Twisted Games: A Dark Gang Romance (Boys of Briar Hall Book 3)
Twisted Games: Chapter 4

I could still feel the tingle of Rook’s kiss on my lips as I entered Briar Hall, almost knocking into a student in my daze.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pausing to stare before limping past me to go outside through the back door.

Judging by his small gasp, I had to assume I looked like death warmed over. Or worse. I definitely smelled worse. The trademark lemon pledge scent of these halls was almost completely covered over by it. Ugh.

A deep silence followed me as I made my way up the long staircase to the apartment and something about that seemed off.

Was it a school day? No.

Sunday.

It had to be Sunday.

That’s why it was so quiet at this time of the morning.

Not like it mattered.

Numbly, I fumbled with the door to the apartment, shoving the key in the lock only to replace that it was already open. I frowned, lifting my back straight as I twisted the handle and pushed the door in, ready for an attack.

The creak of someone shifting their weight in a chair forced me further inside, a lick of heat rolling up my spine. My adrenaline sparking but seemingly unable to ignite, its resources utterly fucking spent.

A man, unarmed, sat at the long stone counter on the living room side of the kitchen.

My heart jumped into my throat at the thought that this could be my stalker as he lifted his gaze to mine. Lack of energy be damned, if it were him…

“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in here?” I sneered, picking out the knife block across the other end of the kitchen, judging my ability to get to it before he could stop me.

He was a big guy. Over two hundred pounds for sure, but much of that weight looked to be muscle. He’d be strong, but slow.

The big guy followed my jerking gaze to the knife block and back again, unbothered by my question. Unbothered that I was considering carving his eyeballs out with the paring knife. His bald head, partially covered in tattoos, gleamed as though freshly polished in the light and that’s when the finer details started to take shape.

There was a heavy black canvas bag on the counter next to him. Beside it sat several small plastic cups that almost appeared to be the lids off plastic bottles. Filled with blue and black ink. A tattoo gun rested next to them, and a stack of paper towels and a small container of petroleum jelly waited next to it.

“Diesel sent me,” he explained simply, indicating the stool next to him. “Depending if you want anything additional to the fleur-de-lis, this will only take about thirty minutes.”

I blinked, the reality of exactly what was happening right now dawning on me like a smack upside the head. Unable to help it, I began to laugh.

“Fucking, really?”

He didn’t look like he was joking. The man watched me with a wary disdain. Fuck, he almost looked bored. And my laughter didn’t seem to throw him off in the slightest.

“Sit down,” he said plainly, reaching for a pair of black plastic gloves in his bag to tug them over his large hands.

I shook my head, the laughter dying on my lips. “Get out.”

He lifted a brow.

“I said get the fuck out. Now.”

I couldn’t deal with this right now. When he didn’t make a move to leave, an ache formed behind my eyes and I pinched the bridge of my nose to try to ward off the frustration headache from getting stronger.

“Look, girl, I’m here to do my job, not deal with a fucking tantr—”

“If you don’t leave right now, I am going to slice off every one of your fingers and shove them up your ass.”

He had the decency to look at least a little put off by the threat, but he didn’t seem to think I would make good on it. Clearly, no one had told him about me. I was far from kidding.

He held my gaze for another moment before grimacing as he tossed his gear back into his bag, leaving the ink pots on the counter as he shouldered it and slid off the stool.

“I’m too old for this shit,” he said under his breath as he strode past me, vanishing down the hall outside with loud, echoing steps.

I waited until I was sure he’d made it outside before closing the door and locking it, going to the window across the apartment to watch him shove his shit into a shiny black truck with Forbidden Ink decaled on the side in sharp lettering.

I surreptitiously checked the rest of the apartment bit by bit, pausing only when it came to Becca’s bedroom door. I’d never been in her room. It’d always been firmly her space. I’d assumed she was just private about her things, or maybe left a bunch of vibrators lying around, but now I knew the truth.

She probably had things to hide.

Without overthinking it too much, I pushed open her door and stepped inside, quick to get eyes on every inch of the space in case there was anyone else waiting to jab me with fucking needles.

Seemed like everyone’s fetish these days.

Satisfied that I was alone after a quick scope of the walk-in closet and the bathroom, I turned in a slow circle, taking in the space.

It smelled like her. Like jasmine and something a bit musky, like old wood.

Just like the rest of the apartment, her room was done up in varying shades of black. Polished black. Matte black. Faded black.

But with pops of indigo and violet, like the canvas artwork of a girl’s face painted in shadows of lavender with her eyes crossed out in black, slashes of gray painted haphazardly over the entire piece.

A bit morbid, but it sort of suited her and something about it was very feminine and pretty despite the slashed out eyes.

My fingers trailed along the top of a sleek black dresser, falling down until they reached the top of the first drawer. I pulled it open an inch before shutting it again. Unable to bring myself to snoop through her things even after what she did.

Maybe later.

I needed a nap and goddamned shower before I even started to try to pick up all the pieces and try to figure out how they all fit back together after everything that’d happened.

But first, I had a promise to keep.

Briar Hall was eerily quiet as I found my way down to the main floor after removing my tattered dress in favor of sweats and a baggy t-shirt. The phone room, a relic of a time before cell phones, was nothing more than a narrow room with a bank of old black corded phones hanging on the wall, divided with thin panes of wood for privacy.

The whole space was covered in a fine layer of dust and instead of sitting on one of the moth-eaten chairs, I leaned against the wall as I lifted a receiver.

Shit.

They weren’t working.

I tried the other six, sighing when the last one in the line at the very back of the room hummed with the electronic dial tone.

I’d memorized Becca’s number weeks ago, and each digit beeped in my ear as I hit the cold metal buttons. She really should’ve gotten rid of her phone. I should’ve told her to get rid of it, but I was banking on her being out of reach across the country by now, or at least soon.

The line only rang once before it went straight to voicemail.

“This is Becca Hart, make it quick or text me like a normal person.”

An almost smile pulled at the edge of my mouth.

“Hey, it’s me. Just checking that you got there safe. Leave a message with the office when you get this, ’kay? I, uh, I lost my phone so don’t bother texting. Hit me up on socials, but make sure all of your location sharing is turned off on your phone. Actually, maybe just get a new one. Toss that one before you get where you’re going.”

I paused, not sure what else to say.

“Be safe,” I said finally before hanging up, dragging my dead ass to a shower and my bed.