Page 1 of Falling in Reverse

ONE

bay

I hold my breath in case they can hear me. With the assumption that every nervous exhale I take will boom through the house like a cannon and give away that I’m awake.

Touching the doorknob gingerly to my bedroom, I slowly twist it, clutching the shotgun in my left hand with a death grip.

Someone’s getting shot tonight.

Dread tears through my veins as I slide through the small opening I’ve created and into the darkened hallway. My first thought goes to Mae and Ellie, my two young sisters, sleeping in the bedroom next to mine. Then Dad, still asleep in his La-Z-Boy chair—weak, vulnerable, and recovering from a stroke he suffered three weeks ago.

The hospital bills on the kitchen table used to be my biggest enemy in the house up until about two minutes ago. So many questions sprint through my brain all at once that I know I have to be conscious of the here and now versus why they picked this house to break into and possibly rob.

The distinct muttering of two male voices hits my ears then, and I freeze against the cool wall, allowing a slow, steady inhale of air before I do the same with my exhale.

Fuck.

I can thank my best friend, Levi, for never listening to me and providing me with the weapon that’s currently clutched in my palm. My fear was that it was too dangerous to have in the house with the girls always prying through my things and stealing half my shit.

He insisted—more like demanded—and put it under the dresser for safekeeping near my bed, and we never spoke about it again.

And without this damn thing, I’d only have my two fists and hopefully not a two-hundred-pound guy of muscle mere feet away right now.

Another sudden, heavy creak of the floorboards slices through my anxiety, and that’s when I round the corner to get this over with.

I’m working with only my aim and the element of surprise, but I can’t even have all of that. Because I run directly into the brick wall of a man, instinctively influencing me to step back and raise the barrel of my weapon.

My aim falls straight to a ski-mask covered head. The black outline of fabric does nothing but obviously hide his face.

However, those dark eyes notch up the adrenaline spike sprinting through my blood, along with a whole lot of pent-up anger.

“Get the fuck out,” I snarl, my heart fiercely pumping through my ears as two pairs of unaffected irises stare back at me.

He doesn’t react.

He just stares at me as my arms involuntarily shake from all the possibilities that could happen right now. That my sisters are only feet away from the both of us.

I need to move.

He needs to move.

And, if he doesn’t, it’ll give him a perfect opportunity to think about what to do next. It may just flip the script about my having the upper hand.

Shoving my gun into the plains of his chest, I’m hoping to get him to stumble toward the door, but it’s only one measly-ass step.

He probably doesn’t believe I’ll pull the damn trigger because I’m a chick and girls are always scared of the shit that lies in the dark.

However, little does he know that I’m no stranger to scary. And I’m definitely not a naive girl who thinks everything that happens in life is optimistic and rainbows.

Anything that happens from here on out is my American right.

I mean, it’s called self-defense. If I’m about to pop a cap in this fucker’s head, he started it.

I ended it.

I take another quick study of what I’m up against, fully aware my brain is hesitating. A black hoodie and jeans hide his frame. His neck is tatted, lips full and plush, with three or four inches on me. He’s obviously stupid too, so he’d have to be around my age.

“Move,” I command sharply, thrusting the metal into his chest again, harder this time, which doesn’t do much more to make him recoil or listen.

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