Page 43 of Falling in Reverse

“Your shirt,” she repeats with more sternness to her tone. “I need to hide this cut.”

“You need to hide your entire existence from my sight,” I mutter as Reeve chuckles and pulls a bit at Bay’s bicep before unbuttoning his dress shirt and showing off his hard ab muscles and tattoos.

“Here you go, baby. Sleep with it on tonight. I’ll come back for it later.”

She smirks at him and takes it without question. “Thank you.”

“Baby, anything for you.”

With one more award-winning smile, she rounds my body and takes off, still holding Reeve’s concentration as he stares off after her when she disappears out of the kitchen.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I chide through narrowed brows. “Did you not catch anything I was saying?”

“Which part?” Reeve asks. “The Wallace part, or the fact that I don’t care?”

“Care, brother,” I leer. “We’re not about to get into any more shit with South Shore, because I don’t have the energy for it. Torin is already causing enough for us.”

“Wallace started it. He stole our guns.”

“Ramsey’s guns that shouldn’t have been in South Shore in the first place. She’s off-limits. To everyone.”

Reeve hits me with an unamused stare. “Anything else?”

“I dunno. Can you manage it?”

He pushes out his lips and flat out says, “Probably not.”

ELEVEN

bay

Standing on the bar top at The Stowaway, an establishment that I work at on weekends, I messily pour shots of tequila into raised empty glasses as “Ocean Avenue” by Yellowcard blasts from the speakers.

I rev myself up for the chorus, bending over and letting my long dark hair fall over my face, swinging it back and forth. My hips sway along in my tight black shorts before straightening up my spine and raising the bottle of Jose Cuervo up in the air to sing with my customers.

“If I could find you nowwww, things would get better! We could leave this town and run foreverrrr! Let your waves crash down on me and take me away-eh-yeah-yeah-yeah.”

The crowd underneath me—mostly millennials who lived during the glory days of this song—jump up and down, tipping their shots down their throats and continuing through the rest of the lyrics.

If it’s one thing I’m amazing at, it’s hyping the crowd of any age group. Earlier, when there were plenty of middle-aged groups in here, it was 80s hits and hair bands. Now that it’s past midnight, they’ve scattered back home, but the few who can hang for the late-night folks are still here watching.

Pivoting around the slippery surface, Jack, the owner, holds out a large hand to help me down. “You’re lucky you do what you do,” he pipes in, peppered hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. “If I get a call on some kid workin’ at my bar that I pay under the table, I’m gonna lose more than my ass.”

“And it’s such a great ass,” I compliment, pulling a hanging wineglass from overhead and searching for the bottle of merlot I need.

“Bay, your young ass better be careful. I can’t afford to surrender this place.”

I glimpse over my shoulder to smile at him. “I got my excuse all down if something happens.” His worried expression doesn’t falter. Jack’s kindness has gotten food in my sisters’ mouths when my parents were struggling with bills and he knew right off the bat I was under eighteen. “I’ll be careful, I promise. You’re still my alleged uncle, right?” He nods. “Perfect. Don’t forget, or you’ll blow the story.”

Jack gives me a curt nod, satisfied for now that he’s not going to fire me, then walks back along the far side of the bar to handle the customers that way.

Finding the red wine I need, I pour a glass and serve it up to my female regular. A real estate agent from around here who’s been having a hard time selling anything in this town because it’s full of violence and poverty.

I wipe down the countertop and put away some dirty glasses, when a male voice sounds in front of me, requesting a bourbon straight.

I glance up to find a man in a gray windowpane suit, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a white dress shirt with the collar popped up and the top button undone. His hands are folded over the bar as he looks blatantly at me through jagged blue eyes. The faint stubble to his jawline and upper lips doesn’t make him a day over fifty.

However, I’m curious as to how he showed up here, of all places, because he’s definitely lost. Men in plaid and dirty jeans fill up this joint on a daily basis and I’ve never seen someone so done up walk in here.

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