Savage Lover (Brutal Birthright #3) - Sophie Lark Page 0,2
time.
It gets even better. Bella is standing with Beatrice and Brandi. They used to call themselves “The Queen Bees.” Unironically.
“Oh my god,” Bella says in her drawling voice, prickling with vocal fry. “I must be drunker than I thought. ‘Cause I swear I’m looking at the Grease Monkey.”
That’s what they called me.
It’s been at least six years since I heard that nickname.
And yet, it instantly fills me with self-loathing, just like it used to.
“What are you wearing?” Beatrice says in disgust. She’s staring at my coveralls with the kind of horrified expression usually reserved for car accidents or mass genocides.
“I thought something smelled like hot garbage,” Brandi says, wrinkling up her perfect little button nose.
God, I was hoping these three had moved away after high school. Or maybe died of dysentery. I’m not picky.
Bella has her sleek blonde hair cut into a long bob. Beatrice definitely got a boob job. And Brandi has a sparkly rock on her finger. But all three are still beautiful, well-dressed, and looking at me like I’m shit on the bottom of their shoes.
“Wow,” I say blandly. “I’ve really missed this.”
“What are you doing here?” Beatrice says, folding her skinny arms under those new boobs.
“Shouldn’t you be back at that shithole garage washing your face with oil?” Brandi sneers.
“I thought she’d be down on Cermak,” Bella says, fixing me with her cool blue eyes. “Sucking dick for ten bucks a pop, just like her mom.”
The heat and smoke and sound of the party seem to fade away. All I see is Bella’s pretty face, twisted up with disdain. Even when I’m fucking furious at her, I have to admit she is gorgeous: thick, black lashes around big blue eyes. Pink lipstick sneer.
That doesn’t stop me wanting to knock her perfect teeth out with my fist. But her father is some bigwig banker, storing cash for all the fancy fuckers in Chicago. I have no doubt he’d sue me into oblivion if I assaulted his little princess.
“At least she gets ten dollars,” a low voice says. “You usually do it for free, Bella.”
Nero Gallo is leaning up against the kitchen cabinets, hands tucked in his pockets. His dark hair is even longer than it was in high school, and it’s hanging in his face. That doesn’t cover up the bruise under his right eye, or the nasty cut on his lip.
And neither of those injuries can mar the outrageous beauty of his face. In fact, they only serve to highlight it.
Nero is proof of the perversity of the universe. Never has such a dangerous object been disguised in such an appealing wrapper. He’s like a berry so vivid and juicy that it makes your mouth water just looking at it. But one taste will poison you.
He’s liquid sex in a James Dean frame. Everything about him, from his fog-gray eyes to his pouty lips to his arrogant swagger is calculated to make your heart freeze up in your chest, and then jolt back to life if he so much as glances at you.
The girls’ moods shift completely when they catch sight of him.
Far from being annoyed at his jab, Bella giggles and bites her lip like he’s flirting with her.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says.
“Why would you?” Nero says, rudely.
I have no interest in talking to Nero, and definitely none at all in continuing my conversation with The Queen Bees. I have to find my brother. Before I can slip away, Nero says, “Is that your Trans Am out there?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Is it a ‘77 LE?”
“Yeah.”
“Same as Burt Reynolds.”
“That’s right,” I say, smiling despite myself. I don’t want to smile at Nero. I would like to stay as far away from him as possible. But he’s talking about the one thing I own that I actually love.
Burt Reynolds drove the same car in Smokey and the Bandit—except his was black with a gold eagle on the hood, and mine is red with racing stripes. Faded and beat to shit, but still pretty rad, in my opinion.
Bella has no idea what we’re talking about. She just hates that Nero and I are talking at all. She needs to pull the attention back to herself, immediately.
“I have a Mercedes G-Wagon,” she says.
“Daddy must have had a good year,” Nero says, curling up that full upper-lip, puffier than ever from its bruise.
“He certainly did,” Bella coos.
“Thank god there’re heroes like him helping all those poor billionaires hide their money,” I say.