Page 35 of Falling in Reverse

I begin to step further into the party before Levi’s fingers wrap tightly around my bicep and keep me locked in place.

“I know what you two are doing,” he accuses through his teeth, and I don’t even need to look over at him. I can feel the heat of his gaze against the back of my head. “This little double team act isn’t going to get me to take the chance of the two of you getting pulled into a room?—”

“Didn’t you bring us here to pimp us out?” Nessa solicits, and that was a bad choice of words.

Levi is going to lose his shit in approximately two seconds unless I do something about it.

“I’m not going to go far,” I proclaim, turning around so that he can see me. Those green irises latch on to me, and I know he worries about me more than he should.

And he talks about fucking up the vibe, goodness.

“We meet back here in twenty-five minutes,” he commands through the tightness of his stubbled jaw. “You’re not back, I’m tearing this whole place apart.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“And what about me?” Nessa asks before I’m turning around and getting away from my best friend before he changes his damn mind.

I got about thirty pills on me, which if he’d give me more time, I might be able to sell them all within an hour so we can leave. This isn’t my scene, but I understand why Levi picked it.

Striding deeper inside this mansion of a house, the walls are brown shades of brick and industrial lighting. To my far left appears to be the kitchen and to my right a full scale of rooms that I’m definitely not going to go anywhere near.

Until I see a group of girls stumbling inside one of them. It’s not a bedroom, per se, but what looks to be an entertainment area.

Taking a chance, I stride closer and find the same thick hardwoods and a plethora of beer kegs, a makeshift dance floor with a disco ball over it, and a bunch of arcade games.

And I’m not even three steps into the place when a hand lands on my ass and I’m spinning around to see what the fuck?

That was about five minutes ago, and after a throng of cuss words thrown back and forth at the asshole who decided he could just grab me without any consequences.

I’m circling a wild gazelle, whose bulging green eyes are narrowed in on me, because I just delivered him a right hook that sent him stumbling back into a group of males. They haven’t stopped laughing at him for getting hit by a girl.

He started it.

I was trying to mind my own business, which resulted in my elbow meeting his face when he wouldn’t stop trying to corner me into a circle of his friends, and here we are.

I gave him an out, blamed it on not wanting to get blood on my white tee, and he acted like I called him a fucking moron before spitting at his feet.

Then he swung at me.

That’s the main problem I seem to have with guys out here. When you literally hit their ego, they rage out.

However, most of the time, that blinds them to being able to focus and gives me the upper hand to get a few good shots before I run.

I’m not that stupid to know that one proper right hand from a dude might land me on my ass or knocked out.

But this fucking bitch.

He’s already scooped up an empty beer bottle and threw it at me, cutting my forearm to protect my face. Then he took some guy’s pool stick—still haven’t seen the pool table yet—and began beating me with it as if I was his wife.

That’s what set me off.

I’ve been beaten enough in my time by the man who had a repeated streak of apologizing, then treating me like shit two minutes later. I wasn’t going to accept it from this prick who couldn’t take no for an answer.

The dude I’m fighting thrusts a right hand at me, and I block it with my throbbing forearm, blood trickling down my skin.

My arm throbs in protest against the bone-on-bone collision, and I grunt, pissed that he hurt me and irritated because of everything I already said.

“Tap out, bitch,” he growls loudly at me, needing everyone to hear it, apparently. “You don’t want this.”

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