Alpha Knight

Chapter 1-3

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 a*s. 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 f**k 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 f**k 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 d**k 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 d**k-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 Triumph, 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 s*x. 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.