Page 26 of Resist Me (Forget the Past 3)

But I’d rather not start a habit of training people to be successful criminals. My real job revolves around teaching people to survive, and this kid seems to have a death wish.

“He’ll see me.” I feign a relaxed posture, leaning back against the wall with my arms crossed. He doesn’t need to know that puts my hand in a perfect position to slip my gun from its holster. “Tell him Luna is here to talk.”

The kid obviously doesn’t like taking orders, his scowl deepening. “Listen, bitch. I’m not telling him anything. You better get the fuck out of here before I stop being nice.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Or to kick him in the nuts. I hate it when a boy calls a woman a bitch just because he’s intimidated by her. It’s like getting spit at. Not technically hurtful, but disrespectful as hell.

“Listen here, gumdrop. I’m not leaving until Mike tells me to. So you better let him know that Luna Lamont wants a word.”

“Wait, what?” The guy blinks in confusion, and I wonder if the disorientation comes from my last name or the nickname I assigned him.

I’ve found that when I want to insult a man, I’m better off inventing a random insult than using the more common ones. If I were to call this boy pencil dick, he’d know right away that I’m insulting his junk, and he’d feel the need to retaliate. But gumdrop? He’s too busy trying to figure out what that means to decide whether he’s going to get mad about it.

Random candy items always seem to hit the right note.

Tootsie roll. Bubble gum. Junior mint.

Used them all.

But almost immediately, I’m bored with watching the ungreased gears slowly try to rotate in his brain. Time to hurry this up. The sooner I’m out of this building, the better.

“I am Luna Lamont. You may have met my brother Leo. Or, of course, my uncle. Mike.”

The kid’s face goes white. Yeah, now he gets it.

Just called royalty a bitch.

Not that I’ve ever been a part of this family business. Still, this guard is low in the scheme of things, I doubt he knows the politics.

“S-sorry. Yeah. I’ll go tell him you’re here.” He scurries from the room.

As the clomp of his footsteps fade, I meander over to the chair he was sitting in, flipping it so the legs stick up in the air. As I wait for the criminal-in-training to retrieve my uncle, I pull out a pocketknife and methodically loosen the screws holding the seat together.

A stutteredsorryis not a good enough apology.

For all I know, Uncle Mike will tell the kid that I’m not part of the organization and to throw me out on my ass. Meaning, the boy will saunter back in here like the shit-for-brains he was just a moment ago.

Not that I want to be thought of as a member of the Lamont chop shop. I’ve hated the family business since I was old enough to understand what was going on with all the different cars my dad drove around in. Bill Lamont never cared what I thought, of course. I was his daughter, therefore I should automatically trust him and keep my mouth shut. I could never manage the first, but I did try with the second, if only for me and my brothers’ safety.

Screws loose and my little revenge complete, I right the chair before returning to my lean against the opposite wall. Soon footsteps sound on the other side of the closed door. I brace myself for the shitty guard to burst back in the room spitting foul curses while dragging me out on my uncle’s orders.

Not that I’d let him put his hands on me.

But when the door swings wide, a familiar figure looms in the entrance.

“Hey, Uncle Mike.”

“Little Luna.” The big white man gives me a grin that could charm weaker souls. I learned long ago how easy his good mood can vanish. “What brings you here?” Cold calculation sparks in his eyes as he tries to decipher the answer before I give it.

“Mind if we talk alone?” My gaze flits over to the guard and then back.

“Of course. Stay here, Troy.” Mike waves the young man back to his post, then gestures for me to follow deeper into the building.

We walk down a long hall illuminated by fluorescent lights. Halfway down I hear a crash behind us and barely suppress my smile. Uncle Mike’s brows lower, and he makes to move back the way we came, but Troy sticks his head through the door. The boy’s face is creased in pain.

“Chair fell over. Nothing to worry about boss. Sorry for the noise.”

Uncle Mike’s jaw tenses, but he moves back in front of me, leading the way. One of the shut doors we pass no doubt opens to the garage where my uncle’s crew dismantles stolen cars and readies the parts to be sold. I wonder if Leo is there now, working a job that slowly eats away at his soul and risks his freedom.

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