Page 53 of Pretty Little Lies

“Ramsey, don’t insert yourself and imply what I’m meaning when the only thing you know how to handle is scared dick. Drink your bourbon and pretend like you matter in the grand scheme of things.”

“I do. You have to fight De Leon for yours. How devastating it would be for you to fail your family. Then again, they aren’t yourrealfamily, are they? You’re just a stray puppy they felt bad about and took in.”

His words hit home.

So much.

They aren’t your real family, are they?

I never fathomed that the broody asshole who held a top tier for the Forsaken Crew would ever have something in common with me. Was he lied to, too? And how much those words possibly suck for him as well as the reality of what I faced when I found out my true identity.

“Then I must be from the same pound,” I assert. “Because I was living that lie for years.”

“But you’re not anymore.” My light pink cocktail that Emilio asked I try is offered in Ramsey’s hand. “And you’ve handled more than that opulent chick who doesn’t know whennotto show her cards.”

I take my drink, happy for the distraction when the waiter comes to my side. “Excuse me, Miss?” Glimpsing up from my shoulder, he gives me a smile and presents, what appears to be, a small note.

I give him a curt nod of thanks, plucking the folded lined piece of paper, which automatically stands out to me. This place is so fancy that lined paper seems too normal and basic.

Spreading it out, it’s maybe a quarter of the whole sheet, ripped carelessly and unevenly to be doubled over and given to me.

And in blank ink are words all in caps.

YOU LOOK PRETTY TODAY. I LIKE YOU IN BLUE.

MEN’S BATHROOM, FIVE MINUTES.

My eyes drift to Reeve, whose hazels I’ve memorized, even when they’re a mile away with the space on the table, are already clinging to me. His full lips are spread into a handsome smirk. Tonight, he’s in a white button-up that rolls over his forearms, the collar teasing the extent of his neck and, looking at it now, I want to lick it.

Random.

As fuck.

Maybe I will. The tension could be served to this whole gathering tonight with leftovers and the need for air sounds incredible right now.

Those five minutes hang prolonged in the air before I’m excusing myself and asking a member of the waitstaff where the restrooms are.

On the other side of the restaurant, I locate them, then pause at the door.

Why the men’s bathroom?

Inhaling a deep breath, I listen for anybody who might be inside. Nothing greets me back as I slide in and pray to God Reeve isn’t late. I just want to talk to someone for a second who doesn’t hate me and could possibly carry me through tonight’s meal.

Inside, the bathroom is a stark contrast to the dining area. Walls of white marble and wood give it a crisp, clean look. It smells like lemon, not a speck of water lying on the wooden countertops or near the sinks. It’s not very big, only holding three stainless steel stalls and urinals, but it’s boujee as fuck.

The bathroom door swings open, hiding me for the briefest of seconds behind it, when in steps Torin. Black dress-up shirt only cuffed once to show off his silver watch. His matching slacks and shiny shoes make him look like the offspring of peril.

“Wildfire.” My name is a mumble, something he’s normally not known for. Those amber eyes skate down my dress, but I steel myself against it.

I may have hurt his feelings the other day with what I said with Matteo. That I was disgusted at the thought of belonging to him.

And, in a way, I kinda would be.

However, history repeats itself, doesn’t it? Foes eventually stop fighting, friendships are born, love affairs are formed.

We’re a new generation of this shit.

Yet, it doesn’t stop Emilio from being a selfish prick or my predicament with protecting my family.

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