Page 36 of Rear View

Xavier

My girl was careful. Wasn’t on socials, didn’t go out, drink, anything. Something was up with it. Fucked if I knew what, and no doubt it was linked to that past she wasn’t keen to talk about. But not hearing from her, it had my lungs tightening.

The weather was shit. Freezing rain iced the windshield and coated the hood. And I hated the idea of her being stuck out there.

My gut torqued, telling me something wasn’t right. Couldn’t place why, and I couldn’t shake it either. Yeah, my old man was getting out in three days, but that wasn’t it. I needed to figure it out, though, ’cause that feeling sucked ass.

I stroked the key chain Ryah’d got me when the buzz of my phone vibrated through the vehicle. I snatched it up and scanned the screen. A text from Alec came through.

Alec: Sheila stole my phone and took this the other night. Said I needed to send it to you.

A picture followed. One of me and Ryah at the pub. Her back was to my chest, my arms around her. There was a smile on that pretty face, those copper eyes soft. The way we looked at each other… Christ. It was deep. Real goddamn deep. And perfect. I saved it and tucked my phone away.

Shifting in my seat, I eyed the path to the psych building. Fuck it. I hopped out and headed for the entrance. Had no clue where I was going, but I stuck my head in door after door, lookin’ for her anyway.

A security guard stood there—that Stan guy from the first day dream girl and I’d met.

His attention was fixed down the hall, toward a string of offices there.

My stare lit on one door in particular. Barlowe’s.

Ryah’s Prof…the dick guy. I advanced, aiming that way.

It was closed, so I rapped my knuckles against it.

“Come in,” he said.

Swinging the door wide, I stepped inside. The guy sat behind a desk there, one with a high-tech setup. He had bronze hair that hit the shoulders of his pompous sweater-vest. And he looked every bit the self-important prick I’d expected.

He stiffened, hit the power button on the side of his monitor and faced me. “Can I help you?”

“Wonderin’ if you’ve seen Ryah Nolan?”

Tipping his head back, he looked down his nose at me. “Who’s asking?”

It wasn’t the question that ticked me off, but the fake, arrogant-ass tone he used to deliver it. I flicked my chin up. “The boyfriend.”

“Ah.” He swiveled his chair to face me and folded his hands over his stomach. “The one interfering with her work.”

I cocked a slow brow, took another step deeper and stretched my neck. “’Scuse me?”

He cleared his throat. “She’s at a critical stage of her education and can’t afford your interruptions.”

Pretty sure she was smart enough to sort that for herself, which meant the laugh I huffed was dark as hell and just as dangerous. “That so?”

“Yes. Your presence has become problematic for her.”

Guy was used to having control—to the title stuck on his door getting him his way.

It was written all over him. Too bad for Barlowe, I’d grown up with Peter Bosch as a father, so I wasn’t about that shit.

“Pretty sure you’re crossin’ some kinda line right now, boss.

” I clenched my fists so hard, the skin creaked.

“And I ain’t one of your students, yeah. So, I suggest you step off.”

His jaw ticked. He looked away.

I rolled my shoulders. “You seen Ryah or not?”

“No.”

“That’s all I needed.” I pivoted on my heel and left. Pulling out my phone, I shook off Professor Shithead and fired off a text.

Me: You heard from your sister today?

The response came quick.

Miles: Yeah. She texted about 20 minutes ago. Just got home. Why? Everything cool?

Just got home? The hell was going on? I was supposed to get her. Take her driving. Yeah, the weather’d been an obstacle, but still. Had I messed that up? I scrolled back, scanning our messages from the night before. Nope. I’d gotten it right.

Me: I’ll let ya know.

I made for my Jeep and dialed her again. It rang and rang. Nothing.

Had she forgot? Didn’t seem like something she’d do, but nothing else was making sense. When I hopped in my vehicle, I popped it in gear and fought not to speed when I drove my ass over to her apartment.

* * *

Pulling into Ryah’s lot, I parked, jumped out, and hit the code for her apartment. The security lock clicked free. I took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, then stopped at her door and knocked.

A shuffling sounded from the other side. The entrance cracked open, and Ryah appeared. Her copper eyes were bloodshot and red around their edges. They lifted and held for a beat before she looked away.

I set a hand on the frame and peered past her, but no one was around. “What’s going on, darlin’? I waited for you at your school. You weren’t answerin’ my calls or texts.”

Shaking her head, she stepped back and sniffed.

I furrowed my brow as that earlier knot in my gut twisted tighter. I caught the door and crossed inside, completely lost. “I’m missing somethin’, Ryah.”

She faced away, her small hands on the counter like she needed the support, and answered, “You know what happened, Xavier.” Her soft voice hitched. “You were a part of it.”

My heart damn well dropped, ’cause the sight of her back near gutted me.

I closed in, my palms landing on the counter beside hers when I pressed myself flush against her.

She was hurting bad, and—fuck me—the pain in my chest made it tough to breathe.

“What’s wrong?” Christ. Just tell me what’s wrong.

She slipped outta my hold and edged away. “Please tell me you’re joking?”

The shake of my head was sharp. “Not even a little.”

Aiming for the living room, she scooped some papers from the coffee table there, then shuffled back to the kitchen and set them in front of me.

My stare narrowed as it held hers, only releasing to peer down at those pages. The NSM article. I scanned the photo of me and Alec before my attention flicked to the headline. The more I read, the more pissed I got.

Single In Sport: How Two Bachelor Racers Are Changing The Face Of Rally And Flocking Female Fans To The Fray.

Single? Bachelor? What the hell ?

No wonder she was upset. Christ. She’d thought I played her.

That I was hiding her. I knew I would’ve if the script were flipped.

But what did I say? “Sorry, darlin’. I didn’t know.

” ? Didn’t matter that it was true, ’cause the optics were shit.

Anything I told her’d only make it look like I was covering my ass.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t gonna talk, ’cause there was someone who goddamn well needed to hear it.

There was a thump at the door and Ryah flinched, her body going rigid. I angled my glare that way. Her steps were small like she was scared when she headed toward it and checked that peephole. Frowning, she swiped her tears away and cracked it open.

“Christian?” she said, voice rising.

My jaw locked down. Christian? The fuck?

“Somebody propped the door open downstairs. I just wanted to check on you,” he said, his tone easy.

He’d only be checking if he knew something was wrong, which meant, surer than shit, he’d seen that article. And I’d put good money on him being the one to shove it in her face.

His eyes tracked into the apartment and landed on me. Pushing past her, he stormed inside, stopping a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d suggest you pull back,” I said through my teeth.

He shook his head. “I warned her about you. I told her you’d hurt her.”

Ryah sealed the entrance and tore a hand through her hair. “Christian, stop.”

My arm twitched, itching to introduce my fist to his face, but pissed as I was, he wasn’t the one who had something to prove. Jerking my phone from my pocket, I punched Trina’s number and put it on speaker so my girl could hear every damn word, then chucked the thing on the counter between us.