Page 83 of Pretty Little Lies

“Unfortunately,” he replies, giving me a little tug in his direction as he still holds on to my—Levi’s—jacket. “Damn, girl, would you of rather drowned?”

“Miss, your drinks.” I glimpse over my shoulder at the bartender, dressed to the nines, as he slides over my whiskey sour and Ramsey’s bourbon. I did promise—sorta—that we’d play some poker and empty out some wallets.

“Thanks.” I reach for both beverages and then promptly met with Torin’s fucking famous glower again. “What?”

“What did I tell you about staying away from my brother.” His sharp jaw flinches, trying his best to keep probably the next words from seeping out.

“I’m gambling. I’m not going to go sleep with him. He’s my…brother.” Torin’s brow pops, for obvious reasons. It never stopped me before. “And I’m losing money right now by standing here, so if you’ll excuse?—”

“Stanton.” The authoritative octave of Emilio Wildes fills my ears, flanking my right and I’m immediately on guard for Reeve. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away the hell away from my daughter?”

“Good thing I did, Wildes,” Reeve sneers through his teeth, revolving to face him, and I notice him keeping his arm in front of me for protection. “Because, if I hadn’t, your boys would’ve gang raped her.”

“So you decided to.” He raises a ringed hand, a gold band wrapped around his middle finger and his expression is murderous. “I’m sorry, youfakedit.”

Movement in my peripheral gains my attention, and we’re surrounded by at least six guys, all wrapped in half-ass suit and ties.

And what I mean by half-ass is that their white dress shirts are half tucked in and hanging out of their black dress pants. Each one sending over thatfuck with us and find outvibe and it’s a perfect reminder that I’m alone here.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Daddy Wildes,” Reeve mouths off without a fuck given. “Be grateful that I didn’t take what I already wanted by force.”

A vein ticks in Emilio’s temple and I inconspicuously touch Reeve’s lower back to chill. I don’t like the way Emilio is observing Reeve like he’s creating a plan to get even.

“I’m fine,” I emit, gaining Emilio’s immediate attention. “No harm, no foul. I’m standing next to him, aren’t I?”

“I expect more respect coming from the boys who are supposed to be overtaking my muscle to The Landings. Especially for my fucking daughter.”

Okay…so he’s mad mad.

“It was him against several men,” I retort. “Yourmen. He would’ve been overthrown easily. Be grateful that it wasn’t worse.”

Emilio doesn’t ease up on his ragey expression. “I’ve told you over a handful of times to stay out of The Landings with drugs and you show up with a whole goddamn ice cream truck filled. Don’t preach to me what you think I should or shouldn’t do. Why the hell I had this idiot”—he gestures to Reeve—“babysit them is beyond me because you fed them right into South Shore’s hands.”

Wait, what?

I meet Torin’s gaze, but he doesn’t give me a thing other than what I may have already conjured in my head.

They blamed the shootings on South Shore.

“I’ll take full responsibility of my actions,” I retort. “But you need to get better men who aren’t so fucking sex-deprived that they’ll take the first female they see. They should’ve been focused on the weed,notme.”

Torin flanks my other side, brushing against my arm. “Not here. We don’t argue in public, and I’m sure you don’t want your buddies watching you fight with your daughter who you haven’t broadcasted to anyone.”

“It’s forherprotection.” Emilio flicks his matching blue eyes to me. “And the situation has been rectified.”

By the men standing by my side.

“Come find me before you leave,” he orders with undeniable authority to his tone. “I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

Don’t need it, but okay.

“Sure.” My one-word answer gets him to stride away with his entourage, but they make sure to give Reeve and Torin one last standing glare before fucking off.

I almost want to tell him to take me because the room just heated up to a thousand degrees, and I’m getting third-degree burns from the glares pointed in my direction.

“My God, Torin,” I practically whine. “Now, what?”

“Since when are we playing nice with Pops?” Torin grinds out, nostrils flaring in and out like an angry blowfish. “Is there a magic number for that shit? I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

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