Page 105 of Ruin My Life
He leans in a little closer, like the truth is something not everyone should hear. I try to ignore the way his cologne drifts toward me—and the memory it drags with it from the bar.
“Monroe and Lola have... history.”
I raise a brow. “Likeromantichistory?”
Connor barks out a laugh from the passenger seat. “If you’d call a one-night stand at a sex clubromantic—oof!”
Monroe’s fist slams into Connor’s gut, hard enough to make him double over in his seat.
“A mistake,” Monroe mutters. “From a past life.”
And that’s where the conversation ends.
BACK ATTHESPEAKEASY, we cram into the small security office—bare walls and barren desks, just like I remember it. The air feels hotter in here, probably from the computers, but it also feels like secrets are pressed into the paint, whispering through the cracks.
Lee is already at his station, fingers tapping idly across his mechanical keyboard. The second we step inside, he straightens—alert, ready, almost eager for a new task.
Damon tosses him Lola’s burner without a word of warning, and he nearly fumbles to catch it.
“I need you to strip every byte of information off this device,” Damon orders, his voice clipped. “Lola was texting with the person who hired her. They sent her instructions. Pictures. I want to see everything.”
“On it,” Lee mutters, already connecting the burner to his computer with a practiced hand. Lines of code immediately start scrolling across his main monitor in quick succession.
I step in behind him, hovering over his chair. His spine goes stiff the moment I’m close—his shoulders locked, like I might take a blade to his throat. Smart man.
But it doesn’t slow him down. He’s good. Efficient, even under pressure.
“Can you pull up the pictures first?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
Lee glances up—not at me, but at Damon.
Of course. He wants permission.
Damon steps in beside me, his presence a wall of heat and quiet intent. I don’t even need to look to know his eyes are on me, not the screen.
He nods once.
They all know why I’m here. What I’m after. Ever since that first night when they caught me breaking into the network, they’ve known that I’m hunting someone.
I don’t bother hiding it anymore. The truth is, my odds of finding him are better with their help. Their reach. Their hatred for the Songbirds.
I don’t trust any of them. Not really. But I trust that hate. And sometimes, mutual destruction makes a stronger foundation than false friendship.
So if I’m going to survive in their world... I might as well use their tools.
Lee breezes through the burner’s pathetic data cache in seconds. It’s practically scrubbed clean. No call logs. No saved contacts. But the message thread and attachments? Still intact. Just like Lola said they’d be.
He drags the first photo into the center of the screen and enlarges it. It’s the same one I’ve stared at a hundred times. But still, my breath catches.
The car hood is up, obscuring his face. But I know that posture. And that fucking tattoo.
Lee clicks forward. Another shot. Then another. Each one just a little too obscured. The lighting shifts as we movethrough each picture. The angles are all strange and taken from a distance—taken across the street or behind cover.
He was being watched. Stalked.
These weren’t just surveillance photos. They had to be taken to purposefully lure me in.
To make sure I chased the bait.
