When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
“Ariel Beckham.” “Did you just come out of Ramirez’s car?” Noah asks, his eye narrows as he looks at me. I wipe at my face, knowing full well that my cheeks are red, probably like a raw tomato. “Are you crying?” He grabs my wrist, and I freeze for a second, exhaling heavily. All I want is to go upstairs and cry in peace. Is that too much to ask? Noah’s hand gently parts my fringe, and he cups my face. “What did Ramirez do?” he growls, anger flares in his eyes. “He didn’t do anything—” I say, but my voice cracks. Great. Now it sounds like I’m lying. “f*****g—” Noah’s jaw tightens, and I can see he’s on the verge of losing it, ready to do something stupid. “I work with him!” I blurt out before he does anything crazy, and he stops, confused. “What?” “He has a bar—Steel and Smoke. He