room is safest, and unload my stuff onto the ground, set up my lamp on a crate, and dial up a playlist loud enough to mask the sound of any animals lurking in the drywall.
I clean like a woman possessed. By the time my eyes burn from bleach fumes, it’s nearly midnight and my hands are raw, but the rat droppings are gone from the room, and I can breathe without catching something nobody has discovered yet.
I strip out of my clothes, wipe myself down with a washer, and then flop down onto the blow-up mattress, stretching out, popcorn bag in one hand, phone in the other, and just as I’m about to bask in the ambiance of my new disaster, I hear it.
Ck-ck-ck.
I freeze.
Ck-ck-ck-ck.
It’s definitely not wind.
The noise comes from behind the filthy radiator, and I stare at it, paralyzed, the popcorn dangling like an offering to some satanic beast. Then the radiator shakes, actual movement, and a rather large flash of something skitters in the shadows.
My entire soul leaves my body.
“NOPE!” I shriek. But instead of running, because I’m apparently one of those morons in horror movies, I hurl the entire bag of popcorn at the radiator and grab my phone.
The rat (raccoon? small lion? miniature bear?) launches itself at the food, and in the blue glow of my lamp, I can see it is most definitely a rat.
There are two, no, three of them now, scrabbling for the popcorn like they haven’t eaten for a week.
Let me tell you, judging by the sheer size of them, their last meal was a small human.
Still screaming, I bolt out to the car. I slam the door, breathing hard, and dial the only number I can think of, the one the girls slipped me earlier for the clubhouse, right before Knox told me to get the hell out.
I can’t even remember the name of the girl who gave it to me. Macy? Mera? I don’t know.
It rings forever. Finally, on the fourth try, I get an answer.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice can be heard amidst the sounds of partying in the background.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Brantley. Who is this?”
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?”
“I have not,” I say, matter-of-factly.
He turns and stares at me, and I can see how glassy his eyes are in here. The man is drunk, and no doubt enjoying every second of this. “Want to?”
But then the radiator creaks and a rather large, rather angry-looking rat launches from the corner. I instinctively yelp, then scramble behind Knox and grab his upper arm. Instantly, my hand is full of warm, flexed muscle, and I hate myself a little for noticing, more for not letting go.
He lifts the gun, fires once. The radiator rings. Metal-on-metal, it’s so loud my eardrums scream. The bullet’s nowhere near the rat, but the sound is enough to send three of them, three, screaming from the shadows, straight at us.
I shriek. Knox laughs, like he is enjoying every twisted second of this, and fires again, this time hitting a piece of the wall that now has a goddamned hole in it that I have to fix. The rats scatter, but one goes straight for my bare foot.
Before I can think, I climb him. I grab both his biceps, press my entire self to his back, and my legs go around his waist, like a fucking monkey.
It is not elegant, but it is effective. It doesn’t stop him, he aims the gun and shoots the scurrying rats, one by one.
When the last one drops, silence fills the air.
I release him, horrified.
He turns, staring at me, an amused grin on his face. “Not goin’ to lie, I’m impressed by your climbing skills.”
“I hate you,” I mutter, rubbing my arms. “I don’t even know you, but I hate you.”
He shoves his gun into his jeans, then casually takes a sip of beer like he didn’t just murder all three rats. “Enjoy your evening.”
With that, he turns and walks towards the door.
“Wait,” I yell, and he pauses. “What do I do with those? Burn them? Mail them to ex-boyfriends?”
He salutes with his can. “Leave them as a warning for the other ones.”
I look at the twitching shadow under the radiator and whisper, “Other ones?”
Somewhere beneath the floorboards, I hear a scratch.
Oh good.
Fucking wonderful.