Lana
Xander spins toward the stranger, anger rolling off him in hard waves.
“Mind your own f*****g business,” he snaps.
I try to see the man, but Xander’s long legs block my view. The only thing I catch is his shoes. Clean, expensive loafers. The overhead fluorescent light flashes over the metal detail and the interlocking Gs. I grew up a block from the Jade District, surrounded by fake bags and knockoffs. I know a real Gucci logo when I see one. This one is real.
“You made yourself my business,” the stranger says. His voice drops lower, colder, wrapped in a clear Italian accent. “Any man who treats a woman like that earns my attention.”
Xander turns fully toward him and finally lets go of my hair. My scalp throbs as I rub at it. I crawl on my hands and knees toward my backpack, keep
