The Risk: Kings of Linwood Academy #3 Page 2

  “I am now. Thank you.”

  A small smile tilts his lips, and he nods in satisfaction. “Good. I’m happy I could help.”

  2

  Cold air hits my face like a stinging slap as I step outside. I suck in a breath from the shock of it and glance back at Judge Hollowell once as I hurry down the snow-covered walkway to River’s car.

  I scraped it off when I left Fox Hill Correctional Center, but new snow accumulated while I was inside Hollowell’s house. I honestly don’t know how long I was in there. It felt like hours, but it can’t have actually been that much time.

  My hands shake as I hurriedly scrape off the car, and as soon as the windshield and other windows are clear enough for me to see through, I toss the scraper into the back seat and slide behind the wheel.

  Only then do I allow myself to glance once more toward the house.

  The front door is shut, but when my gaze drifts over toward the living room, I see Judge Hollowell standing near one of the large windows. He’s got his hands in his pockets, and his posture is relaxed, but the way the light hits him casts him in a stark silhouette. I can’t make out his expression.

  I can only tell that he’s watching me.

  My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel, maneuvering around the tight circle driveway and heading back toward the street. I can hear the snow crunching and squeaking under the wheels, and I turn on the windshield wipers as high as they’ll go, batting the large snowflakes out of the way before they can even land.

  When I reach the end of the block, I start to breathe a little easier. I dig my phone out of my pocket and pull up River’s address, then follow the directions the GPS gives.

  I need to let the guys know what happened.

  I know I shouldn’t text and drive, but I don’t know if River will be able to hear well if I call him. And honestly, I don’t think I should put anything about Judge Hollowell down in writing. It’s too risky.

  I’m about to scroll through my contacts to try calling one of the other kings when something catches my attention.

  A spot of black in the white flurry outside.

  I toss my phone down on the seat and stare into the rearview mirror, squinting to see through the falling snow. The flash of black appears again, and my entire body clenches with fear.

  It’s a dark car, creeping down the road behind me. It’s far enough back from me that I can’t discern any details about it, and I can’t see the driver’s face through the snow. I can barely make out the car itself, and it seems to be creeping along at the same slow pace I am… almost like whoever is inside is hanging back, trying not to be seen by me.

  Oh, fuck. That’s why he waited.

  That’s why Judge Hollowell gave me free legal advice and smiled so calmly and let me leave his house in one piece.

  Because he knows exactly how to kill someone without getting his hands dirty.

  My pulse throbs in my temples, and my foot presses harder on the gas pedal, making the wheels spin on the slick, wet snow before they gain traction and the car lurches forward. I jerk in the seat, knuckles turning white as I glance back in the rearview again.

  The car is still there.

  I’m driving fast now, faster than I probably should. I’ve never driven in snow before, but I can already feel how different it is from the reassuringly dry roads in Bayard. It’s like trying to run on sand, with the terrain beneath me constantly shifting and giving way, refusing to provide enough purchase to really dig in.

  In this kind of weather, it’s not safe to speed. But I’m doing it anyway, and so is the car behind me.

  “Shit. Shit. God, fucking shit.”

  My whispered curses fog up the windows, and I hardly ease off the gas at all as I make a wide turn onto a side street. The calm voice of the GPS starts calling out new directions as it reroutes from my current path, but I’m hardly listening. I suck in air as I drive as fast as I dare down the side street, hoping the car behind me lost track of me in the snow and missed my abrupt turn.

  For several long seconds, there’s nothing behind me.

  Then the black car swings into view.

  “Motherfucker!”

  I slam my fist against the wheel, laying harder on the gas even as I round a curve that makes the back of the car fishtail on the slippery road.

  What the fuck do I do? Pull over, then get out and run? I’ll be a sitting duck, just as easy a target as Iris was on that dark, desolate street. Nothing but a hundred and twenty pounds of breakable skin, bones, and muscle against several tons of steel and glass.

  I don’t dare leave the safety of the car, but being inside it feels like being trapped on a rollercoaster with no way off. When I glance behind me, the black car is closer. It doesn’t have its headlights on, and although I can’t make out what kind it is, it’s definitely the same general shape as the one that killed Iris. A four-door sedan, sleek and sturdy.

  Turning my lights off too, I speed up again. The engine revs as the wheels slip and spin. The car behind me keeps pace, and when I spot another intersection ahead, I take the turn without signaling.

  But this time, I’m going too fast.

  The back end of the car whips around, forced outward by my momentum, and the slick snow on the ground does nothing to stop it.

  I slam on the brakes before I remember that’s not what you’re supposed to do in icy conditions.

  And a micro-second later, I find out exactly why.

  The brakes lock up and the car spins, whirling through space like a top spinning across a table. Everything outside becomes a blur of white and gray, and I hold on to the wheel as if that will save me somehow.

  Then there’s a loud metallic crack, and my body is jerked roughly sideways. The seatbelt punches me in the chest as it tightens suddenly, and my head smacks into the driver’s side door.

  Darkness flashes across my vision for a second.

  Then the world goes still.

  Quiet.

  A low groan breaks the silence, and it takes me a second to grasp that it’s coming from me. I blink, forcing the darkness creeping around the edges of my consciousness to retreat. My head hurts like a son of a bitch, and as I push down the nausea and take a deep breath, I reach up to touch my temple. My hand shakes from shock and adrenaline.

  A little smear of blood coats my fingertips, but it’s not much. And I don’t think anything is broken.

  Moving carefully, I glance behind me. The back half of the car hit a streetlamp on the driver’s side, and the vehicle is now partially wrapped around the massive metal pole. It hit almost exactly in the middle of the car, warping both doors on this side.

  A sharp tapping sound makes me jump, which makes the pain in my head flare like a bomb exploding. When I look up, I see an elderly man standing outside the car on the passenger side, his weathered features aghast.

  “Miss! Are you all right?” he calls through the glass.

  I blink. Then I crane my stiff neck to peer out the side window, where a black sedan is parked nearby mine. The driver’s side door is open, and the hazard lights flash rhythmically off and on.

  It’s the car that was behind me.

  This man was driving it, not Judge Hollowell.

  A choked sob escapes my throat, and the old man ducks his head to peer through the window at me before yanking the passenger door open.

  “Miss, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

  My body is going into shock, I think. I know this feeling better than I should by now.

  I wish fervently for Dax and Chase, for their warm, solid bodies to encase mine, to hold me steady while they murmur into my ears. Instead, I just feel a rush of cold as little whorls of snow blow into the car from outside.

  “Yes,” I croak, wrapping my own arms around myself. “I’m… okay.”

  “Do you need me to call 911? An ambulance? Can you get out? Can you move?”

  He’s asking me too many questions. I can’t process them all. I shake my head slight
ly.

  “No ambulance. Where’s my phone?”

  His overgrown eyebrows draw together as his gaze darts around the car. Then he picks up my phone from the footwell near the passenger seat, holding it up triumphantly before handing it to me.

  My fingers shake and my vision blurs with tears as I tap out a message.

  ME: I got into a car accident. I’m okay. But I can’t drive. I’m so sorry.

  River must have his phone on him, because his response is almost immediate.

  RIVER: Where are you?

  I can almost feel his fear for me radiating out of the screen, as if those three typed words contain an entire soul’s worth of feelings.

  Glancing up at the man who’s still hovering by the passenger door, I ask, “What street is this?”

  He pulls his head out of the car quickly and steps back to look around. There’s a street sign a block and a half ahead of us, but it’s too snowy for me to read it. He tromps over to it, and before he comes back, another text comes through from River.

  RIVER: Low? You there?

  The tears stinging my eyes slip down my cheeks as something both comforting and painful fills my chest.

  ME: Yes. Still here. A man stopped to see if I was okay, and he’s checking.

  A half-second later, the old man in question ducks his head again to peer into the car. “This is Monroe Avenue. The street you were just on was Wilson.”

  ME: Corner of Monroe and Wilson.

  RIVER: I’m coming to get you.

  The painful feeling squeezes my heart again, and I shake my head, tapping quickly with both thumbs.

  ME: You can’t. I have your car.

  RIVER: I’ll take my dad’s.

  I chew on my lip. That’s not a good idea, for so many reasons.

  River Bettencourt doesn’t usually drive. His hearing impairment makes it dangerous for him to get behind the wheel, since he can’t pick up on the sounds of horns or sirens or other indicators of traffic emergencies.

  And River already has a strained relationship with his dad. Taking his father’s car out on a snowy Christmas afternoon because the girl he’s sharing with three other boys wrecked River’s own vehicle would only give his dad one more reason to resent him.

  But I have no doubt he’d jump into any car he could find right now and drive as recklessly through the snow as it takes to get to me.

  Without thought.

  Without hesitation.

  But I can’t let him do that.

  ME: No. I’ll be okay.

  RIVER: Like hell. I’m on my way.

  ME: River, no. Please. No.

  I don’t list my reasons why, but I’m sure he knows them. His answer is slower to come this time, and when the new text appears on the screen, I swear I can feel the pain and frustration that comes with it.

  RIVER: Goddammit.

  RIVER: Fine. I’m sending Dax and Chase, they’re closest to you. Are you safe?

  I don’t know how to answer that without mentioning Judge Hollowell’s name, so I tell him the only thing I can without lying.

  ME: I’m not hurt. I banged my head, but it’s not that bad. Your car is messed up though. I’m so sorry.

  RIVER: I don’t give a fuck about that, Low.

  There’s a brief pause, then another message comes through.

  RIVER: Dax and Chase are on their way.

  I can almost hear his low voice in my head as I read the text, can almost smell his comforting oak moss scent and see the entrancing gray color of his eyes. I clutch my phone like a lifeline, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve stopped shaking.

  As I texted with River, the adrenaline and nerves buzzing through my system faded a little, leaving me feeling weak and nauseated but more clearheaded. He has that effect on me, even from a distance.

  ME: Thank you.

  RIVER: I hate this.

  ME: I love you.

  My thumb hovers over the SEND button for several seconds as I stare at the words on the screen, a jolt of shock radiating through me. I typed them without thought, my honest reaction to the pain and longing in his text, but as I gaze at them, unblinking, certainty settles into my soul.

  Oh. Fuck.

  They’re true.

  I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I don’t know how it happened so suddenly and completely, but I’ve fallen hard for the four boys who rampaged into my life, tore it apart, and then dedicated themselves to helping me rebuild it.

  I love River for his sweetness and his strength, his intelligence and his ability to see right through me, always.

  But I can’t tell him that now. Not over text, and not when everything is so fucked up. Not when my head is throbbing and I feel like I’m about to barf.

  Not until I allow myself to fully believe this thing between all of us is real.

  My thumb moves up to the ERASE button, and I delete the message, tapping out a new one instead.

  ME: I know. I do too. But still, thank you.

  “Is someone coming for you, Miss? Do you need a tow truck?”

  The old man is still standing by my open passenger door. He’s popped his collar against the gusts of wind, and there’s a thin dusting of snow covering his hat. It matches the hair sticking out from underneath the dark wool.

  I look up at him, finally able to take in his appearance now that my mind is less hazy.

  “Someone’s coming,” I say. “Thank you for stopping, but I’m okay now. I’ll call a tow truck and wait.”

  He squints, scrunching up his whole face as he does. His wrinkles are deep, and his cheeks are flushed pink from the cold.

  “Well, I don’t feel right about just leaving you. I’ll tell you what. I’ll wait with you until they get here, okay?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him no, that I don’t need him to babysit me—but then I remember why I wrecked the car in the first place. I don’t think Judge Hollowell followed me at all, but just in case he does, having a witness nearby could save my life.

  “Sure. Thank you.”

  I try to muster up a smile, but it’s shaky and uneven. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and dab at the blood trickling down the side of my face. It was a small cut, and it’s already starting to clot, but the bruise throbs in time to my heartbeat, an angry, pulsing lump.

  “No problem, Miss. That was quite an accident. I’m glad you’re all right.”

  I nod, glancing back down at my phone. There are a couple more texts from River, one each from Chase and Dax, and several from Linc. Emotion tightens my throat, and I have to work to push words out.

  “Thanks. You can get in if you want.”

  “Oh!” He jerks in surprise. “Of course. Here I am letting all that cold air in.”

  He slides into the passenger seat. The door on his side works fine, but I have a feeling neither of the doors on my side will open like they used to. As he settles into the seat beside me, I glance down at my messages.

  Chase and Dax both tell me they’re on their way. River tells me the same thing, adding that they should reach me in about twenty minutes. The tone of Linc’s messages is curt, almost angry, and I know all four of the guys are kicking themselves for letting me go to the prison by myself today.

  But I’m not a damn princess in a tower. They can’t watch out for me all the time.

  I love them for trying though.

  The old man, whose name turns out to be Walt, speaks softly from time to time, commenting on the weather as the snowfall begins to lighten. But he never presses me to talk, and I’m grateful as fuck for it. I don’t have the energy or emotional capacity to make small talk with a stranger right now.

  The clock on the dashboard still works, and I watch the numbers change one by one, counting up from 3:24 p.m. When it’s nearly 3:50, I catch sight of movement in the rearview mirror. A car pulls onto Monroe Avenue, and I straighten in my seat, my breath catching.

  As the car moves closer, I catch sight of the boy in the driver’s seat and the one beside hi
m in the passenger seat. Coppery brown hair and features so similar they’re nearly identical draw my gaze as something in my chest unwinds, the tension finally leaving me.

  Dax and Chase.

  They’re here.

  3

  I fumble for the door handle before realizing that I was right earlier—this door definitely isn’t going to open. It’s not too horribly banged up, but the metal bent just enough to keep the door wedged closed.

  “Ah, having a little trouble. That’s all right.”

  Walt clucks his tongue and opens his door, heaving himself out of the car. He’s not a big man, but his joints don’t seem to work as well as they probably once did.

  Once out, he turns back to face me, holding out a hand. “Come on, now. This way.”

  I pull my legs up from under the steering wheel and crawl over the center console, fighting off a slight wave of dizziness as I do. The car is in worse shape than I am, but that’s not to say I feel great. I’ll be sore as hell tomorrow.

  Walt wraps an arm around me and helps me to my feet as I clamber awkwardly out of the car. Two heavy thuds fill the quiet, snow muffled street as the twins slam their car doors, and then Dax’s voice cuts across the space.

  “Hey!”

  There’s something vaguely threatening in his tone, and I’m obviously not the only one who hears it, because Walt blushes, holding me steady as he steps back. Once he’s sure I won’t fall over, he removes his hands from me entirely.

  A few seconds later, Dax and Chase reach us, and I’m pulled into their embrace and wrapped up in two strong sets of arms. Lips brush my hair, and they squeeze me so tight it’s hard to breathe.

  “Jesus, Low. What the fuck happened?” Dax mutters, his breath warm on my chilled skin.

  “Well, I… I can see you’re taken care of here, Miss.”

  I glance over Chase’s shoulder to see Walt staring at the three of us with a bemused expression. He’s probably trying to figure out which one of these boys I’m with, or whether we’re all just friends, or if they’re my brothers or something—not that we look anything alike.