Saints of the Syndicate by Natalie Nicole

Chapter 7

Bethani

 

Holy. Shit.

Why do I feel like I got hit by a semi-truck, dropped down 15 flights of stairs, and rolled around in a dumpster fire? Good gracious my head is killing me. Damn it.

"Uhhhhhh," I groan. "Why did I drink so much last night?"

"Being assaulted is more so the reason you feel so terrible right now Tesoro," a deep sexy as fuck voice says beside me, violently bringing me out of my hangover haze.

I quickly sit up and instantly regret that dumb-ass decision. "Owwwww! What the fuck?" I moan as my hands cover my face, and I burrow myself into my knees.

The next thing I hear is pounding footsteps coming from somewhere, and the door to whatever fresh hell I'm in slam open, making my headache flare even worse.

"She's awake?" Another sexy voice asks.

"Obviously,” voice one beside me says, dripping with sarcasm. "And your caveman antics of slamming my door open didn't make it any better."

"Fuck off, G," voice three says. He’s way too damn loud.

I stay burrowed in my knees as I demand, "Can you kidnappers please shut up...Or at least talk quieter? My God, am I in hell? Ugh. Even my own voice is too loud."

"Sorry, Tesoro."

"Yeah, sorry baby B."

"What? No apology from peanut gallery member number three?"

"Hmph. Just wondering when these pricks came up with nicknames for you already." A deep sigh comes from him. "Sorry, kitten"

As I slowly come to my senses, I tentatively raise my head, praying the slow movements will keep the drum line rolling through my head at bay.

When I first open my eyes, I blink several times to get the fuzzy haze out of them. When they finally focus on what's in front of me, my mouth falls open and my eyes go wide in shock at the three gorgeous as sin men in front of me. Which earns me small smirks from each.

"W-who in the hell are you three? Where the fuck are my clothes, and where am I?"

The one sitting next to me is the first to speak. "I'm Giovanni Martinelli, everyone's favorite." He smirks. "Nipple piercings over there is Declan Carter, and brooding stick-up his ass beside him is Sinclair Blackwell. We are the owners of Club Luxe, the same ones that had fuck face removed from the place and chased him away when he was attacking you after drugging one of your drinks."

Oh. My. God.

I'm sitting in the place where the gods of campus, the children of the families that rule this school and town. The motherfucking kings of Blackwell University.

No nonononoNO.

Slowly, I edge off the bed, not taking my eyes off them as I back away. I pray I can find something to protect myself from these assholes. Sinclair takes a step towards me, and I stop him in his tracks with a hard glare. "Don't. Fucking. Move. Asshole." All their eyes go wide, and their mouths fall open.

Good. Rich bastards.

Glancing over at the one named Giovanni I ask, "Where are my things, and how in the hell do I get out of this bullshit playboy palace?"

"Uhh...Tesoro..."

"Do NOT call me that. Just give me my things, and tell me how to get out of here. NOW."

Quickly, he gets up and grabs my phone and clutch, showing them to me.

"And my clothes?"

"Ruined from the blood. The doctor changed you into some of my old jr high clothes. Didn't think you wanted to wake up naked."

I stop to think for a moment, which only makes my head hurt worse. I scowl at them more. "Fine. Whatever. Just set my shit at the end of the bed, tell me how to get out of here, and back the hell up away from me."

They all stand there like stunned statues for a few before Declan clears his throat to speak. "You really shouldn't be alone. You've got a pretty good concussion, sweetheart, and need someone around you to make sure you don't get sick or whatever."

"Yeah...I'll take my chances. I am not spending any more time in this place with any of you."

"And why the hell not?" Sinclair throws at me. He has his arms crossed; legs spread wide, obviously ready for battle. Ha! Two can play that game.

I square my shoulders, cock a hand on my hip, and point while throwing as much queen bitch attitude as I can back at him. "Why the hell not, you ask? Are you fucking kidding me?" I screech, clearly ignoring the pain pulsing through my body. Gonna pay for that later, but oh well. "Why in the ever-loving fresh hell would I want to be around any of you? All you are is stuck up rich fucking playboy snobs that think only with your dicks and use your pretentious last names to walk this earth like some sort of high-class royalty that can do no fucking wrong. Ever. You plow through women quicker than I can change underwear and walk this stupid ass campus with god complex blinders on. You’re oblivious to anything else other than yourselves. Now why would I want to associate my 'scholarship sob story' self with the likes of any of you, you ask? Yeah...Think that's pretty fucking obvious. This place is hell enough. I really don't need any more pity looks thrown my way because I'm some charity case. Fuck. That."

And with that, I quickly grab my shit off the bed and storm past them all, slamming the doors behind me. Thankfully I find their private elevator, of fucking course, and get the hell away from them before I make the 20-minute trek to my shithole underground room.

When I finally reach my room, I grab some Tylenol, take a couple, and crash on the bed. I think for a second that everything is ok until I look towards the mirror and gasp. My hair is all over the place, I see mini cuts all over my arms, and know there are more on my back from the dress. But seeing Peter's hand mark around my neck, the sick black and blue bruising, is my undoing.

"Oh my god." I whisper as those traitorous tears start cascading down my face, before turning into full a full-blown snot nosed sobbing and gasps for air.

I'm so unbelievably sick of everything that's happened in my life. I've fought like hell through living with a crack whore for a mom that couldn't tell me who my own father was. At the cusp of teenager-dom I was taken and thrown into the foster system until I proved them wrong and became a legal adult at 17. Then I had to make my way through the streets of LA as a homeless person, busting my ass to get this god-forsaken scholarship to better my life. Only to then meet a "nice" guy who assaults me because he is a petulant child that doesn't like being told no. And to top it off, the Kings of Blackwell University saved me...I acted like a damn psycho and lost my shit on them when they saved my life.

Guess I may or may not owe them an apology. Eh, let’s go with maybe not right now, and put a pin in that. They are still snob ass playboys. Sexy as fuck, god-like chiseled out of stone with tattoos, piercings, and eyes ranging from a pale steel gray, emerald green to an ocean blue. But still, snob ass rich playboys. So yeah…

As all these thoughts, fears, and chaos run through my head, I finally succumb to sleep. I pray that when I wake up, life won't be quite as shitty.

Righttttt.