Sweet Obsession (Ruthless Games Book 1)
Sweet Obsession: Prologue

Brown and blue.

Like earth and air.

That’s the first thing I notice about the stranger’s eyes as he brushes past me in the crowded club, forcing his way through the throng of gyrating bodies around us.

For a moment, I think it must be a trick of the light, an illusion caused by the flashing strobes that pulse in time to the heavy beat of the music.

But when one of the bright white lights cuts through the haze that hangs over the dancers and illuminates his face, I realize I’m not wrong.

The man’s left eye is a rich chocolate brown, but the right is made up of two different colors. One half of the iris is the same deep brown as the left, but the other half is a clear blue, like the sky on a cloudless day.

Earth and air.

It’s strange but beautiful.

There’s something so fucking mesmerizing about it that I replace myself unable to look away, jostled roughly by the dancers around me as my own body stops moving entirely.

I’m ogling him in a way that’s neither subtle nor polite, and he must feel my shameless stare because his gaze flicks down to meet mine for a brief second.

His brows twitch, drawing together slightly.

Our gazes lock, and a strange thrill passes through me, as if something both cold and hot has brushed over my skin.

Then the thick press of bodies shifts, and he slips away through the crowd, followed by two dark shadows—men almost as tall and imposing as he is.

“Holy fuck, Ayla! That guy was sooo hot!”

Monica screams the words in my ear as she grabs my arm, and I wince at the shrill sound of her voice. Just because the music around us is louder than fuck, it doesn’t mean I want this girl’s high-pitched scream implanted directly into my earhole.

I nod, trying to turn my grimace into some kind of smile.

“And his friends. Oh my god, did you see his friends? Holy shit! They might’ve been even hotter than he was!”

Her voice jumps up another notch in pitch and volume, and I draw away from her a little, yanking my arm out of her clawing grasp. I didn’t really get a clear view of the guy’s two companions, but if they looked anything like he did, I’m not surprised she’s drooling over them too.

“So, are you gonna go get up on that or what?” She leans closer to yell into my ear again before pulling away and sticking her tongue out lasciviously as she gyrates to the music. “’Cause if you don’t, I totally fucking will.”

A sharp bite of irritation takes me by surprise. There’s no way I’m gonna go grind up on some guy I don’t even know like half the girls in this club are doing, even though they look like they’re having the time of their lives. That’s just not my style. But the idea that Monica might go do it makes me irrationally angry.

Ugh. Why the hell do I care? What the fuck am I even doing here anyway?

I don’t quite know why I accepted this girl’s invitation to go out dancing with her and a few other kids from school. I’ve only been at Anderson High for a couple months—I switched schools when I got sent to live with a new foster family—and I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to get chummy with the student body.

So Monica’s recent friendliness puts me on edge.

Growing up as a foster kid taught me to distrust anyone who’s overly friendly with no reason to be. More often than not, they’re the kinds of people who only want to get close to you to take something.

Whether that’s your lunch, your money, or your virginity.

I haven’t figured out what Monica wants from me yet. But the way she’s screaming in my ear and grabbing at my arm with her too-sharp, manicured nails makes me wish I’d just stayed home and locked myself in my bedroom to avoid my foster father like usual.

The thought of another night spent avoiding his “accidental” touches and leering glances makes my skin crawl, and I shake my head, glancing around the club.

Fuck it. At least I’m out of the house.

I’ll be free of foster care permanently when I turn eighteen in six months, so the end is in sight. I just have to make it until then.

“Oh, fuck. Dammit, where’d they go?”

Monica’s nails dig into my arm again as she scans the crowd, licking her lips like some kind of cartoon character.

I can’t help it. My gaze tracks alongside hers, scanning the large dance floor of the club and the dimly lit tables and bar that line the perimeter. I don’t see the guy or his friends, and I suppress a smile of satisfaction as Monica pouts.

“Shit.” She scowls, adjusting the tight tank top she’s wearing, tugging it down to display a little more cleavage. “They were the only good fresh meat I’ve seen all night.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, not even caring that the music swallows up my words.

I’m not sorry at all. The goal of my life isn’t to get Monica laid, and I don’t particularly want to see her get to third base with a guy on the dance floor. Especially not that guy.

Disappointed at losing sight of her prey, she finally shuts up, and we dance for another couple of songs without speaking. I’m sweaty and hot, and the thud of the bass seems to drown out my own heartbeat until it’s all I can feel in my body.

As I lose myself in the music, the tension and irritation fade from my body, and I remember why the fuck I agreed to come out tonight at all.

For this.

For this feeling of energy.

Of weightlessness.

Of freedom.

“Ooh, that guy’s kinda hot.” Monica points to a total fucking Chad who’s leering at the two of us from across the dance floor. She puffs out her ample chest and turns to me, waggling her eyebrows. “Come on, let’s give him a show.”

She starts trying to grind up on me, and I push her away, stepping back. Jesus. If I’m gonna “put on a show” for some trust-fund asshole, I better at least be getting paid for it.

“Nah, I’m gonna get some air,” I yell over the music. I jerk my head toward the guy who’s still eyeballing us with a confident smirk on his face. “You do… whatever.”

She pouts again, but before she can say anything else, I slip away through the tight throng of bodies on the dance floor. The door we entered the club through is behind me, but instead of heading in that direction, I move toward the hallway that leads to the bathrooms and probably another exit door.

I need quiet, and I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of drunk Monica clones out front fighting over who’s gonna Venmo who for a cab.

Fortunately, I do replace a door at the end of the hallway with an exit sign glowing over it.

Pushing the metal bar, I step out into the alley behind the club.

Cool air rushes over my damp skin, making goose bumps rise up all over me. It’ll be spring soon, but the desert air in Nevada always seems to bring a chill at night.

The alley smells a little like rancid oil and piss, but right now, I’ll take that over the smell of sweaty bodies and too much cheap cologne.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out a pack of menthol cigarettes and my lighter, then rest one between my lips and light it up.

My lungs flood with a burn that cools at the same time, and I take two more long drags as calm begins to seep through my bones.

Maybe I’ll just cut out now and ditch Monica and the other girls we came with.

Hell, she probably won’t even notice.

Of course she won’t. She’ll be too busy getting banged by Chad in the bathroom.

I chuckle softly to myself, leaning against the wall and tilting my head up to blow a stream of smoke into the cool air. I’m wearing a tank top and jeans, and the rough brick of the building pokes into the exposed skin on my upper back. But I like the feeling.

It’s grounding somehow.

The door I stepped out through is solid metal, so it dulls the sound of music from the club, but I can still feel the beat reverberate in my body like an echo.

I move my head to the rhythm, dancing just a little as I finish my cigarette and flick the butt onto the dirty pavement. Then I glance toward the door one last time before shoving away from the wall.

If Monica does notice I ditched her, I’m sure she’ll be pissed. It’ll probably spark some stupid-as-shit drama at school, and we’ll have a “falling out” even though we were never actually friends.

Oh well.

I head toward the mouth of the alley, walking carefully among the discarded bottles and other trash that litters the dark ground.

As I near the street, I notice a figure standing on the sidewalk near the mouth of the alley. As I get closer, I realize it’s the guy from the club. The one with the strangely mesmerizing eyes.

He’s deep in a low conversation with his two friends. They’re standing in a loose huddle, heads bent slightly toward each other and their faces set in serious masks.

It strikes me as a little odd, the way they’re talking. What could possibly be that serious on a night out at a club? They’re definitely not arguing over who’s gonna Venmo who for a cab, that’s for fucking sure.

All three of them are standing just outside the alley, and the street here is dark enough that I can’t really get a good look at their faces. Which sucks, because for some reason I really want to.

I want to know what these strangely serious men look like. They can’t be much older than me. Maybe a few years at most. Twenty? Twenty-one?

For a wild second, I think about pulling out another cigarette and trying to bum a light from one of them. Anything to give me an excuse to talk to them.

But that’s not how I live my fucking life.

Monica, who’s never had to deal with anything worse than a speeding ticket or getting grounded by her parents or a bad breakup—she might do something like that.

But me?

I’ve learned that the best way to avoid trouble in this world is to keep your head down and stay invisible. To not invite it into your life.

So instead of turning toward the three men when I step out of the alley, I turn away.

Or at least, I start to.

Before I can take more than a step, a dark SUV rolls by, silent and smooth. The back window is halfway down, and I see a hand emerge, something dark and metallic held in its grip. The dim light of the flickering streetlamps nearby glint off the shiny surface, and adrenaline explodes inside me like a bomb as I recognize the object for what it is.

A gun.

My heart jumps in my chest, fueling the adrenaline that pours through my system like lighter fluid.

Everything seems to happen too fast and too slow all at the same time.

The weapon is pointed toward the man with the blue and brown eye, who’s got his back turned, still talking to his friends.

My mouth opens to yell a warning, but before a single word can come from my lips, my feet are moving.

I’m darting forward.

The gun is firing.

Three shots ring out in the still, cool air.

Pop pop pop.

My body jerks from the impact of all three. It feels like someone punched me in the torso three times, the force of the blows hurling me off my feet.

The dirty cement of the sidewalk rushes up to meet me, and I slam into it full-force, hitting my head hard.

Tires screech as the car speeds away. Another screech rises up as it rounds a corner at the end of the block.

Above me, voices are yelling, three deep baritones shouting words I can’t quite make out.

I’m… wet.

There’s liquid spreading in a pool around me, and when I reach up with one shaking hand to touch my chest, my fingertips come away stained a dark, deep red.

Blood.

I can taste it on my tongue now, coppery and bitter. It’s hard to breathe.

It’s hard to swallow.

It’s hard to think.

My body feels like it’s no longer my own. I’m not even sure I can feel all my limbs anymore. Do I still have them? Am I still here?

My mind can’t process what just happened. How I went from alive and whole to bleeding out on a sidewalk in the space of less than a minute.

Then the shouts above me quiet, and suddenly, a face appears above mine.

Brown and blue.

The man from the club.

I stare into those preternaturally beautiful eyes as they stare back at me. My lips move, but sound refuses to come out.

“Fuck.” The stranger’s voice is rough and deep. His square jaw is set, and his full lips press into a harsh line.

I try to speak again, lifting my trembling hand toward him, forcing my failing muscles to obey. My fingertips leave little streaks of blood on his cheek, and something flares in his eyes.

He grabs my hand in both of his larger ones, his gaze intense as his eyes bounce between mine.

“Marcus!” The new voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away. From another dimension or another planet maybe. “We gotta go. Now! Ambulance is on its…”

Whatever else the voice says is lost to me.

It’s too far away. Or maybe I’m too far away.

I’m sinking through the cement beneath me, through the blood that surrounds me. I’m falling into nothingness.

The stranger with the striking eyes and dark brown hair drops his head. His lips brush the shell of my ear, and it’s nothing like when Monica screamed into my ear earlier.

His voice doesn’t grate. It isn’t a high-pitched screech. It’s a deep rumble, and I swear I feel the vibrations of it all the way down to my bones.

He murmurs something, and I try to latch on to his words. Try to decipher them.

But consciousness is slipping away.

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, never-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.