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“It wasn’t an accident. It was a fucking crime.”
“Only because he stole his parents’ car—”
“Only,” I muttered.
“He was barely eighteen.”
“He was a spoiled rich kid who got off too fucking easy,” I snapped. “Why are you defending him?”
She flinched away from my harsh tone. “I’m not. I’m just trying to understand.”
I raked my hands through my hair. Fuck. None of this was Dakota’s fault. Her heart was just too big. She was too compassionate.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m rattled. That’s all.”
“Me too. But he seems sincere.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t really matter if he’s sorry. He can’t undo what he’s done. There’s no taking it back.”
A fresh fall of tears washed down Dakota’s face, and I couldn’t take another minute of it.
“Fuck this. Fuck him. He can’t do this. He can’t toy with our fucking emotions like this.”
“Kit, I don’t know that he’s toying with us.”
I headed for the door, unable to stay a minute longer. I needed air. I could hardly breathe. My head throbbed to the beat of the music in that Omaha nightclub where we’d met. My heart raced, just as it had when he’d touched me in his hideous car.
Chills raced over my skin when I thought about his nickname and what it really meant.
Joyride.
Because he’d been joyriding when he hurt Dakota. What kind of sick joke was that?
My hands balled into fists. I wasn’t a violent guy, not even close, but the image of my hands wrapped around Joey’s throat rose in my mind’s eye. I wanted to strangle him. I wanted to kill the asshole who caused my sister so much pain.
“Kit, please don’t do anything crazy!” Dakota called after me.
I shut the door behind me without answering. I wouldn’t make her any promises I couldn’t keep.
I stormed out to my car, got in, and started the engine.
Joey could find our house by asking around? Well, I had him beat there. I didn’t even have to ask. I’d known where Joey Whittaker lived since Dakota’s accident. In a big fancy house in the richest area of town, with his lawyer father who’d pulled strings with the judge to keep his sentence as light as legally possible. With his mother, who’d always looked immaculate—even with tear-stained cheeks in the hospital hallways.
There’d never been a trial. Joey pleaded guilty for a reduced sentence. I’d only seen him once—from a distance—in a hospital bed, face bruised, eyes closed.
He’d looked young and small in that bed.
Soft and spoiled. Golden hair shining under the overhead lights.
A prince who’d thought he could do anything and get away with it.
He didn’t resemble the Joyride I’d met in Omaha. He’d been a boy. Now, he was a man. He’d bulked up in prison. His hair was darker. His face harder.
But inside, he was the same.
A guy who’d hurt Dakota—twice now—and I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.
CHAPTER 7
