Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
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.