It’s not about Remington—not in the way Remington wants it to be about Remington—and she needs to know that. But I have plenty of time to clarify that to her. Right now, I’m more interested in Anderson.
Taking into consideration the fact that my car is probably going to stand out in his neighborhood, I parked around the corner of his street, where he can’t see. But I can definitely see him and his inked chest glistening with sweat. The asshole doesn’t look bad, and for some reason, that bothers me. The images of him touching and doing things to Gwen morph into ones of him with Remington, and the thought stirs something in me that I never knew existed.
I want revenge. Justice.
But I don’t know the whole story, and it’s killing me.
Remington Stringer is not emancipated, but I sure as hell don’t know if her father or mother is around either. A Daniel Stringer signed every single school document for her. I assume that’s her father, but I don’t know how present he is. For all I know, Ryan is the only consistent person in her life.
That doesn’t deter me from hunting him down and bringing justice to my sister’s case, but for some reason, it gives me pause.
Beyond the tough exterior, Remington Stringer is a teenage girl who still needs to be taken care of, and I reluctantly recognize that.
I’m about to kick my vehicle into drive and leave. This was obviously a mistake. Stalking Ryan Anderson is not going to do me any good. If anything, it’s just going to make me angrier about my inability to act on my desire to throw him in a cell. I know where he is now. That’s what’s important.
My hand is on the console, and I twist my head to see that the road is clear when I hear her voice and still.
“Dinner’s ready, Ryan. Get your ass inside.”
She jumps the three steps down from her door to the yard, wearing an oversized shirt—and just the thought of it being his has me clenching my jaw—her bare, naked legs are long, and her brown, wavy hair is flying everywhere from the hot wind. I shouldn’t look. I don’t want to look. My gaze drifts to the house next door, but then she speaks again.
“Ryan, I need a favor, and I really need you not to be crappy about it.”
I can see her from my peripheral standing slightly above him, and he is peering down toward her shirt where her undergarments should be. I want to kill him and find my eyes following them again. It’s not the fact that he is looking down Miss Stringer’s shirt that bothers me. At least that’s what I tell myself. It’s the fact that he sees her as another victim. Just like Gwen.
“What do you need?” Anderson asks, his muscles flexing. Idiot. He is trying to seduce his stepsister, and for all I know, he might have already succeeded.
“Money for new shoes. I know you said you picked up some extra shifts at the shop…”
That actually makes me snort. If she really thinks that her stepbrother holds a legitimate job, she is dead wrong. I’ve been trying to find him everywhere in Vegas ever since Gwen died to no avail. And while it’s a fairly small city, it is what you call chaotic. Vegas is the perfect place to disappear. All the lights, parties, tourists, and temptation. He did a great job.
Until now.
“What’s wrong with your shoes?” Ryan puts his hands on his hips, scanning her legs. He stares at her in a way I can easily decode, even from across the street. I know this look because I sometimes give it to women, two seconds before I rip off their underwear with my teeth.
“They have a dress code at West Point.” She shrugs, moving her fingers through her hair. “Headmaster Charles has been bugging me about it. You know how they are. Stuck up and all.”
“Well, money is tight this month.”
“I thought you said you’re going to buy a new toy hauler to go spend the summer in California.” She clears her throat, and my heart breaks. It shouldn’t, but it does. This girl is a far cry from the brazen one in my class.
“You keeping tabs on me?” Anderson asks, pushing his chest toward her. It reminds me how she pushed her chest to me earlier today. I was a little taken aback at how bold she was, but I didn’t take into consideration the fact that it’s all she knows. She doesn’t k
now subtle. Wouldn’t know it even if it hit her on the head.
“Not keeping tabs, Ry. Just trying not to get into too much trouble at my new school.”
“Maybe you should get in trouble,” Ryan retorts. “That way you can stay here and quit eating up all those fantasies about leaving they’ve been feeding you there. I know your game, Rem. Know it well.”
Rem.
“Dinner’s getting cold,” she snaps, turning around and heading back into the shack they call home. I drive away, straight to the nearest mall.
Three, four, five pairs of smart, black-laced Oxford shoes in a few different sizes, just to be sure.
They’ll be waiting in her locker first thing in the morning.
Miss Stringer is not going to end up like my sister did. I will make sure of that.