Page 82 of Austin

I lift the garage door to see Beckett standing on the San Francisco street corner. His hand is still up in the air, as if he’s ready to continue pounding.

He looks down at his watch and then up at me like a sullen teenager. “You said you’d be down here two hours ago.”

“I got caught up in a meeting,” I say as I walk toward his Mustang.

“Oh, that’s right. Playing paperboy or some shit like that. Must be nice when you inherit Daddy’s money.”

He stalks into the garage, wearing jeans and a black leather jacket. He wants a fight, but I’m not in the mood to give it to him.

“Listen, man, I’ve been here for hours already, so if you don’t mind, just get your car and get out of here, so I can go home.”

We eye each other for a moment before I head forward to open his car door, hoping he’ll take the hint to get in and get out. He walks over, and instead of getting in, he places his hand on the door and slams it shut before I have a chance to stop it.

“Don’t think you’re all high and mighty. I could take you down in a second,” he says, his tone obviously annoyed.

I turn to him, my six foot two frame slightly above his. “I’m sorry. Do you have a problem with me? Do you need a reminder of what’s actually going on here?”

“No, let me remind you of what’s really going on here.” He pulls a business card out of his back pocket and holds it up in the air. It’s white with bold black lettering.

“What’s that?” I ask calmly even though my gut is telling me bad news is about to come.

He puffs out his chest and raises his chin at me. “I was at a race last night, and some guy was walking around, asking questions, wanted to know if anyone had heard of Falcon.”

He hands me the card. It’s a Sexton Media business card, and the name on it is none other than Marcus Galevry, Missy’s assistant.

“What did you say?”

“I said maybe. He was offering a few hundred bucks to anyone who had a lead on who had put together the race Tyler died at. I told him I raced Falcon that night and might have his number, but the phone was untraceable. He went to leave, but I called him back, told him I might have a name and could testify who had orchestrated the race if I really wanted to.”

I grind my teeth. “You’re bluffing.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.” He looks at me with an evil glare. “Maybe he put me on the phone with a woman named Missy Sexton. Damn, she sounds just as hot on the phone as she looks in pictures. I looked her up after we hung up, and”—he bites his knuckle—“you have one hot stepmama.” He lifts his chin and smirks at me, making me want to hurl at the notion of Missy being hot. “Anyway, she told me a nice story about how Falcon is really a very well-known playboy whose inheritance could be in jeopardy if he got arrested and was looking for someone with a vendetta against him to rat him out.”

“How much did she offer you?”

“A hundred thousand dollars. Can you believe that shit? I was digging anywhere I could to find out who you really were before I put two and two together with my sister, and this chick is gonna spend bank to do what I did for free. She must be pretty desperate to pin this shit on you.”

“I’ll pay you the same to keep your mouth shut.”

He smiles a closed-mouth smile, sauntering over to my Porsche, and runs his hand along the slick meteor-gray metallic hood. “Don’t worry, Falcon; I’m not planning to sell you out. I mean, it is pretty interesting when your stepmom’s assistant comes lurking around, trying to get dirt on her stepson. I don’t know what kind of fucked up shit goes on around here, but I don’t want to be a part of it.”

My shoulders relax at his words, but I’m still not fully relieved. “What do you want then?”

“A race,” he states with a slight tilt to his head. “You and me one more time.”

“No,” I answer quickly.

Beckett’s head flinches at my comment, like it’s the last thing he wanted to hear. “What the hell do you mean, no?”

“I don’t re-race people after I win, and I know Jalynn would have my ass if I agreed to this.”

“She’s already got you by the balls like that?”

I glare at him, daring him to say more about my relationship with his sister.

“Hey, I said I’m not planning on selling you out. I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” he spits.

My eyes nearly bulge out of my head. “Are you threatening me? Am I supposed to be scared?”