Sweet Obsession (Ruthless Games 1)
Nothing makes sense anymore. His words are meaningless sounds wafting through my brain without context.
Two figures appear behind him, their faces blurry and haloed as my gaze drops further out of focus. They pull him up and away from me, and the sudden absence of his body over mine sends a wave of panic through me. A sense of loss.
It’s almost worse than dying.
Another screeching sound is rising in the air, and I grimace at the high-pitched wail. That does hurt just as much as Monica’s voice. Maybe more, because it’s incessant, nev
er-ending.
The three men disappear from view, and for a moment I’m alone on the cold, hard sidewalk, staring up at the flickering streetlamps and the few dingy stars visible in the night sky beyond.
Then new bodies surround me. New voices, speaking in clipped, serious tones.
They’re here to save me, I realize as the last of the strength fades from my body. They’re here to keep me from dying.
But I think they’re too late.
I think I’m already dead.
Chapter 1
Two and a Half Years Later
Looks like it’s gonna be another busy night for drinks.
I eye the rowdy crowd of rich college kids sitting across the room—yelling, drinking, and slamming their fists against the table like cavemen who’ve just learned to make fire. The leader of the group raises his glass and calls out a cheer to their last week of freedom before fall semester starts. A pang of jealousy hits me as I watch them celebrate, each one wearing a shit-eating grin. The girls sitting with them giggle as their boyfriends kiss their hands and wrap their arms around them.
That should be me. The college experience I should be having.
Instead, I’ve been spending most of my days alone in the library, keeping to myself, and reading any textbook I can get my hands on.
When I’m not reading, I’m working. College costs money—money I unfortunately don’t have. Lately, the tips I make at Duke’s have been my only saving grace. For the past several weeks, I’ve been making just enough to save for rent. Living on my own hasn’t gotten any easier despite the almost two years that have passed since I was officially emancipated.
“Hey, Ayla, you feel like working tonight or what?”
Duke’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I glance over at him. The short, stocky man owns the place and works behind the bar himself most nights. It’s a grungy, cramped little dive on the west side of the city, but it’s close enough to the University of Halston to attract a youngish crowd and bring in enough money to stay in business.
“Yeah, sure. I guess.” I shrug one shoulder, and he rolls his eyes.
I’ve been working here for almost a year and a half now, and Duke knows I’m not a fucking slacker. He’s also seen the moments where I zone out grow fewer and farther between. When I first started here, I was a much bigger mess emotionally than I am now. I’m lucky as hell that he was patient with me those first few months.
Stepping past Duke, I make my way down to the far end of the bar, where several people are leaning over the dark wood with impatient looks on their faces. It’s nearing the end of happy hour, so everyone wants to get their last cheap drink while they can.
I get to work pouring beers and mixing cocktails, careful not to spill anything with my one steady hand.
A pair of mildly handsome college guys sidle up to the bar, laughing as they carry on a conversation in overly loud voices. The green-eyed frat boy on the right turns to me, barely glancing at me as he opens his mouth to order—but then he pauses.
His eyebrows shoot up as his gaze lingers on the stump of my right arm, which has been severed and healed just below the elbow.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters. Then he nudges his friend, drawing that guy’s attention to my arm with a jerk of his chin.
The other man’s eyes widen in shock as his lips purse in a silent whistle. Jesus. It’s like they’ve never seen someone like me before.
My blood burns as both men’s attention lingers over my stump, and the skin around the amputation site itches. The three bullets that pierced my body years ago nearly killed me, and the one that hit my shoulder caused enough internal damage that the doctors had to remove part of the limb.
After spending several weeks in the hospital, I left with a piece of myself missing. More than one piece, really, although the arm is the only one people can see.
The other missing parts of myself are internal, emotional, impossible to even put into words. But they’re gone just as surely as my arm is, and I feel their absence just as deeply.