Chapter 11
“All you have to do is sign the papers I give you and look the other way,” Ralston thrusts a heap of papers at me as he stands in my kitchen, yet again.
I glare at him. “Yeah, I think I got that. But I am asking if this is going to blow back on me because I don’t feel like getting arrested.”
He grins. “Don’t want to join your brother in prison, then? I hear the meals are quite good.”
The urge to punch him in the face is actually overwhelming.
“If you’re done,” I grind out. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“My men are loading four cattle. They will go for a good price, and when the invoices come through, you will adjust accordingly.”
I nod.
“I’ll be in touch with the next steps. Until then, you need to access your uncle’s bank accounts. I’m quite certain it has all been left to you.”
Oh, it has, but I have avoided that conversation with every single chance I get. I already know there is a good amount of money there just waiting for my signature, but all I wanted to do was fix this place up, sell it, and never have to hear about it again.
I didn’t ask for any of this. I certainly didn’t want the drama that came with it.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Ralston leans against the counter. “Well, I’m sure it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this business was running through your uncle, and now he has gone, that money belongs to you, and so does the business.
To make it look legit, it has to go through the correct channels, so you’ll need to sort that out. ”
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 of handing 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.”
He spins me to face him, and the look on his face hits me like a fist. There is so much in his eyes—rage, hunger, maybe even something deeper, and I realize the only difference between him and the men I’m running from is that he would rip out his own throat before he let anyone hurt me.
“Don’t be scared,” he says, voice ragged. “Ralston will be gone before you know it.”
“I’m not.”
He grins. “Liar.”
He kisses me, slow and careful, and I know it’s not just an act. He lifts me, sets me up on the rickety ledge, hands cupping my thighs. I kiss him back, hungry and desperate, and for once, I don’t care who’s watching.
I do care if I fall off this damn thing, though, so I clutch him a little tighter. He runs his mouth down my neck, nips at my skin, and I gasp his name.
“Fuck me, Knox. Right here.”
He does. Right there on the rail bridge, with the sun in my eyes and the wind in my hair. His cock does wicked things to me, and his fingers bite into my skin as he drives in, no mercy, growling as he finds release. I do, too, blissful fucking release.
After, I press my forehead to his, capturing his lips one more time.
“I have to go back,” I whisper, exhaling. “The world doesn’t stop for me.”
He lifts me off the ledge. “Whatever happens, we end this on our terms. Not his.”
I nod.
When we get back to the farmhouse, he walks me to the porch.
It is late afternoon now, and I know I have wasted an entire day, but I don’t care.
I turn to say goodbye, but there is a look in his eyes that has my lips parting.
He backs me up against the railing, hands trapping my hips, his mouth dangerous and sure against mine.
I pull away, eyes wide. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, jerking at my jeans. “I can’t get enough. All I fuckin’ think about is your sweet cunt and how I need to feel it around me. All damn day, you’re in my head.”
I swallow. “I’m going to need surgery if you keep doing this.”
He grins, and then he fucks me again, this time slower, gentler, his body molding against mine, his cock plunging deep, slow, perfect. If I’m being honest, I can’t get enough of him either, and that’s a terrifying thought.
I think I might just love this man.
When he pulls away, kissing me one last time, I watch him ride away and I sigh.
Dammit.
I am in too deep.
THE WEEKEND COMES FAR too quickly, and I am midway through cleaning when Nia texts.
Club cookout. Tonight. Alcohol. Drunk Karaoke. You in?
I stare at the phone for a second and then grin, responding.
Hell yes, I am in. I am on my way.
I drive up to the clubhouse at dusk. There’s already a heap of shiny bikes out front, more than I’ve seen before, plus a line of trucks and cars running down the ditch.
Even from inside my car, I can hear music—bad music—someone’s been put in charge of the playlist, and it’s clearly not a voluntary job.
Nia greets me the second I step through the front gates, lips already gloss-smeared, a red Solo cup clutched in one hand. She shrieks my name, then wraps her arms around my neck. Sable and Mera are behind her, both laughing. I guess she has well and truly started partying.
Inside, half the people are already shitfaced.
Someone’s grilling, there is a huge bonfire, and there are half-naked women everywhere.
I follow the girls to the bar, noticing him right away.
Knox is at the bar, a bottle of Jack in his fist, grinning at something Kael is saying.
I watch him for a second, how easy he fits here, how it’s like he was born for this life.
I see his eyes move to me from across the room—dark, hungry, tracking. For a while, I let myself forget what’s going to happen with Ralston, with the farm, with all the parts of my life that feel like I’m trespassing on someone else’s tragedy. I just give Knox a grin and get myself a drink.
Everything blurs together perfectly as the night goes on, us shooting horrible-tasting tequila and singing along to Nia’s karaoke attempts.
Kael brings Sable a plate piled with enough hot dogs to feed a minor league baseball team, and we all laugh.
I guess he is taking the eating for two thing a little too far.