Date = 7 April (about 4 in the morning)
Same night. More frenetic. More painful.
Place = San Francisco (24-hour convenience store)
Same parking lot.
POV - Aria
“f**k, Aria, are you alright?” Mel’s voice is barely a whisper, ragged and wet with tears. “I’m so … SO sorry.”
All I can manage is a groan — not the sexy kind. It feels as if my insides have been pushed through a meat grinder. Talking hurts too much.
She sniffs hard, swiping her sleeve across her face. It does nothing but smear the tears, blood, and snot into one tragic mess. Her normally pretty profile now looks like she auditioned for The Walking Dead and nailed it.
“They took the f*****g ice cream!” she sobs.
I blink at her. Out of all the things to cry about — the luxury car, the assault, the literal murder threat — sh
