Page 25 of Cruel Games

I wanted no part in it.

When she went to bed that night, I put a few changes of clothes,the book and notebook from my father’s study, and a few necklaces in a backpack. I emptied the spare cash reserves–not that she’d left much in there to steal in the first place, just a couple grand in twenties and tens. And I walked out the front door, ditched my whole life, and started over on the streets.

My first night out there, I got robbed. Lost the cash and the necklaces.

By the end of the week, I was in desperate need of a shower and some filling food.

By week three, I was debating my unavoidable return home with my tail between my legs.

But something kept me from giving up. And eventually, I managed to claw my way up from the bottom, to where I was now.

I didn’t even have to whore myself out to do it, either.

After hearing some of the horror stories of the other street girls, I had my doubts that I’d be given a choice. Somehow, though, I managed to avoid it entirely. Picked up quite a few skills that made me an invaluable tool on the streets. Learned trades that the more civilized crowds never bothered with.

And soon, I was warm, fed, and somewhat safe.

Then, the planning started.

A week ago,I’d proved I could get close enough to slip one of them roofies in their drink. Tonight, I was going to prove I could beat them at their own game. They thought they were taking extra precautions, enough to keep whoever was stealing their kills from finding out their next move.

But I’d been watching. And I had an ace up my sleeve–the wiretap bug I’d planted on the bat I returned to their dorms the night before last.

As far as I knew, Jackal hadn’t figured out yet that his suddenly reappeared weapon was a trap. He stuck it lovingly inthe corner of their living room and it had been providing me with a wealth of knowledge on them ever since.

I knew their schedules now, knew their patterns, their habits, even how they interacted with each other.

Dingo was sort of in charge, his calm demeanor and rationality making him the obvious choice for the role. Jackal was flighty, obsessive, and always verging on a psychotic break. He liked to push buttons, frustrating the other two. And then there was Coyote. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, the other two listened. If he hadn’t been so antisocial, his obvious understanding of the people around him would have made him a prime leader. But to be the leader, you had to speak up, and half this guy’s vocabulary was grunts, groans, and sighs. I was beginning to think he didn’t know how to speak, but his occasional lone read-aloud in the living room when the other two were asleep hinted otherwise.

He liked to read classic fiction and poetry.

I hadn’t met a man since my early days in college who read with the eloquence that he possessed. His every word made me hesitate when it came through the bug, and occasionally, I knew the passage he was reciting. Once or twice, I caught myself reciting it back, as if he could fucking hear me.

And then I’d slap myself in the face and shake the stupidity from my bones.

I had no business being attracted to a man I planned to kill.

Even if his voicewasinsanely attractive when he read old English as if it were his first language.

The sooner I did away with these men, the better.

And yet . . . I found myself settling into my sheets with a sigh and a wistful expression, thinking of easier times when I also studied Shakespeare late into the night, as his voice reverberated through my headphones, lulling me to sleep.

TEN

COYOTE

Something about Shakespearereally felt like it was out to get me. The words were stilted and haughty, highbrow bullshit thatwould get me nothing but mockery around here should I ever use them. But I couldn’t stand feeling stupid around the rest of society. And it was the closest I could ever get to remembering my parents–or at least my mother. It had been his works she read me as bedtime stories, though I got the feeling she dumbed down some of his more eloquent words for a toddler’s brain.

I might not know the intricacies of opening and balancing a bank account or how to order at the fancy French restaurant down the road from us, and hell, I might not even know how to get over the awkwardness of meeting new people, but damned if I was going to be stupid on top of all that. I already had my antisocial tendencies fighting against me. Making me unapproachable.

If they wanted to think I was stupid, that was on them.

Maybe while they were convinced I was an imbecile, they’d let something slip that I could file away for later use.

Being regarded as nothing more than a guard dog sometimes had its perks.

Dingo and Jackal were already passed out cold, the former from a long night going over our old contracts to see if we’d maybe crossed the wrong person and left someone behind with a vendetta and the latter from greeting the bottom of a bottle of tequila. Hell, it was a miracle these fuckers had lived as long as they had already. Jackal’s liver had to be on the verge of going on strike. Dingo’s, too, if he kept accompanying the moron to bars every night.

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