Page 45 of Falling in Reverse

Tack on that my natural hair color is as black as my soul—as my mother so sweetly pointed out when I was thirteen—and sporting blue eyes that are currently boring daggers into the man’s forehead in front of me, and you have no one who could remind anyone of my mother.

My jaw ticks as I place both of my palms on the curve of the bar, extending my arms as I glower back at Mr. Moneybags. “What do you want? Did my mom love you and promise you forever? Did she tell you she was going to call?”

“No. I’m here to settle my debts.”

I cock my head to the side. “You're what now?”

“Your mother…she left me you when she died.” Warning goosebumps prickle at my skin as I steel my face against Giorgio Armani.

She left me you when she died. What am I, a pet?

I sniff indifferently through my nose and grab a glass, needing something to do with my hands before I lose my shit on this guy and get Jack in trouble. “That’s unfortunate. She’s dead. And I have a daddy, but thanks for the offer.”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m?—”

“Unless you want this glass shoved up your ass”—I hold it up to drive in my point—“stop talking. There’s no money, dude. You’re screwed. I don’t know what she told you, but it was obviously a lie. I’m not handling her estate, nor her issues. I got enough of my own. I’m checked out for therapy sessions this week.”

Giorgio Armani leans back against his high-backed chair and fiddles with his thumb and index finger, rubbing them together, as if this conversation isn’t just as weird as it is. “You obviously don’t know who I am, Miss Astor.”

Apparently, I don’t know any-fucking-one lately.

Mainly, it’s because I keep my ass in South Shore. All the other places are either mutual settings, where I’ll run out with Levi and the boys, but the rest is butt buddied up with The Landings.

“Obviously,” I vouch. “But I’m quickly learning you wouldn’t mind something up your ass.”

He mindlessly drops his glass to the wooden countertop, some of the liquid almost escaping and spilling on the surface. I hit a nerve—oops.

“You got that mouth from your mother.” I shrug because I really don’t care to talk about her right now. “How about you press your lips together and listen to what I have to say before you utter another smartass word?”

“Impossible.” He fixes me with a stern glower that any older adult would give to the generation underneath them. “What are you going to do? Choke me with your Rolex?”

A ghost of a smirk illuminates his face before it quickly disappears. “Nah, I’ll have your illegal little street races shut down. Also, I know that you’re one of many of South Shore’s runners who slide through my streets at night, delivering your weed. I’m allied with the county sheriff, after all.”

I bob my head, as if that’s the best he can do. I’m friends with the sheriff’s son. How does he think I’ve gotten away with it this long?

He leans forward and clasps his hands together once more. “I’m Emilio Wildes, darling. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

Fuck. My. Entire. Life.

Of all the people my mom would have looked at, spoken to, dealt with, or made any sort of alleged agreement with, she couldn’t pick anybody worse than this grimy prick.

AKA Torin’s father.

Not only that, but I’ve met all the Wildes men in less than a week and I’ve had my fill.

For the rest of my life.

“You got a lot of nerve coming in here,” I leer. “All I gotta say is your name.”

His lips curl into an amused smirk. “Do you want more visits at night, Miss Astor, or was one enough?” His words send a cold chill and reminder down my spine, and I can’t stop the shiver that racks my body. This is why you don’t judge a book by its cover. “I might be a rich bastard, but no ghetto-ass teenager is gonna fuck with mine. There’s a meaning to why I’m here, in enemy territory, searching for you.”

“Does it involve you tying yourself to a boat anchor and sinking to the bottom of the ocean outside?” I can’t help but ask. He just rocked my world in an entirely different way than I’ve ever wanted someone to. I don’t want that kind of heat in my life right now. I’m on his radar and it’s not a good thing. He knows about my family, he broke into my house, and he’s aware of what I do to put money in my pocket and pay the bills.

Is there another way to say I’m fucked? Because I am.

“Not quite yet.” He picks up his bourbon again and swirls the golden-brown liquid in his glass. It’s a scare tactic. He’s trying to wreck my nerves and is doing one hell of a time with it. “Your sisters…Ellie and, what was the youngest one’s name? Molly, Marie…”

Mae.

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