Page 11 of Cruel Legacy

Coming back from swimming one day, he rushed Finn, trying to catch him off guard. The clothesline he received for his trouble was fucking amazing, but the flash of the knife against his crotch… nowthatwas how I knew Finley Jefferson Rhodes, the Third, was not someone to be fucked with.

Everything in our world is a competition. The parent chaperones didn’t give a shit about side fights and squabbles, but weapons weren’t allowed.

Galen came in fourth on the scoreboard and tried to tell one of the parents Finn pulled a weapon, hoping to get him sent home for the rest of the trip. His buddies backed him up about seeing a knife. The parents did a thorough search of Finn and his stuff. They didn’t find anything. To this day I have no idea where he hid the knife.

One thing you can count on with him, there’s always at least one blade on him, we just never know where.

Throughout the years, Pax, Finn and I have foughtwitheach other andforeach other. We’ve created an unbreakable bond. I’m sure whatever’s troubling Pax, we’ll face it together.

My thoughts are still swirling around our childhood and how our normal experiences are mixed in with some shit no kid should be subjected to, unless you’re training for a post apocalyptic lifestyle, or to get away from a kidnapper. I shiver at that last part. I know firsthand that it’s not out of the realm of possibility.

Wilderness training was fun when we were searching for landmarks and animals. Using those skills all the time to track people and artifacts belonging to other fraternities, not so much. The games on campus are a tradition. No one knows who’s in charge of them. It could be several people affiliated with each organization or one person running the whole thing. All members of the fraternities and sororities get anonymous texts, and invitations in our mailboxes, and we do whatever the instructions say.

The pranks and risks keep getting bigger and bigger. What I do know, is when Pax, Finn and I get the invites, we can’t refuse to participate, because no matter how large or small the task, we’re working to prove ourselves to a society of people who live in the shadows.

Each year, I feel the pressure from my family. From all of our families. The constant reminder that soon, we’ll be doing more for and within The League, and yet we can’t let our grades or our status at school slip. Be aloof, be charming. Make the right friends, impress the right people.Be. The. Best.

There are so many expectations. Sometimes it’s hard to live up to them all. But I can’t admit that. To anyone. So I push through. Do more. Learn more. My brain never shuts down. Not even when I’m trying to sleep. Fuck, what I wouldn’t do to shed the weight of these expectations for just a little while. To get more than a few stolen moments of peace.

The alarm goes off on my phone. Those moments won’t be today. I have a class to get to.

Chapter5

Thea

I’ve found the greasiest, most obnoxious smelling place around. Starting with their burgers and fries and ending with the motor oil under some of these dude’s nails. The women are wearing various items of leather and lace and smell of flavored cigarettes and cheap beer. I inhale deeply, feeling the tension loosen around my shoulders. This is my kind of place.

My dorm is nice. Fancier than any dorms I’ve ever been to, and I love having a room to myself, but it’s too shiny. Too pristine.Too much. I’m uncomfortable with all the splendor.

My apartment wasn’t a dump or anything, but it wasn’t in the richest part of town, either. It had a living room/dining room combo. A kitchen with a dishwasher, and two bedrooms with a shared bath. I had AC. It was safe, clean, and mine. That was more than enough.

Being in the dorm makes me feel like I’m pretending and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s posers. So I looked up dive bars, slipped on a new pair of ripped jeans and my favorite jacket over a band tee and drove here to immerse myself in an environment that’s gloomy and messy, and real.

I can’t imagine any of the kids I’ve seen on campus coming here. It’s perfect. The bartender doesn’t bother carding me. Wouldn’t matter if she did. I’ve had an ID that says I’m old enough to drink since I was sixteen. I thought about leaving it behind, but it’ll be another eighteen months before my driver’s license catches up with it. I’m glad I kept it. Ireallyneed this drink.

I down my warm up shot and take my first sip of beer before I spin around on my bar stool to take in the rest of the establishment. There’s a jukebox in the corner and tables placed in a semi-circle around the floor to create a dance area. There are people standing and lingering around. Some are even swaying, but I wouldn’t actually call what any of them are doing, dancing. The biggest attractions, as far as I can see, are the dart board, pool tables and the mechanical bull in the corner.

I’ll be trying out the bull just as soon as I finish my beer. I figure it can’t be much harder than staying on a motorcycle while doing wheelies, which I perfected two years ago.

I’m heading over to get in line for the bull ride, when someone grabs my attention. He’s sitting in the back corner of the bar at a table by himself. His cream Henley stretches across his broad shoulders and chest. The color is out of place in a room of denim and leather. It’s unbuttoned, the sleeves pushed up to the middle of his muscular forearms.

He’s wearing one of those hemp bracelets with seashells on it, on his right wrist. I glance down at his feet, making note of the dark brown Chukkas, then drag my eyes back up over his dark blue jeans and thick thighs.

His caramel brown hair is styled haphazardly, as if he couldn’t be bothered to do more than run his hand through it. He’s watching the bull riders with detached interest. He’s easily the hottest guy in here and he looks like he smells good.

New plan. Why ride the fake bull when I can feel this specimen between my thighs? I tell the bartender to send him a drink and I watch his reaction as it gets delivered. When his gaze slides to mine, I tip my drink towards him, slide off my stool, and make my way to the pool table area. If he likes what he sees, he’ll follow.

I’ve just finished putting all the balls in the triangle when he comes over. He’s still holding the beer I sent. That’s a good sign. Standing under the archway, he looks even yummier than he did before. He’s tall as shit. At least six, three or four. I’m five six myself. I’m definitely gonna have some fun climbing him.

“Lag for the break?” I ask, pointing to the table. He’s here. I assume he’s willing to play. He walks over to grab a cue stick from the wall rack.

The pool stick I usually play with, is in the storage place with my other stuff. I hope it survived the flood. It’s worn and used, but I know exactly how to work it to make my shots. The one I’m holding is comparable in weight. It should be good enough to do what I need it to do.

I gesture towards the table, letting him go first. I watch as the cue balls hits the back end of the table before returning towards us, stopping about three inches from the edge.Good. I hate when guys try to let me win. On my turn, the ball stops half an inch behind his. He’s won the right to break, since his ball is closest to the edge.

I step back from the table, shamelessly eye fucking him while he takes his turn, trying to imagine what he looks like underneath all those clothes. One thing’s for sure. He’s got a nice ass. One that’s just begging you to dig your heels into it.

The sound of balls dropping in their slots pulls my attention back to the table. He’s good. Almost as good as the guys who hustle Vegas tourists back home.

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