Page 8 of Bitter Rival

It feels like there’s an imaginary line and stepping over it would be a lot like opening Pandora’s box, so I stay where I am, swipe my thumb over the screen and call her.

My gaze darts to the bed where the buzzing sound is coming from.

I cut the call and take a step inside and then another and snatch up the phone tucked under the pillow. Her phone is one of the early iPhone models and compared to mine, it looks like a relic.

I’m not surprised that she was irresponsible enough to leave the house without her phone but what if the truck breaks down or she runs out of gas on one of the rural backroads?

Why should I even care? I’m sure she’d have no trouble hitching a ride back to the house.

I can envision some asshole trucker hitting the brakes when he sees her stranded on the side of the road in her little T-shirt and pouty lips and that fucking body of hers—slender but with curves in all the right places—and he’d take one look at her and imagine what he could do to her.

It would be just like her to put herself in that kind of danger.

Fucking hell. I shouldn’t even be concerned about Daisy’s welfare. I’m sure she can fend for herself.

The phone buzzes in my hand and a message appears on the screen. Anyone with a modicum of decency would refrain from reading it and normally I wouldn’t invade someone’s privacy to this degree, but I don’t trust Daisy so that’s how I justify my actions.

Finn

The other night was a trip, huh? Thought it was Adderall but the asshole must have laced it with some bad shit

Adderall, my ass. And who the fuck is Finn?

But that explains why she canceled her original flight. She messaged to say she had to reschedule because Something came up. Which also explains how tired she looked. She was probably doing drugs for days and crashed on the flight from New York.

The phone buzzes with another message and this time I have no qualms about reading it.

Finn

Hope that prick’s treating you right. If you need me to come out there and rearrange his face, just say the word

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I’m the prick he’s referring to but if he thinks he would even stand a chance of “rearranging my face,” he’s an idiot. I’m six foot four and weigh two hundred forty pounds, most of which is muscle.

No one has been foolish enough to pick a fight with me since I was a teenager.

I shove the phone under the pillow where I found it and stare at her bag, debating. If Daisy is an addict and in possession of illegal substances, I’d have grounds to fight her on the inheritance.

But going through someone’s things is a violation of their privacy, and what would my defense be for rifling through her bag?

I checked her messages, so it was within my rights to search her bag.

Not sure that would fly. I’m not a lawyer but even I know that wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.

I back into the hallway and jog down the stairs, still debating what to do when my grandmother calls. “Hi, honey, is this a good time?”

Every time she calls, she starts off the conversation the same way. She never wants to inconvenience me. I put in my earphones and grab a bottle of old vine zinfandel from my father’s private stash. “Yeah, it’s a good time.”

“Oh good. Is Daisy with you?”

“She’s gone out.” I pour a glass of wine and wander out to the terrace as the sun is setting over the vineyard, the sky awash in shades of pink and orange with the purple mountains as the backdrop. I’d forgotten how beautiful the sunsets are out here.

“But yes, I picked her up from the airport this afternoon,” I say, dropping into a cushioned chair and propping my feet on the rattan coffee table.

“I hope you’re not being rude to her.”

I snort and take a swig of wine. I usually stick to beer or whiskey out of principle, but I plan to spend the next three months depleting my father’s wine cellar. Might as well get something out of this deal.

“I’m treating her the way she deserves to be treated.”

---