Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
An approving grin spreads across my face. “I like this already. Who are we pissing off, Casey?”
“Ainsley Fisck.” She shoots me a sidelong look. “I can’t see you two traveling in the same circles. How do you even know her?”
“Can’t say that I do. She gave me her number at the bar.”
“And you actually made plans with her?”
There wasn’t a plan, per se. Ainsley had been adamant over text that I make a show of picking her up from school today, and surely I could get my hands on a sexy car. Of course, I obliged, partly because I can’t walk away from a challenge, but mostly because I’ve been bored ever since the Goodwyns fled Sandover. Besides, I’ve done worse things than steal a car to get laid.
“‘Plans’ is a generous way to phrase it,” I answer. I shift gears and speed up a little, then glance at the passenger seat. “She a friend of yours?”
“I intend to destroy her.”
No hint of hyperbole there. Her jaw is set as she turns her attention toward the road.
Interesting. In a pride of lions, Casey is a dove. Gentle as they come. But it looks like she’s found her claws.
“Sounds fun,” I inform her.
She responds with a laugh, which leads to a whole slew of giggles as she informs me, “Your phone is exploding. I bet it’s Ainsley. Can I look?”
“Go for it.”
She plucks my phone from the center console. I look over in time to see the glow of triumph light her blue eyes.
“Ainsley?” I confirm.
“Oh yeah. She’s losing her shit. Here, listen.” Casey adopts a high-pitched, outraged tone. “What the fuck, Lawson! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!” She uses her regular voice to add, “That second one was all caps, by the way.”
“Of course.”
“You better have a good explanation for this! Omg, Lawson. Answer me, you asshole!”
I snicker.
“Can I answer her? Please?”
Even if I wanted to say no—which I’d never do, because that word doesn’t exist in my vocab—Casey’s hopeful face is impossible to resist.
“Have at it,” I say graciously.
She’s chuckling to herself as she types away. “Sent,” she declares, and I turn to find her beaming at me.
“What’d you say?”
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t too mean. Here we go. Ahem.” Casey clears her throat as if she’s about to recite a speech in front of a packed auditorium. “‘Yeah, sorry about that, babe. Casey and I go way back. Decided to catch up with her instead.’” She sets the phone down. “That’s going to make her livid.”
“Nice touch with the babe.”
“I thought so.”
Only about ten minutes out from St. Vincent’s, civilization gives way to thick amber forests and the blunt ridges of the Appalachian range. Casey braces her feet and grabs the armrest when I accelerate into the turns of the winding mountain road that peers over the river below. Then, when the twisting curves become easy, meandering straightaways, she drags her fingers over the lavish leather seat, admiring the luxury interior.
“Whose car is this?” she asks. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“It’s a loaner.”
I was walking out of the dining hall from lunch when Ainsley concocted this scheme and informed me of her vehicular preferences. Frankly, it sounded like a headache and more squeeze than the juice was worth, until I happened to walk by a Porsche Boxster in the senior dorm parking lot. What can I say? The tempting little number spoke to me.
Her gaze narrows. “Why do I think that means stolen?”
“You want out?” I tip my head in challenge.
If she’s having second thoughts, better to run on home before it gets dark. Animals come out at night.
“No,” she replies. “I like trouble too.”
We’ll see. While I’m happy to entertain her vengeful dalliances, I find myself under no obligation to shield Casey from her choices. I’m nobody’s keeper. People are responsible for making their own decisions—and dealing with the consequences of them.
CHAPTER 22
RJ
IT’S TAX DAY, AND I’M THE GODDAMNED IRS. IT WAS BAD ENOUGH when I had morons stopping me in the hall to ask about scalping Celtics tickets or drag racing for pink slips. Now I can’t have dinner without some kid I’ve never met nodding at me as he drops a plain white envelope in my partially open school bag sitting on the floor.
“You see this shit?” I say to Fenn, who is reluctantly picking at his chicken pot pie.
He gestures over my shoulder. “Here comes another one.”
“It’s been like this all day.”
This time, a guy from our floor sidles up and slaps a wad of cash in my hand like we’re doing a drug deal. For all I know, we just did.
“I mean, fuck, where’s it all coming from?” I grumble.
Fenn puts his head down and resumes his contentious battle with his food. “Probably best not to ask those kinds of questions.”
“But am I sanctioning hit jobs? Gun running? This feels like mafia shit.”