Page 9 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

No way am I going to spill the wholemanager-changed-and-the-new-one-wouldn’t-give-me-time-off-when-my-mom-got-pneumoniasob story. He wouldn’t care, and I decided long ago to stop feeling sorry for myself about the bad break after bad break that comprises my life.

Ruben nods sagely. “Yep, family’s the best thing in the world.”

As if he doesn’t spend most of his energy—when he’s not getting stoned, crappily covering the scent with Axe spray, then lying to his dad about it—bitching about his own family.

“Yeah, I should probably get on with these rice bags.” I go over and continue hauling away.

“Want help?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“All right. I can just hang here, though. Don’t mind me.”

As much as I wish, there’s no way for me to nicely tell Ruben to screw off and stop staring at my ass. That’s what you get when you work with the boss’ son—and the boss is as much of a dumbass as his little progeny.

Case in point: after over a month, Johnny is still on a maniacal crusade to find the source of the random blunts and wafts of pot, even though his own son is standing red-eyed and giggling about the name ‘Hubba-Bubba’ right in front of him.

Then, even though I have yet to see Ruben doing any actual work, his dad bought it hook, line, and sinker, when he claimed the new and improved cash shelves (my work of a couple grueling days) were done by him.

I hear the swish of a door and some movement. Footsteps—probably Ruben’s, moving in an effort to look like he’s doing something useful as opposed to not-a-fucking-thing, which is more of his usual style.

Then, Johnny’s voice grumbles out. “All right, kids, I’m off. Remember to cash out the tills, and no leaving early.” Johnny’s out the door with a thrown wave. Suddenly, his head pokes back out. “Now, you stay out of trouble.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

God knows what Ruben told his dad about me—how he twisted the ‘girl with the secondhand clothes who didn’t talk to anyone’ from high school into a bad-news she-devil—but whatever he did say, Johnny periodically gives me the evil eye and right now, he is looking at me like he meant the last part for my ears in particular.You stay out of trouble.As if it’s ever my fault, the trouble I end up in. Trouble just finds me.

Johnny is the worst. But him being gone is not much better. As soon as the door closes behind him, the buzzing starts up in my chest. Dammit. Even if Johnny is a fatter version of Ruben, with a temper like the Tasmanian Devil, having him around is safer for me than the alternative

As soon as he’s gone, I can feel it: the air in the stockroom has changed, warped somehow. It’s electric with possibility, mostly the bad kind.

Maybe Ruben is mulling over how to top his latest top creepazoid comments—such winners as: “Hell yeah, girl, you look good putting up that pasta”; “Dayum, if I looked as smokin’ in our uniform as you …,”; “Just us—isn’t that nice?”

Again—cue: barf. I would rather eat my own elbow than be alone with him, let alone actually do anything with him like he’s constantly suggesting.

A puff of something familiar-smelling hits my nostrils. Yep, surprise, surprise—Daddy’s barely ten seconds out the door and Ruben is lighting up.

“Want some?” he drawls from the far corner of the storeroom.

“I’m good, thanks. And we’re not really allowed.”

“Whoa there, Mother Teresa. I was just offering. No need to go all narc-dog on me.”

I roll my eyes.And you are just plain stupid, since your dad could be back any second now.

My fingers dig into the rice bag. Being here at all would make me an accessory to the crime in Big Bad Boss Johnny’s squinty eyes.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom.” I head for the bathroom at a jog. The smell of marijuana is strong now. My eyes are watering.

I’m halfway across the floor when the back door swings open.

“What in the hell?” Johnny roars.

Oh, shit. We’re in for it now.

* * *

I close my eyes, savoring the last of the calm before the storm. The three of us are packed into Johnny’s cupboard-sized office which stinks of feet. Johnny’s face is as red as the ever-present Coke can on his desk.

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