“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
