Page 76 of Hating On Riot

“Whatcha got, Short Stuff? You ready to ream me out for kicking your brothers’ asses?”

I straighten in my seat, hold my head high, and, clasping my hands on the table, tell him what I came here for. Well, I don’t tell. I ask. Nicely.

“Okay, here goes. I would like permission to date your little brother.”

“I have two of those. Which one are you interested in, and I might make it happen.”

I growl low in my throat. His green eyes shine, and the corners of his mouth quirk up. He’s as much of a butt as his brother. He looks just like Riot, with his black hair, the sides shaved and the top a tousled mess. All the O’Sullivan guys look similar, just older versions of each other.

“The stubborn one.”

“They both are.” His green eyes gleam.

Darn it, he’s having fun at my expense.

I roll my eyes. “Riot, okay? Better?” I blow at strands of hair getting in my eye.

He smirks. “You know this is unprecedented, right? No girl has ever asked for permission before. Anyway, it’s usually the other way around. You planning on wearing the pants in the relationship? That’s also unprecedented in the family.” He points a thick finger at me.

I grind my teeth. “It isn’t. Your mother calls the shots in your family. Why would it be any different if I did? Not that I would,” I admit. “I like it when Riot makes the decisions.”

He nods, then cocks his head. “That’ll work. Fine.” He waves his hand. “You can date my kid brother.”

My jaw drops to my chest. “Wait, that was too easy. You want something in return, don’t you?” I narrow my eyes.

“Yeah, I do.” He slams his hands on the table and leans in. We could be nose-to-nose. The table is that small, and he’s that big. “Talk to him about the day Laney died. He stumbled into the house, dazed, his eyes puffed up like he’d been bawling. Your mom called mine about Laney. I told Riot. He went pale as a ghost, then looked guilty as sin. What could’ve made my brother, who wouldn’t hurt a soul, look like a death sentence had been handed down to him? He made me and Grayson promise never to bring up Laney or that day again.”

Jaw clenched, he stares at something above my head. I look behind me. Countless pictures of the brothers cover the fridge. Why would Riot look guilty? I don’t understand.

“My kid brother doesn’t ask for a promise lightly. Something’s eating him up. Your sister being there wasn’t a case of wrong place, wrong time. No one goes to that shitty part of town on a whim.”

His face hardens, and I try not to shrink back. “It was my fault Laney was there,” I confess and tell him the rest.

“Fuck, Arie.” He blows out a breath. “That’s a shit ton of guilt to carry around for so fucking long.”

“I know.” I lower my gaze. “I’ll talk to Riot.”

“That’s good.” He gives me a firm nod. “Talking is good. Next up is⁠—”

“There’s a next? How many are there?”

“Just this one, baby girl.”

“I’m not your baby girl! I am not one of the innocent, timid women you mistreat for funsies.”

“Funsies? Mistreat?” There’s steel in his words.

My heart rate spikes. I swallow past my nervousness. I gather my courage and let my words rush out before I can take the time to think through them and the consequences of my accusation.

“You left the dead critter on my car. Estelle didn’t deserve to die like that. You could’ve threatened me in person without resorting to killing a poor animal. I’ll never give up your secret, but know that you’re a bad man. How could you use those women who come to you for help?”

“My business is none of yours, so stay out of it, Arie!”

He drops the nicknames, the endearments, and that’s how I know I’m in deep shit. I let the subject go. It’s not my business now, but someday, when I have more courage to face the scary, moody Merrick O’Sullivan, I will.

“I won’t give up your secret—how the girls were paraded before you like a slab of meat. But you could’ve just left the note with the secret in, like, invisible ink or something with instructions on how to make the ink appear, so why’d you have to hurt Estelle?”

Thank goodness he understands what I’m talking about, so I wouldn’t have to hear Merrick call the sweet little thing the “R” word.