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cocks his head, his eyes narrowing. “You expect me to
believe that?”
    “You can believe whatever you want,” I say. I widen the
stance of my legs a little, just enough that they push against his.
“But that’s the truth.”
    He
taps his fingers against me, contemplating. “Well, wherever
he’s hiding, a bet’s a bet,” he says. “And a
debt’s a debt.”
    So
the answer to my earlier question: betting . At least Jamie’s
not getting the shit beat out of him. Small favors.
    “Maybe the police would be interested to hear about all your
success,” I say.
    “They might,” he says. “But I think they know it
all already. In fact, a lot of them were there to see it happen.”
    “So I guess you just know everyone and everything.”
    “Not everything,” he says, working my hipbones lightly
between his thumb and forefinger, the sensation not searching this
time, but seeking, a tease of a touch. I know I should tell him to
stop, but I don’t want him to. “I don’t know your
name.”
    “Why
should I tell you my name?” I say.
    “I
want to make sure I use the right one when I’m alone in bed
later.”
    “I
find it hard to believe you go to bed alone.”
    “What
are you proposing?” he says as I feel a vibration on my leg.
It’s nearly unnoticeable at first since my whole body seems to
be vibrating from the sensation of being this close to Ryder again,
until I realize it’s his phone, tucked in his jean pocket.
    Leaving
one hand casually draped on my hip, he pulls out the phone with the
other. “Yeah?” he says into it.
    While
he takes the call, I take in the state of affairs on the desk behind
him. If there’s an organizing principle here, I can’t
determine it. There’s a balance sheet next to a pile of
invoices, a handful of receipts that seem to be in no particular
order, a list of one-word names—“Miller” and
“Crutcher”—in a date book with a system of check
marks and minuses.
    I
wonder if the names are fighters. And if they are, I worry about what
the minuses mean for them, or someone like Jamie, who’s putting
money on them.
    “Fucking
Brightfield. Just bring all the files here,” Ryder says into
the phone. “And be discreet. I’ve already got an
accountant in handcuffs, I don’t need you next to him.”
He digs his fingers into my side as the tenor of the conversation
becomes more agitated. “Unless you became a CPA and I missed
it, there’s nothing else to do. Get here as soon as you can.”
He hangs up the call, squeezing me a little between his legs as he
runs his hands through his thick, dark hair. He tips his head back
and closes his eyes.
    “Personnel
problems?” I say.
    “Something
like that.”
    “I
thought you knew all the cops.”
    “It
wasn’t my dirty laundry he got caught with,” Ryder says.
    “So
you don’t cook your books?”
    “Believe
it or not, tiger,” he says, “I do follow some rules.”
He stands, and we’re so close our torsos touch as we breathe.
“Though I prefer to have other people follow mine.” His
hands brush my wrists, lingering on the inside where my pulse is,
quickening as the memory of him pressed against me the other night in
my bedroom floods my brain.
    Focus,
Cass.
    I
take a step back, breaking from his touch, and look up at him. “I
can do it,” I say. “I can do your books. I have an
accounting degree and I was the bookkeeper at my dad’s auto
shop. I’m good at it and I’m trustworthy. And you don’t
have to pay me. Just put it towards Jamie’s debt.”
    “How sweet,” he says. “Big sis wants to save the
day.”
    “He doesn’t have the money,” I say. “And I’ll
be damned if you’re taking my house.”
    Ryder crosses his arms, taps his lips in contemplation. “Why
are you doing this? Protecting him?”
    “He’s
my brother,” I say. “What can I say? I’m loyal.”
    “If
you’re so loyal,” he says, “where were you when he
was going down this rabbit hole?”
“I was,” I
start to say,