Page 66 of Ruin My Life
Brie made it clear. She doesn’t want my protection.
She can hold her own. I’ve seen it. Hell, she nearly took Connor’s hand off with a pocketknife.
But she’s underestimating something.
Me.
She doesn’t understand how many enemies I’ve made.
And worse, she doesn’t understand just how far they’ll go to make me bleed.
WITHLEE TRACKINGdown Lola, and Connor, Monroe, and Chavez out on a job, I take a seat at the far end of The Speakeasy’s bar and nurse a cold glass of Coke, pretending it’s something stronger.
Pretending I’m not thinking about thelittle rosein my pocket.
The bar’s quiet tonight. Not unusual. This place bleeds money most nights, but it’s worth every cent knowing it’s saved people.
All it takes is one woman walking through that door, ordering the right drink—The Coyote’s Howl—from the secret menu, and we can help her disappear. No questions asked. No strings attached.
It’s not foolproof. It relies on word of mouth, a bit of research, and a hell of a lot of trust. But it works better than anything the cops have ever managed.
Tonight, we’ve got a handful of college kids shooting pool and a few lonely souls glued to the TV, half-watching a muted football recap.
I’ve been trying to distract myself—taking stock of which bar supplies we’re low on, drumming my fingers in time with the music. Someone’s swapped out Connor’s usual early-2000s dance playlist for something newer—songs I don’t recognize. Probably one of the younger bartenders trying to modernize the vibe.
Meanwhile, my phone’s practically burning a hole through my jeans.
Connor’s voice is still echoing in my head, but it’s dulled beneath something else.
her scent.Roses.
Still lingering, even now. Even here.
I pull out my phone, promising myself this is just a precaution. Surveillance. She agreed to my terms. And if she breaks them, I’m well within my rights to pay her a visit.
Maybe even punish her.
But that’s the problem. My definition of punishment—when it comes to Brianna—is already dangerously skewed.
And I’d probably enjoy it way too fucking much.
The camera feed from her apartment is still live. The lights are low, and the place looks empty—except for the thin glow beneath her bedroom door.
Part of me is cursing Lee for not installing a camera in there. But the smarter part of me knows it’s for the best.
I couldn’t be trusted with that view.
I watch the stillness for a few quiet minutes, sipping from my glass.
It’s late. Maybe she’s fallen asleep. Maybe she’s dreaming.
Just as I move to lock the screen, her door opens.
Warm light spills into the room. Her silhouette moves forward—a shadow gliding across polished wood.
She flicks on the lamp near the entrance.
And I nearlychoke.
