Page 10 of Falling in Reverse

Merciless reputation.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, allowing my spine to hit the uncomfortable back of my seat.

I need to get out of here.

No joke.

However, if I dip, I’m automatically guilty and thrown more on their radar. So the best action to take is an innocent chick who’s just cruising the streets and minding her own business.

Adjusting my ass into the driver’s seat, I feel my knife in the back pocket of my pants because I refuse to carry a gun. It’s too risky getting pulled over with an unregistered weapon, and I can’t serve any jail time, for obvious reasons.

The dude in the leather coat ambles closer. His chin tucked into his chest, which doesn’t give me any indicator of who he is and what kind of mess I’m in.

Maybe he’s coming over here to see if I’m okay?

Wishful thinking at its finest because he’s not.

Not him.

Definitely impossible when he lifts his head and reality slaps me in the face with zero remorse.

Because in front of me stands the notorious Torin Wildes in all his cocky, arrogant, I’ve always wanted to beat his ass one day glory.

My gut sinks into the withering pits of hunger, but that’s a normal feeling for me. Nor is it really a concern right now.

You really should’ve listened to Levi, Bay. What the fuck?

I’m so beyond screwed, it doesn’t even fully encompass the word. And there is no way I’m getting out of this without a fight.

Torin is the Prince of The Landings.

The gangbanger who’s always been at war with Levi.

The instigator who had gotten me in trouble with my ex on more than one occasion.

And he didn’t stop.

Wouldn’t stop.

Torin didn’t give a shit what consequences I had to face because he believed, in his entitled head, that he had free access to me and my body even though I was spoken for.

And I’ve been dodging him for years.

Years that may work in my favor.

“Hey, are you guys hurt?” I ask, as if I give a fuck—first of all—but there’s an undeniable tremble in my voice, and I’m suddenly reintroduced to pools of tawny brown eyes that bore into me as if he remembers exactly who I am. “Did you call the cops?”

“Do I look like someone who calls the cops, Bay?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

And double fuck.

His voice is deeper than I remember. Gingerbread-colored hair with tints of red, angry-glossed eyes that don’t look amused that he had to stop, and a set of full pink lips.

He’s absolutely beautiful with those boyish features and the charm that drips off his perfect skin.

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