Page 112 of Exposed

He struggles to his feet—pissed and with his sights set on me.

But Dex holds out a hand to stop him. “After all that, you’re still defending my sister’s honor. You might be the real thing after all.”

He has no fucking idea.

I need to get the hell out of here before I really kill someone. That’ll fuck up my case, my job, and probably the rest of my life.

And there’s the fact my body is tightening up faster than the figurative noose around my neck.

My ribs scream when I bend to tag the duffle, push past Dex, and through the front door.

I stalk to my car, pop the trunk, and toss the money inside.

I’m barely three houses down the street when my cell vibrates. I groan when I have to lean back and dig it out of my pocket.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.

Fuck.

I can’t remember the last time I was this messed up.

I put the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”

“We didn’t hear any gunshots and you walked out on your own two feet, so I assume that means you’re okay,” Brax states.

I check my mirrors to make sure no one is following me who isn’t supposed to, and take a left. “I’m fucking pissed.”

“I bet you are,” Micah says. “Are you headed to the meeting point?”

“Where else would I go?” I grit and feel it in my gut when I turn the wheel left with one hand.

“The fact that you’re not headed to the hospital tells me you’re at least coherent enough to drive,” Micah notes.

“Save the commentary and make sure no one’s following me,” I say.

“We’re on your tail and there are two more doing surveillance back at the cash house to keep watch,” Brax says. “We’ll see you there.”

I don’t say another word and toss my phone to the passenger seat. What started out as a throb is becoming a gong in my head.

Fucking Dex Carter. Goldie was right. We need to wrap this shit up fast, and it has nothing to do with our fake wedding looming on the calendar.

I need to put Dex in prison and bury Rand six feet under.

I’m fucking done with both of them.

22

THE TRUTH

Goldie

“Iwon again!” Trippy exclaims for the second time, as we’ve run out of room on the table for more dominoes. She sighs. “I’m pooped. It’s time for my Diet Coke.”

If I’ve learned anything today, Trippy is on a schedule. She laid it out for Rocco and me when she explained what we’d be doing today.

Line dancing at ten.

Arguing with Norma at ten-twenty-two. This isn’t a daily thing, but it does happen more often than not.

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