Page 4 of Ruin Me
Now that I’m on level ground with him, the leader guy is tall—six-four, maybe—definitely head and shoulders above the rest, a clear beacon of authority. His hair is dark as night, swept back from his forehead, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. There’s an edge about him that says he’s not just playing at being tough; he’s the real deal.
Beside him, his twin, the fighter from yesterday, Quentin, is brooding in the emo sense. He has something to prove, which makes me think he is the younger of the two brothers.
My gaze shifts to the blonde one. He has a smile that disarms you before you even think to put up afight. It’s easy to believe he’s your best mate, with that charm that drips off him like honey. But there’s a sharpness beneath the friendly exterior—a glint in his eyes that says he knows more than he lets on.
Then there’s the one from earlier, his presence fighting for dominance against the older of the twins. He’s all shadows and whispers, the kind of guy who doesn’t need to say a word to make you feel uneasy. His dark hair and pale face make him attractive but in a bad-boy way that screams ‘run for your life or beware if you don’t’.
I keep moving, not wanting to linger and draw attention to myself. These guys are bad news, and I could tell that even if I hadn’t seen them beating up poor Jones yesterday. I wonder briefly how he is doing. Before I pass by, I feel a shudder creep down the back of my neck.
I’m trying to mind my own business when the scene shifts. A door cracks open in the old administration building. I hang back, curiosity hooked, as the guys slip inside, followed by a few other students.
Don’t do it, Vogue. Turn around and walk away.
But it’s too tempting; I follow, treading softly, biting my lip, and practically drooling with the curiosity that won’t leave me alone about these guys. There’s just something about them that draws your attention even though you should look away.
For a second, I nearly back away but then I remember who I am—a survivor, a fighter. These guys, they don’t scare me. I’m intrigued. But morethan anything, I’m determined to figure out the rules of their game.
“Listen up,” the leader of the guys calls out; I make a mental note to learn his name and the others as well. “If you are here, you are here by invite. That means you don’t get to bring a plus one or a plus two. You are flying solo. Anyone talks about this, you will have to deal with the consequences of being snitches.”
“That means stitches… if you’re lucky,” Quentin growls.
I gulp. I wasn’t invited, and here I am, the cat whose curiosity is about to get her killed. Or worse.
What is worse than being killed, you asshole?Oh, I’m sure they could think of something.
“That’s rule number one,” the leader continues. “Rule two. The stakes are high. Ten grand minimum buy-in. If you haven’t got that right this second, leave and keep your traps shut.”
Ten grand?Fuck. I don’t even have ten pounds. Well, I do, but not to spare. Every penny is accounted for.
“Rule three,” the blonde one carries on. “This isn’t a charity. You’re here because you can hold your own. You fuck up; you’re on your own. That includes counting cards. If you’re caught, you’re not going to be doing it again. We clear?”
Counting cards?
It clicks, then. Gambling. A clandestine casino run by these guys who are getting shadier by the second.
“Rule four. Loyalty for the event above all. If oneof us falls, we all do. That means protection comes at the price of absolute silence.”
I watch them in awe and horror as they nod at each other, a silent agreement passing between them—a bond formed in darkness and sealed with danger.
My brain yells at me to get the fuck out of there before I get caught eavesdropping on something far bigger than I can handle. But my feet won’t move; they’re rooted to the spot by an invisible force that is just plain old stupidity.
“So, do we have any backing out? Remember, you leave now, you don’t get to come back,” the leader says.
Some guy at the back shakily raises his hand. “Callum?”
The leader zeroes in on him.Callum. Pretty. Scottish. That’s the lilt in his accent, then. Not that discernible, but there if you listen, and apparently, I’m fucking listening.“What?”
“Can I PayPal it to you?”
Callum snickers. “As long as it clears, you can give it to me in gold fucking coins. I don’t give a shit.”
“Then I’m in,” the guy says with a proud beam.
“We’ll see,” Quentin mutters loud enough for me to hear because I’m snooping around the back of them.
“Deal with Thayer for your buy-ins, and The Crowned Syndicate welcomes you to the underground Crestmont Casino.”
The Crowned Syndicate.
