𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 is your average do-good lawyer on the rise to fame as a representative of young victims. Except her motivations aren't all that innocent. Rayne's only goal is to run from her past, to leave confrontation for the courtroom, no...
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RUEBEN RAPPED HIS FINGERS AGAINST THE rusted investigation room table while he patiently awaited the arrival of the officer that escorted him here not five minutes ago. A large palm ran through the, practically white, blonde strands that attempted to block his vision.
Unsurprising as it was, this room was not of unfamiliarity—in fact, he could consider it a second home if he chose to be moronic. The same officer that brought him here today was the same one that hounded his every move and hunted him like a dog; speeding tickets, citations, walking home drunk—you name it, he's flagged him for it.
It didn't help that the son of a bitch was the Chief of Police.
But he and Jonah Myles had always had their fair share of distaste for one another. Placed on opposite sides of the spectrum, Rueben was the heir to the Spanish mafia throne; a bad reputation right off the bat was an underscored, understatement. And even though he was nothing like the cliché loser they deemed him to be in the media, he had always had it out for him, despite the alliance that was created decades ago and now existed between him and his father, Emmet Torres.
In their world, the police would allow them to do their business as long as it was discreet and kept innocents out of the line of fire. He hated it, he thought it was stupid, but if it let him live freely without hidden barriers, who was he to complain?
He slid his gaze over his shoulder as the door opened, adding a new warmth to the room.
"Hello, Rueben."
"Good morning, best friend!" he chirped, folding his hands in his lap, "I know I'm a pretty guy, but if you wanted to ask me out, there are much easier ways to get my attention."
Jonah looked anything but interested in his sarcasm, and instead of giving him the reaction he wanted, he pulled out the chair opposite to him and plopped down, slamming a file in front of him. Rueben, bored, leaned back and waited for his much-needed explanation.
Seconds of time buzzed between them as their eyes connected—blue skies absorbed his nonchalance, only flickering to acknowledge the pieces of grey platinum that swooped across his forehead in an undone mob. He looked tired, but that wasn't really his problem.
"Can you please be serious for five minutes?" Jonah finally asked.
"If you tell me why I'm here, I'll consider it, but I swear if it's over a ticket again—"
"Shut. Up," he gritted, "This isn't the time for games."
Rueben sucked his front teeth but sat up at the tone of his voice, fixing his posture. While the man in front of him had never been the most joyous creature to touch this planet, and the stick up his ass had permanently erased any notion of friendliness before it could appear, there was something off about his approach. Knots churned in his stomach at the thought of something being wrong—his mind immediately turned to his eleven-year-old half-brother.
