Page 58 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

You know you’ve had bad experiences with men when you’re actually entertaining respect for a guy being up front with you about his nefarious intentions.

Seriously, though, it’s no laughing matter that I legitimately prefer Gavril’s straight-up“Yeah, be my fake wife”to Ruben’s drooling bullshit“Just us—isn’t that nice?”At least I know where I stand with Gavril.

A.k.a., under the pad of his thumb.

I pause to scowl. Note to self:I did say no …

For now.

“Forgood,” I correct under my breath. Even if I’m homeless, I’m at least free.

But as soon as that thought clears my mental runway, the snarky voice in my head speaks up again.Yeah, oh-kay, free to do what exactly?Die of starvation? Get shanked in your sleep for napping on someone’s beloved McDonald’s back step?

Still, it beats the alternative: being someone’s pawn. That’s what happened to Mom when she was working as a maid at the Hilton back in NYC. She slept with some businessman who was thirsting after a wild night, a man who promised her the world and instead left her pregnant, jobless, and alone. Without anywhere else to go, she’d come to Toronto in search of a job, but being a U.S. citizen in Canada meant she got no health care, no support, and didn’t know anybody within a five-hundred mile radius. That’s when I was born. That’s how my book would start—Chapter One of the shitty story of my shitty life.

No way am I going to make the same mistakes she did.

Now, coming up to a 7-Eleven with a packed parking lot, my gaze lingers on the pay phone. Out of nowhere, like a blindsiding swipe, it hits me: I miss her. I really, really miss her.

And even though there’s no way, even though me trailing over here to the pay phone is just setting myself up to be disappointed again …

Wait a second. No. Freaking. Way.

I stop in my tracks, staring at what can’t possibly be there. At what my sleep-deprived, still-spinning mind has to be imagining. Did Gavril drug me or something? Am I hallucinating?

There’s something on the top of the pay phone.

A little silvery stack of quarters.

It’s impossible. So unlikely, so storybook perfect that it cannot possibly be happening to me, the unluckiest girl who ever lived. A pay phone, right outside of a busy convenience store, with money left behind—what are the odds? A hundred to one? A thousand to one?

I pick up the coin stack in my hand, count it out with my pointer finger—one quarter, two, three, four.

Four quarters.

Before I know quite what I’m doing, I’ve slipped two in, dialed the number, am listening to it ring.

And then, all at once, I hear, “Hello?”

It’s her.

I sink to the ground. God, it really is her. I really did it. I reached my mom.

“Hellooo?” she repeats, annoyed.

Shit—I can’t lose this chance now.

“Mom! It’s Joy.”

A long pause. A longer gasping sigh that ends in a cough. “Oh, my baby girl. My poor, poor girl. Where are you? How are you? Why did you …”

“I’m okay, Mom. You don’t remember me leaving?”

“No, I remember you coming in that night, but I was so out of it, that’s about all I remember. Damon said you just stormed out like a bat out of hell.”

Of course that’s what that slimy bastard said. I transfer the phone over to my other hand. Should I tell her?

But then, on her end of the line, there’s an indistinct murmur, then a harsh voice snapping, “You mind your own damn business.”

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