Alpha Knight

Alpha Knight (Wolf Ridge High, Book 2)

SHE’S GETTING A FAKE BOYFRIEND— ME.

WHETHER SHE LIKES IT OR NOT .

The leggy car thief is trouble with a capital T. 

My brother went down because of her.

I need to find him before the cops do,

which means I’m not letting her out of my sight.

Anywhere the human goes, I go.

I’ll play her fake boyfriend.

Sleep in her bedroom.

Go to her prep school classes. 

Take her to the homecoming dance.

I will learn all her secrets, find out all her games.

By the time I’m done with her, she’ll be sorry.

Sorry she ever set foot in our shop.

Sorry she made me fall for her.

Sorry she ever met me.

NOTE:  This stand-alone romance is a new adult romance with characters over eighteen.

Prologue

Bo

On the day everything goes to shit, you don’t wake up thinking, Today my whole life changes. 

It wasn’t like that the day the two service members showed up at our door when I was eight to give my mom the news Dad’s helicopter got shot down in Yemen. And it wasn’t like that today.

Today was like any day. I woke up, showered, went to school, stayed after for football practice, same as ever.

I never expected the screech of tires as Sheriff Gleason skids to a stop in the parking lot by the field. Didn’t foresee him marching out with his hands on his hips like he’s about to arrest one of us. 

Coach Jamison jogs over to meet him on the edge, his body rigid with alert. 

And then they both turn their heads and look at me.

“Fenton!” Coach’s voice booms. His alpha wolf authority ripples through me, all the way to my shoes.

Fuck. 

What did I do?

I whip off my helmet and stalk over like I’m pissed about the interruption, but it’s just my wolf rearing up to face perceived danger. There’s no flight in the fight or flight for an alpha male—especially not in a teen wolf who doesn’t always have aggression under control.

“Get it the car,” Sheriff Gleason snarls.

“Why?” I demand.

Coach’s hand drops on my nape, above the shoulder pads. His fingers tighten in warning. If it were anyone else, I’d already have him on his fucking back, but Coach is like a god to us. A better father figure than most of us have and always, always in our corner.

I turn to look at him searchingly.

“It’s Winslow,” he says because he’s not a dick like the sheriff, keeping me in the dark.

Winslow—my older brother. 

“Fuck.”

Coach doesn’t call me on the language violation, which tells me this is as bad as I’m thinking.

And then I know exactly what it’s about.

Or at least I think I do.

Because I saw this shit coming way back when it started.

The only question is, what do they want from me?

Chapter One



Six Weeks Earlier



Sloane

Stealing the 2016 Porsche 911 is the easy part. At least it’s the fun part. This is only my second car theft, but I think I have a real gift for it. 

I’m dressed as daddy’s spoiled princess in a pair of Rag & Bone skinny jeans with wedge heels and a Balmain cropped tee. All remnants of my past life, when I really was daddy’s spoiled princess. When stealing a car meant lifting a pair of keys out of my dad’s lock box and choosing one of the twelve sports cars in his garage. 

My hair is pulled up in a twist, and I have a khaki rhinestone ball cap pulled over my eyes to hide my face. Anyone who glances over in this crowded parking lot will see someone who matches the car.

 It’s just a matter of finding the right make and model in a location without camera surveillance. I’ve been walking around the Scottsdale mall parking lot for days now, dodging cameras and mall cops. 

Finally, I spot one. A blue Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS, and it looks to be full leather interior. MSRP can range from 100k to 200k depending on the engine and gadgets inside. I know because my father had one just like it sitting in our garage before… before the fall. Before everything went to shit. Before I had to learn how to poach pretty cars out of mall parking lots. 

In theory, ordinary cars are best—the kind that blend in. But I don’t have the luxury of time or lower risk. I’m on a payment schedule with dangerous people, and the Porsche will bring in big bucks.

So the Porsche it is. I already bought a totalled version at the salvage yard, so I have a salvage title. Now all I have to do is swap some parts out, including the VIN, and retitle this baby to sell.

Unfortunately, that means trusting a chop shop to do the swapping and cutting them in on half the proceeds because I don’t have the skills. 

Yet. 

I plan to learn. In fact, I think I’ll see if the guy can teach me on this one, so the next car I can do on my own. 

I walk up to the car like I own the place. Like I own the Porsche, I mean. 

Like I own the house and job or father or husband that match this car. It’s a role I know intimately. Lived my whole life. Entitled. Cosited. Spoiled.

Daddy’s little girl has fallen far from grace.

My device does its work, and the locks pop. Another few seconds and the car revs, and then I’m driving wild and free. 

Out of the parking lot. Onto the highway.

Up to Wolf Ridge, the weird-ass community just past Cave Hills.

Right where I landed when my dad went to jail. 

#

Bo

I ride my 1984 Triumph to the shop after football practice because we’ve been slammed, and my brother and uncle need me around more than just on the weekends. 

Plus, my best friend Cole’s been no-showing for work lately. I don’t know what the fuck his problem is, but I’m not gonna bust his balls considering the shit he’s been dealing with at home this semester.

I’m starving, which makes me cranky as hell. 

But I forget all about the hunger because… hot damn.

The first thing I see is her ass. Fuck-hot-amazing ass in tight jeans that show every curve of her muscular cheeks. And looooong fucking legs punctated by platform heels that lift everything. 

I give a silent hooty-hoo whistle in my head in appreciation. 

She’s leaning over the engine of an electric blue 2016 Porsche. My brother Winslow is beside her, pointing something out. 

At first, I assume she’s a shifter, like most everyone in Wolf Ridge and try to figure out who she can be. 

Then I catch her scent. 

Human. 

Human who should’ve been a shifter. Because she’s built like a she-wolf. Tall. Big-boned. Sturdy, athletic. She didn’t get those lean muscular legs lying around on her bed playing on her phone. 

No, she works for them. 

And—holy hell—when she lifts her torso and turns, my dick gets hard. Because she’s young. Maybe my age. And beautiful. Caramel-colored hair with reddish highlights, copper eyes that match, and a beauty mark that makes her look like an old-fashioned movie star. 

I want to fuck her right up against that 911. Then I see the logo stretching across the front of her tits. Cave Hills Cross Country. 

That explains the legs. And the expensive car. Looks like someone wrecked Daddy’s ride and brought it up here to get it fixed before he finds out.

Maybe because I’m hangry or maybe because she got my dick hard and I know I can’t have her, but I take an instant dislike to her. Fucking Cave Hills spoiled little rich bitch. Cave Hills kids only come to Wolf Ridge when they’re looking for trouble. And this girl is definitely trouble.

Winslow catches sight of me. He stops what he’s saying to level me a what-the-fuck-do-you-want? look.  

And that’s when I know something’s off.

Because he wouldn’t use that expression because I interrupted him with this chick. He wouldn’t be hot for a human girl—Winslow hates humans. 

Which means he wants me to stay away for some other reason. 

“Don’t you have a door to replace on that VW?” he jerks his thumb toward the other bay. We were waiting for the new part to be delivered, and the VW was his project, not mine. Now I’m certain he’s trying to get rid of me.

“Yeah. Okay.” I still don’t move.

Prickles raise on the back of my neck. I look at the Porsche again. Maybe it’s not her daddy’s ride. What were they looking at under the hood?

Unease washes over me. It’s a familiar warning—the kind I get every time my big brother is about to do something really stupid. Or dangerous. Something I’m gonna have to try to talk him out of or stop.

Fuck.

Please tell me it’s not a stolen vehicle, and he’s about to help this girl fence it.

When I don’t move, Winslow’s lip curls, and his eyes flash yellow. The wolf in me experiences the threat viscerally.

I have no choice but to drop my gaze and lift my chin, showing my throat. My brother has a mean streak, and he’s dangerous as hell, even though we’re family. I toss my backpack down and head to the bay with the VW Beetle in it. 

Winslow turns the radio up on his side.

#

Sloane

“Is that your brother?”

“That’s Bo.” 

Not really an answer to my question, but I’m taking it as a yes. This Wolf Ridge Body Shop guy is scary as hell. I was given his name as a possible fence for stolen cars, and he panned out. But I don’t trust him for a second.

Seeing his younger brother, on the other hand, calms me a bit. He looks as all-American as his older brother looks thug. Yeah, his jeans are ripped and greasy, but a Wolf Ridge High football t-shirt stretches across his bulging muscles, and the rest of him is clean-cut. Good-looking, even.

I’m not used to being treated with the disgust Winslow Fenton has been throwing my way, but I feel better just having his brother here. Like he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

And of course, that’s probably one of those really stupid assumptions one of those psychology studies would prove shows bias based on good looks. Or clothing. Or general hotness. Just because he’s my age and gorgeous doesn’t mean he’s going to play knight in shining armor if his brother crosses me.

“He’s not a part of this,” Winslow says, the threat evident in his lowered voice. “Understand?”

“Yeah, definitely. I understand.” We’re both leaning under the hood of the Porsche, like we’re conferring about her horsepower. I have to resist peering into the other bay at Bo’s broad back and muscular ass. Focus, Sloane—jeez. “So how soon do you think you can get the new title on this?”

“You leave that to me. I’ll get it sold. Then I’ll give you your cut.”

Fuck no.

“That wasn’t the deal. You get the title. I’ll sell it.”

He snorts. “You’re gonna sell it.”

“Yeah, that’s what we discussed.”

He sneers. “Sorry, honey. No one’s gonna buy a six figure Porsche from a sixteen-year-old.”

“Seventeen,” I correct, although that’s not the point.

“If I can steal a car in broad daylight from the Scottsdale Mall, I can pull off the car sale.” Turns out, I’m a pretty good hustler. I had to pick up a lot of new skills these last six months. 

 He gives me a mock apologetic shake of his head. “Sorry, sister. If I get the title, it’s mine.” He waits a beat. “Right?”

My heart starts pounding harder. This guy is slimy, but I knew that from the beginning. That’s the risk associated with stealing cars. 

He rubs his nose with a greasy finger, leaving a smear of black on his face. We’re nose to nose under the hood. He smells like metal and stale sweat and faintly of the sour alcohol scent people get when they over-indulged the night before. 

Now that I’ve seen his brother, I can see where he might be attractive in a different situation. If he took care of himself and had a decent haircut. And didn’t look so damn mean.

I clench my jaw. “We split it fifty-fifty.”

“Sixty-forty.” 

I don’t have to guess which one of us gets the sixty. 

This guy’s going to keep pushing me around. It’s going to change to seventy-thirty next time I see him, if I even see him again. I need to get leverage back, and fast.

I draw a deep breath and try to channel my dad. He could talk a guy into anything. And he never used fear to get through to them, the way some salespeople do. Because that’s essentially what any con is—a sales job. No, he made them feel good about doing what he wanted. Made them think that’s what they wanted too. 

“Listen, Winslow.” I lean a hip against the bumper of the Porsche. “Like I told you before, I’m looking for a business partner. I already scoped out a Mercedes-Benz S Class at the salvage yard for the next car jack. But if you’re the kind of guy who makes a deal and doesn’t honor his word, this isn’t going to gel going forward. We have to have enough trust between us to make this work.”

I throw in words like honor and trust hoping it might bring out some whisper of those qualities in him, but I doubt he ever had them to begin with. 

If I hadn’t seen his all-American brother, I wouldn’t have even thought of it. But unbelievably, it seems to work. 

Winslow draws his chest up and nods. “Fifty-fifty,” he concedes. “But I’m selling it.”

“We both go,” I counter.

He sneers again. “I’m not taking you. You’d fuck it all up. But I’ll give you your cut, fair and square.”

“You stand to lose more than I do. I’m not eighteen yet. If I get caught, it would be a slap on the wrist. If you get caught, it’s a felony.”

He pinches his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, considering me. His gaze darts to his brother, like he’s thinking about having Bo sell the car instead. But then he shakes his head. “I’ll take the risk.”

“I’m coming along,” I insist again.

“You’re not. Go back to your prep school in Cave Hills and wait until I text you.”

My stomach churns. I try not to show my misgivings, though. We’re partners, who honor and trust each other. That was the bullshit I was throwing out. I have to walk the talk. 

“I need a ride back.”

Winslow rolls his eyes and pulls his head out from under the hood of the Porsche. “Fuck.” He considers me, then looks over at his brother.

“Bo!”

The younger, far hotter version of him walks over, wiping his hands on a clean white rag. “Yeah?”

“You gotta take this one down to Cave Hills.”

He narrows his eyes. “In what?” He throws his arms wide and looks around the place.

“On your bike. Hurry the fuck up. I need you back here to finish that job tonight.”

A muscle in Bo’s jaw flexes, and he appears to be drawing in a measured breath. “Right. Okay.”

He flicks his brows at me and extends his arm like a butler. “This way, ma’am.”

Okay, maybe he’s as big a dick as his brother. 

All that hotness wasted on a cocky asshole. Too bad. Not that I was hoping for anything. I just… liked to look.

I follow him to the front of the shop where he picks up a helmet on a motorcycle and hands it to me. “Your limo awaits.”

I’m not a total chicken, but I haven’t ridden on the back of a motorcycle before. And when I pictured it in the past, it was always riding behind some very trustworthy boyfriend type. Someone hot, but not dick-ish and surly like Bo.

Basically, I’m putting my life in this total stranger’s hands.

I take the helmet and swallow. 

“Scared, princess?” he sneers. He’s wearing a set of dog tags around his neck. Up close, he’s even more beautiful than I initially absorbed. He has ice blue eyes that pop against his tanned skin and rumpled brown hair. His lips have a sensuousness to them, but that’s the only part. All the rest of him is one hundred percent hard muscle. He probably plays defense, and he probably makes the Cave Hills players cry when he hits them.

I snatch the helmet and toss my hair before I pull it on. It’s too big, and I ruin the haughty effect by fumbling with the straps to try to keep the thing on.

To complete the humiliation, Bo steps closer to help me, adjusting the straps until they fit snugly against my chin. His movements are sure and deft, and he completes the action by patting the top of the helmet like I’m a child. 

“Aren’t you going to wear one?”

“Nah, then I’d have two for the ride home,” he says, like that minor inconvenience is much worse than getting his skull smashed in. He produces a pair of sunglasses from the side bag and puts them on. He looks right off the set of a movie. Like a bad boy younger version of Chris Hemsworth. Only way dickier. 

I know. That’s not a word.

“All set?” He swings a long, thick leg over the seat and looks back. When I gingerly climb on behind him, he gives my wedge sandals a skeptical look. “Normally I wouldn’t allow that kind of footwear on the bike, but I guess you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”

“Nope.”

Uber would’ve been a good choice. 

Why in the hell didn’t I Uber this? I was trying to establish this stupid partnership with Winslow. Show some trust to make him trustworthy.

Now look where I am.

About to risk my life on the back of a motorcycle.

He starts the Harley, and the only warning the asshole gives me that he’s going to take off is a look over his shoulder before we lurch. 

I bite down a scream and grab his waist in sheer panic. It takes a mile or two before I realize I’m digging my fingers into his skin through the thin t-shirt, but no matter how firmly I tell myself to ease up, I can’t.

So much for playing it cool.

Bo stops at stoplight and turns his head sideways. “You freaking?”

“Nah-o.” The one-syllable word becomes two as I lie through my teeth. 

He covers one of my clawing hands. His palm is large and rough. Calloused from hard work or maybe playing football—I don’t know. He tugs my hand around the front of his body, until it reaches his washboard abs. 

“Oh—sorry! Was I hurting you?” I don’t normally get flustered by guys. I’m usually the one doing the flustering—especially if we’re talking about high school boys. Being five foot nine by seventh grade made it impossible for me to ignore the effect I have on the opposite sex. But I’m a total disaster in this moment. 

I blame it all on the motorcycle. It’s not from the blue eyes or washboard abs.

His chuckle is low and soft. It shouldn’t unexpectedly warm me the way it does. “No chance of that, Legs.”

“Legs? Is that what you’re calling me?”

The light changes, and he takes off again without warning. 

I wrap my other arm around his waist, too, so now I’m hugging his back like a freaking koala. Or do they ride on the front? A chimpanzee, then, who has to hold on for dear life while her mama swings from tree to tree. 

And then we’re zipping onto the highway that leads to Cave Hills. I don’t know how many miles it takes for my fear to morph into something different. Something warmer and more alive. By the time we’re down the hill, I’m all tingles and awareness, my breath coming in short pants inside the helmet, my hands molded to Bo’s abs. The heat from his body radiating into mine. The motorcycle like a giant vibrator between my legs.

I hate that I even find this scenario a turn-on. Motorcycles aren’t cool. Boys who ride them are redneck and basic. 

Except my body doesn’t seem to agree. Or maybe it’s not about the motorcycle. Maybe it’s about the giant baller whose back I’m glued to. 

#

Bo

I purposely scare her because I’m a dick. 

I’m a dick, and I fucking love making her scream and cling to me for dear life every time I take off too fast. 

I also don’t mind the way it feels having her snug against my back, her slender arms squeezing in on my ribs every time I lean into a turn. 

I’m pretty sure I just heard her mutter, you suck, the last time I wove through the lanes of traffic to get ahead. 

Serves her right. She’s trouble, this one, and she’s dragging my brother into it with her.

“Where to?” I ask when we get down to Cave Hills. 

“5th and Davidson.” She attempts to pry her own hands from me, but I gun the bike, and she seizes me again.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” she accuses, balling her fists up in the front of my shirt.

She knows what’s up. I guess to be a car thief, you’d have to be pretty smart. Or else pretty dumb. But she doesn’t strike me as dumb. I saw enough wariness on her face when she was talking to Winslow to know she understands the risks.

I take her to 5th and Davidson. “Now where?”

I half expect her to just get off and not show me where she lives, but she gives me directions to her house. Turns out she doesn’t live in one of the many million-dollar homes that make up the wealthy community north of Scottsdale. She’s in a townhouse—a nice one—but not that big. 

“Right here,” she says, pointing. She swings her long leg off the bike and tries to unbuckle the helmet with shaking fingers.

“What’s the story with the Porsche?” I ask her point-blank, watching her fumble and not offering my help this time.

I know Winslow isn’t going to tell me, and I’m looking for confirmation.

“It’s my dad’s,” she says. “He’s out of town, and I put a dent in it. Your brother said he’d help me fix it without him finding out.”

“I didn’t see a dent.”

“He already fixed it. Now it just needs a little paint.” She tears at the straps of the helmet, like I’m holding her hostage with them. “Your brother said he’d get fixed by tomorrow.” 

Yeah, right. Total bullshit, of course.

She manages to get it unclasped and yanks the helmet off, tossing out her long thick hair.

I don’t want to be stunned by how gorgeous she is up close. I’m looking for some flaw. Some irregularity that can make me dismiss her. But even the large mole on her cheek looks like it was put there just to make her more tempting to guys. Or girls who like girls. Or yeah, pretty much anyone with a pulse. 

She doesn’t look like she belongs in high school. This girl has probably been frequenting college parties since the day she hit puberty. She’s all that.

And I can’t fucking stand her for it.

“Thanks for the ride, Bo.” She thrusts the helmet at me.

“I didn’t catch your name.” I ignore the helmet. She seems to be in a huge hurry to get away, and I’m not going to make it easy for her.

“I didn’t throw it.” She nudges my belly with the helmet, and when I still ignore it, she lets it go and turns on her heel.

I stoop to catch it before it hits the ground. “You don’t have to be cunt,” I call out after her. Not because I think she is one—although I’m not ruling it out—I say it more to see if it gets a rise out of her.

It does.

She whirls, her face flushing. “Nice,” she nods, walking backward. “Real nice.”

I grin because seeing her mad gets my dick hard. “I don’t do nice. See you tomorrow, I guess? Will her highness require a pick up?”

I’m watching for a flush or proof of her lie, but she’s too good for that. She just flips me the bird as she turns around and unlocks the front door. 

Definitely trouble, that one.

And there won’t be any talking to Winslow about it. Or stopping him.

I commit her house number to memory. If anything happens to Winslow as a result of this bullshit, I will come down here and rip that entitled Cave Hills bitch apart. 

Right after I put her on her knees in front of my open fly.

Chapter One

Bo

“The moon is almost full, gents,” Coach Jamison preaches in the locker room after practice. We get this lecture every month, and after four years, I can pretty much recite it.

But still—I know it’s important shit—especially for the freshmen who are still in the throes of puberty. 

“Lock yourselves in your rooms before the game and after the pack run. Do not go anywhere near a female, or” —he holds his hands up— “a male, if that’s your interest. I’m not judging.” 

He paces through the locker room as we filter out of the showers wrapped in towels to stand at our lockers and get dressed. “You boys have raging hormones. You are not safe for the community at large. The moon amplifies your need. It makes you too aggressive. Jack off before the game—I don’t want that much testosterone running through you when we play Lakeside. I can’t risk one of you breaking a human’s neck. 

“And other than jacking your own cocks, you will keep it zippered. I’m not going to warn you to use condoms because you will not be getting your dicks wet this weekend. 

“Even if you have a girlfriend—especially if you have a girlfriend—stay the hell away from her tomorrow night. And I don’t subscribe to the sow your wild oats with humans philosophy. Boys, you are even less safe to human females right now. They can’t defend themselves. If I ever hear one of you forced a girl—human or she-wolf—you are permanently off this team, and I will personally kick your ass. Understood?”

“Yes, Coach Jamison,” we all reply.

“Louder.”

“Yes, Coach Jamison,” we shout, our voices echoing off the metal lockers.

“Wilde, you keep an eye out for every boy on this team during pack run,” Coach tells my buddy, who is team captain.

“Yes, sir.” He pulls a t-shirt over his head. 

Coach lays a lot of pack-alpha responsibility on Wilde, which is one of the reasons I’m glad I wasn’t named captain. Yeah, I’m alpha. There’s a reason me and my buddies are called the alpha-holes of Wolf Ridge High. But ruling the school and leading a pack are two different things. One comes from a place of rebellion. We flip the bird to everyone but our coach and do whatever the hell we want. We make the social rules at Wolf Ridge High—who is popular. Who gets invited to the mesa. Who’s worthy to date. 

But Wilde has to uphold rules now. Although Jamison’s list of rules is short: No fighting with humans. No impregnating females—human or wolf. No taking a female against her will. No mating bites, even if we think we’re in love.

We head out, but our meanest alpha-hole, Cole, hangs back. “Austin, can you take Casey home tonight?” 

Abe, Austin’s younger brother walks over to catch a ride home, too. He’s a sophomore but already playing varsity with us, which says a lot because every guy on this team is an athlete of magnitude. 

Austin narrows his eyes at Cole. “Yeah, why?”

We all know why.

Cole showed up to practice with the scent of that human all over him. His next door neighbor—the one he hates because her mom took his dad’s job.

Only everyone knows hate is pretty fucking close to something else. Something bordering on obsession, if you ask me. I’ve seen the way he crowds her up against her locker. The way he’s always looking for her.

Cole shrugs. “I have to see a teacher about homework.”

Uh huh. 

But whatever. My dick’s hard for a human, too.

I went straight home after dropping the Cave Hills bitch off and yanked it all night. I had her scent all up in my nose. It had rubbed off on the back of my t-shirt where she pressed those luscious breasts against me while we rode, so I took the shirt off and wrapped it around my cock. Pretended she was giving me the handjob to show her gratitude for the ride.

I fell asleep to the image of her tossing that mane of hair over her shoulder with her flippant I didn’t throw it line as she walked away. Every time I replayed it, I had a different comeback. All of them physical. All of them ending with her on her knees in front of my cock, saying please may I suck it?

Yeah, as if that ever happens in real life.

The trouble with porn is that it makes regular high school sex about as exciting as sitting through American History class on a half day. 

#

Sloane

I unlock my bike after cross country practice and fling my leg over the seat. My legs are still shaking from the long run, but I don’t mind the ride home. I think getting in a car and driving would just make my body tighten up. My muscles may be shaky and weak, but pushing them just a little more—in a different way—actually feels good.

Or maybe I’m just a masochist.

My car—or the one my dad let me use—was one of the many assets seized by the government when he went to jail. So maybe I have a little bit of deserve wrapped up in riding the bike. 

I definitely don’t deserve the luxury of a car, and I ought to feel ashamed I ever had one, considering where the money came from. I shake my head to remove the flashes of the days after my dad’s arrest. The faces of people who had been my friends, known me my whole life, sneering and turning away from me in scorn as I walked the halls of my old high school to class. 

Turns out the sins of the father aren’t just visited upon the sons. Daughters inherit that shit too.

I check my phone one more time before I take off to see if there’s any message from Winslow. 

If I don’t get the money by tonight, I’m fucked. 

No message.

Dammit.

I lean into the right pedal and take off, riding hard like I can outrun all my father’s past transgressions. 

I just can’t seem to go fast enough today to chase away the shadows around me.

Inside me.

The breeze blows in my face, and I suddenly remember the whip of the wind around me yesterday on the back of Bo’s bike. The feel of his hard muscles beneath the slide of his cotton t-shirt. The sound of that deep, growly voice.

My panties get damp, and I rock against the hard lip of the bike seat to alleviate the ache between my legs. I don’t know why I find such a cocky asshole so hot, but I do.

It’s the bad-boy vibe, I guess. The motorcycle and Rebel Without a Cause attitude.

The ice blue of those eyes judging me for some crime. Whether it’s the one I actually committed or a different one, I can’t be sure. 

All I know is that he doesn’t like me.

Neither does his brother, although that bothers me far less.

There’s some kind of long-standing rivalry between Cave Hills and Wolf Ridge high. Maybe the animosity stems from that. I don’t know—I’m just the new kid here, but I guess Cave Hills’ kids are the haves; Wolf Ridge, the have-nots. 

I was once one of the haves. I lived in a three-quarter million dollar house in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, the wealthiest suburb of Detroit. My dad was a stock broker. 

But if they only knew how far this princess has fallen, they might not hold it against me. The crown has been firmly knocked off my head and crushed underfoot.

My dad went to jail for embezzlement last year, and last month the guards found him hanging in his cell, his bed sheet around his throat. Suicide… allegedly. With everyone my father screwed over, who knows. 

I’m living with my mom’s sister and my eleven-year-old cousin without a penny to my name. Have been since a little after my father was picked up by the feds.

I turn onto my aunt’s street, and my stomach drops out onto the pavement.

The black Lincoln Navigator that I’m becoming all too familiar with is parked in the lot in front of the townhouses.

The sweat on my skin turns cold and clammy. 

I don’t make them chase me. I’m not that stupid. I ride my bike right up to the driver’s side window.

“Hi guys,” I call out brightly, waving my hand beside my face as I peer in. 

The window rolls down, and I’m facing two assholes in sunglasses and first class frowns. 

They are Vinny and Tom, or as I like to call them, Goon One and Goon Two, even though they look more like middle-aged divorced dads with thinning hair lines and bellies that hang out a little past their belt buckles.

“Where is it?” Vinny demands. He’s in a god-awful peach colored polo, khakis and Ray Bans, like he just came off the golf course. 

I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the screen just to see if Winslow messaged yet. Still nothing. 

Fucker.

“How’d the greens treat you today, gentlemen? Hit under par?” I try for levity and false confidence. 

Tom, in his gray-striped Adidas polo and Titleist hat, opens his mouth like he’s about to legit answer, but Vinnny’s not having it. “Don’t be smart, kid.” His hand shifts to the console between the seats and rests on a black handgun. 

I swallow, my throat suddenly very dry. “I’ll have it. There’s a lot to go through. But I’m looking. Every day.” There’s nothing to go through. The few boxes I have of my father’s belongings are full of clothes and pictures. My mother’s wedding ring…

Tom picks his teeth with a toothpick. “Clock’s ticking. Boss’ll be back soon.”

Sweat trickles down my back. I lean my elbows on the doorframe, enjoying the cool breeze of the A/C, then straighten when both their gazes drift down and lock on my tits. I’m not above using my sexuality whenever necessary, but with these guys, I’m trying to play more of the poor, scared teenage kid role. 

I decide to go with the God’s honest truth. “Even if I don’t find his stuff, I can raise cash to cover it. I stole a Porsche and got a new title for it, but I still have to fence it. When it’s sold, I hope to have at least ten grand for you, maybe fifteen. Maybe I could make payments—like until I find it.”

I see grudging appreciation on Vinny’s face. “That right? You stole a Porsche?”

“Yeah. It’d be easier if you’d take payments in the form of cars. Is that a possibility?”

“No,” Vinny says. “We ain’t a used car dealership.”

“Maybe with a clean title,” Tom says at the same time.

But that doesn’t work for me. I need Winslow to get the clean title, and that means splitting the profits with him.

I scuff my sneaker in the gravel at my feet. “You sure you can’t handle a hot car? I could feed them to you every day, no problem.”

Vinny shakes his head. “Nice try, kid. Anyone can steal a car. Moving it is the hard part.”

Don’t I know it.

“Besides,” Tom says. “I doubt boss’d go for it. He’s against stealing.” Tom’s dead serious. I snort a laugh that carjacking is where their boss draws the line. Not kidnapping. Not murder. Fencing cars.

They both pull ugly faces at me. I don’t like the way Tom’s still leering at my breasts. “Boss told you before, he can get a shit ton selling you on the black market. And I just noticed today you have a little cousin.”

Ice cold and lava flush through at the same time.

No he fucking didn’t.

I sense the blood drain from my face, and they both smile at my terror.

“She looks ripe, that one,” Vinny says with a sick smirk. “Perfect age. These pedophiles love the tweens. They go for the most money.”

“You stay away from my cousin,” I grit through clenched teeth.

“You get the boss his money. All his money. He’s already pissed it’s taking so long.”

My stomach is a solid rock of tension. “I’ll get it. Stay the hell away from her.” I point at them like I’m the mobster doing the shake down. The fact that my finger’s shaking probably ruins the whole effect.

It takes me two tries, but I manage to get back on my bike and ride it into the garage of my aunt’s townhouse.

I hit the garage door button, and they watch me disappear behind the closed door. I don’t cry until I hear the Lincoln drive away and all goes silent. Alone in the dark, the smell of gas and dust filling my nostrils, I gasp for breath between sobs.

Sophie, their golden retriever, woofs and scratches at the door, eager to greet me.

“Just a minute, Soph,” I say thickly, wiping my face with both hands. 

The door flies open a moment later, and my cousin Rikki regards me as Sophie dashes over to dance around my feet and lick my hands. “Who were those guys?” 

Oh shit.

“What guys?” I keep my head ducked, petting the dog as I walk through the door.

“The guys in the black car. They looked like bad news.”

“No, they were just asking for directions. But they probably are bad news. Don’t stop and talk to strangers like I just did. It’s not safe.”

“I know,” she says impatiently. “That’s why I was asking.” 

Inside, the kitchen smells delicious, but I duck past my Aunt Jen quickly. “I’m going to shower,” I call out as I dash up the stairs.

“Okay, dinner’s almost ready,” she calls back.

“Yep. Give me five.” I go straight to the en suite bathroom between my room and Nikki’s and lock both doors. 

Only then do I let myself really cry.

#

Six weeks before

I don’t know how I’m going to explain the fat lip and bruises to my aunt. I know it’s a ridiculous concern considering two men just wrestled me into the back of a black Escalade. They flank me now and a third calmly sits across from us, studying me. 

He looks a bit like a cross between Andy Garcia and De Niro. He’s in a full tailored black suit, despite the fact that Arizona is literally located on the sun, and it’s blistering hot outside. The gaudiest gold and diamond ring I’ve ever seen is on his left pinky finger.

He raises a salt and pepper brow. “Sloane McCormick?”

“Who’s asking?” Adrenaline and fear give my words bite.

His lips twitch, but his eyes remain impassive. Cold. “I’m an associate of your father’s.”

A stone sinks down, down, down and lodges in my stomach. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but my dad isn’t around anymore. He… died recently.” My throat works. I haven’t seen him in over a year. Haven’t been close to him in much longer. I’ve cried all the tears that could be cried, but saying it outloud somehow makes it fresh.

“His passing is why I’m here.” He snaps his fingers and flicks his hand this way and that, and the two goons holding me in place let me go. He leans in, elbows on knee, hands folded in prayer. “Your father had something of mine—my cut, if you will—and he hid it for safekeeping. His cellmate told my guy you know where it is.”

I shake my head, confused. “All his assets were frozen—”

“This wasn’t something the Feds knew about. Think real hard, bella mia. Did he send you any letters, maybe something in code, maybe had a location on it? A number sequence?”

Ice trickles down my spine. My father sent me letters. Letters I never opened. Letters I crumpled up and sent out in the trash because I was pissed that he ruined my life. 

I shake my head again, this time not looking at him.

“That’s too bad.” He sits back and cocks his head. “Such a pretty girl, you are. It will be such a travesty when you go missing.” He flicks his wrists again and a black cloth sack covers my head.

Panic surges through my veins, my vision going spotty. “Wait! Wait!” I fight the men at my sides. “I have his papers. From his office. Boxes that are in storage.” The sack is whipped off, and I suck in air like I’d been strangled. “Just tell me what you’re looking for. I’ll find it.”

He gives me a soft smile as if I’ve performed as he hoped I would. “There are six gold bars the size of your iPhone and a little oil painting of birds. It’s a rare piece done by Camille Pissarro early in his career. It’s all worth more than your life, but if you can’t find it, I’ll be happy to see what I can get for you on the black market. I know a fewer buyers who would love a pretty toy like you.” 

Gold bars? A painting? Like a treasure hunt? My mind spins and pings like a pin ball bouncing back and forth, up and down. Finally, it hits and sinks in at I know a few buyers who would love a pretty toy like you.

“It’s just your luck I have to go out of the country on unexpected business. You have a few months before I’m back in the states. More than enough time, no? And while I’m gone, Tom and Vinny here will stay back and keep an eye on you. I wouldn’t want you to think of running off or contacting any agents of the law before we can reunite.”  

Without another word, I’m shoved out of the SUV and land on hands and knees, the asphalt ripping open skin. I barely feel it. I’m numb. Shaking.

“And bella mia,” he calls out the open door. “I almost forgot. My condolences on your father’s untimely death.”

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