Not being able to get my mouth to form words, and still not understanding what I’m here for, especially this early. Thankfully, I’m not left to ponder for long.
“Tonight, I need you to get useful information; we need to find the rat and see what Costa Mar wants.” I raise a brow, watching as Peter finishes. “I don’t think it’s someone from Costa Mar. On the contrary, I think all the players are on this very campus.”
“What do you want us to do?”
Ezra is the one who answers this time. “Silence them.”
Chapter Six
Zayden
Ipace inside the room, biting the corner of my nails as I wait for Thiago to show up. The room is suffocating and foreign. No matter how much time I spend here, it never feels like home. Not that I would know what that’s like either. This room is just bland, grey, and lifeless walls that are full of secrets… and that’s heavier in the silence. Not that I mind. I prefer quiet. Prefer it when my roommate isn’t around.
As always, Wyatt isn’t here, so I have the dorm to myself. Which gives me some time to decompress, and now I’m just a bundle of nerves. I wish I could say that it’s not him… that has my palms sweating and pacing around the space, but it would be a lie. My anxiety has a name… Thiago Safra. It used to be easier to avoid him, and now, with him being my handler, it looks like that small reprieve will be impossible to sustain. I scoff at the thought, and find myself lazily brushing my thumb against my lips. The memory of the kiss clouds my mind, making my skin prickle with heat. I shake off the thought, whatever feeling my heart tries to conjure up—I simply squash it.
Bright fluorescent headlights illuminate the space; it seems that my thoughts conjured up the devil himself. I move towards the window and hide in a spot where he can’t see me. From the shadows, I watch as the asshole pulls up in the parking space in front of the dorm, before blaring the horn. Fucking Safra had no issue blowing up my phone, and now he resorts to this—announcing to the entire dorm that the king has arrived. I snicker at the thought, grab the black bag that contains everything I need for the fight, and head out the door.
It’s cold outside, even with the heavy black hoodie—I can feel it kiss my bones. The chill runs down my spine, causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. Thiago opens the door to his blacked-out Beemer. “Good evening,meu principe.”1
Fuck ass…
I ignore his greeting, brushing past him and sliding inside without casting another look his way. Even though I want to. I don’t, despite the nagging feeling in the back of my mind and the deep ache in my chest. He can have whatever parts he wants, but my heart and mind, those he can gladly stay the fuck away from. The door slams hard, and then the driver’s door opens, and he slides in. Before he can talk his way into my mind, I raise the volume of the song playing on the radio. My brows knit together, instantly regretting when “Daddy Issues,” by the Neighborhood, plays through the speaker; his hazel eyes find mine, and he smiles.
Me? I just gave him the middle finger.
The songs play while he drives, and I find myself looking down at his hands, the veins that decorate them, the long, well-manicured fingers, which he must have felt me looking at because he flexes his hand. I roll my eyes,fucking show off,but still keep my gaze on them as he continues to open them before closing them into a fist. It has to be a kink, right? To just look at someone’s hands and imagine them touching every part of you.I shake my head, resting the side of it on the window, focusing my attention on anything but Safra. Hoping he will do the same, maybe he will bless me with coldness, just ignore me, or simply stay quiet the remainder of the drive, but wishes never come true. Not for me at least.
“You nervous about tonight?”
“No,” I reply flatly, wishing he would get the hint.
“Do you want to know who you’re fighting?”
My eyes snap up to him. “Is it you? Am I going to be able to smash your handsome face in?” Amusement dances in his irises, and immediately, I recognize my mistake.Fuck me!I just gave the asshole some ammo, and he uses it efficiently.
“You think I’m handsome,Ruas.”
Streets. The nickname rolls off his tongue with ease. I wish he would stop, but knowing Safra, he won’t. And with him aware that it bothers me, it will encourage him to continue. So, I bite back the urge to tell him to kindly shut the fuck up. Instead, I focus on what really bothers me deep down. News flash, it’s not just Safra but me. What I really want is for my body not to react to his native tongue or the way he looks at me like I’m some marvelous payment he’s itching to make. I hate the tingles that work up my spine until they flood my brain, every nerve cell coming alive, and my heart—that worthless organ is more of an enemy than Safra himself. Acting like it forgets its natural rhythm every time he comes around.
Thiago’s words pull me away from my spiraling thoughts. His tone is playful and light, contrary to all the fucked shit that surrounds us. “Unfortunately, tonight you won’t be as lucky; tonight your guy is from Costa Mar. Miguel Campos.”
“The name doesn’t ring any bells,” I respond. It’s probably another rich asshole, and I avoid them like the plague.
“Figures, he’s nothing special, but whoever is backing him…” Thiago drawls. For a moment, he looks away from the road andjust stares at me. The tension is visible in his chiseled features. “Bet a lot of money, so be careful.”
My second mistake tonight is the small action of playfully slapping the side of his face, not hard, just enough to annoy him, but he leans into my touch… So much so that he almost swerves into incoming traffic.
“What the fuck? Watch the road, asshole.”
He chuckles under his breath. “I’d rather watch you.”
My glare intensifies, only making the side smirk in Safra’s face grow wider. And as much as I try to deny it, his amusement does something to me—something I quickly shake the fuck off. I lean my head into the window after putting on my hood and pulling at its strings, pretending I cut him away from my bubble. It works; the rest of the ride is quiet except for Deftones playing in the speakers. Pulling into the warehouse, I see all kinds of luxury cars fill the parking spaces. People gather around the entry, and my pulse spikes. The anticipation builds inside me, and soon adrenaline floods me.
Fighting. Playing. Fucking.
That’s what helps my mind, what makes me feel anything more than wanting to die. From inside the warehouse, “Where Is My Mind?” by Pixies blares from the surround sound system. The song bleeds into the parking lot as we step out of the car, and I follow him inside. A dog on a leash following its owner, good thing the power dynamic pisses me off and fuels me for my fight. Every time I land a hit, it is Safra whom I picture at the receiving end.
“My man.” One of the bookies saunters over, his blond hair perfectly placed in a low ponytail, with a cigar between his fingers as he opens his arms.