The Blast from the Past (Riley Thorn #3)

by Lucy Score

She had a faint southern accent. Not the bless-your-heart genteel kind but the wrestle-gators-in-the-swamp kind.

“What mood?” “The stubborn head-up-your-own-ass, no-one-can-tell-you-anything-because-you’re-gonna-do-what-you-want mood,” his cousin said. Oh. That mood.

“You start messing with the people I love, I won’t hesitate to give you a reason to fear.”

“What the hell is going on in here?” he demanded. “He tripped over his shoelaces and fell into the wall,” Nick insisted, pointing at Blight. “Then he slipped on my nose blood and hit his face on the table,” Blight added. “That’s exactly what happened,” Nick concurred. “You’re both assholes,” the guard said.

“You know, if this is how women feel when someone insinuates they have their period, I’m surprised more dumbasses don’t get hit in the face with chairs,” Nick mused.

“Is your face well?” Gabe asked with concern. “It appears to be bruised.” “I walked into a None-of-Your-Damn-Business sign,” Nick snapped.

“Looks like the po-po is about to poo-poo his pants,” Mrs. Penny whispered loudly.

“Like a vampire on his way to church,” Nick agreed. He turned his attention to Weber. “Don’t be a dick just because you got your ribs crushed by Black Hulk Hogan.”

You did what you had to do to get yourself out of a bad marriage and start over. You supported yourself proofreading toilets and ate Cup O’ Noodles like a plucky Little Orphan Annie, and you rose above.”

“We’re so overdressed,” Riley whispered in mortification. “There’s no such thing. You dress to suit your mood and personality. If your outfit is better than everyone else’s, then that’s their problem, not yours.”

“When she answers, look her in the eye and listen enough to be able to paraphrase it back to her. Look at me; I care enough about you to notice your feelings and give you space to talk about them. I call it ALECTO: Ask. Listen. Eye contact. Top off.”

“No matter how obvious the solution is, no matter how easily you could explain how to fix it, no matter how much you want to take care of the problem yourself, don’t.” “Don’t what?” Weber asked. “Don’t fix it. Don’t tell her how to fix it. Don’t tell her what you would do if you were in her shoes. Just don’t.”

“Then we snap him like a wishbone,” Jasmine said. “Trust me. Reducing teenage boys to tears was my superpower from ages eight to eighteen. I mostly practice on men over thirty now, but it’s always good to return to your roots.”