Ridge City Recruits: The Full Seven-Book Collection
Page 1
Copyright © 2020 by Mazzy King
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by DesignRans.
Proofread by Jenny Hanson.
Contents
1 | TOMMY
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
Epilogue
2 | AIDAN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
3 | COLIN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
4 | KHALIL
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
5 | RYAN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
6 | TRISTAN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
7 | CONNOR
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
1 | TOMMY
Prologue
Tommy O’Brien
I follow my court-appointed public defender into the court room, trying not to appear as terrified as I feel. I grew up in a rough, blue-collar neighborhood in Ridge City and I’m no stranger to getting in trouble in my life, but this is the first time I’ve ever been arrested, ever been in a court room, waiting to hear my fate.
And the kicker is that I didn’t even commit a crime.
At least, not directly.
I stand up beside my lawyer. I’m guessing his bloodshot eyes and rumpled suit aren’t because he was up all night figuring out how to keep me out of jail. A strong odor of vodka wafts off him.
Shit. I’m fucked.
Goodbye, graduation next year. Goodbye, football team. Goodbye, backup tight end position.
But all of that takes a backseat to the fact that my friend and starting tight end Tyler Russo is lying in a coma at Ridge City General, because of the drugs he took at my end-of-the-semester house party.
That’s why I’m here—drugs.
I didn’t know a bunch of guys from the team were using. Steroids, specifically. A neighbor called in a noise complaint, and when the cops showed up, they bailed out. I was left with a living room full of paraphernalia and no friends to claim it.
So it all became mine.
The fact that my piss test was clean meant nothing—enough was left behind to indicate selling.
The judge, an older man with graying hair and a stern face, peers down at me. There are other people in the court room, awaiting their own fates, I guess. It’s a little embarrassing to go through this with other people present. The cop who arrested me is there too. He looks a little smug.
I’d love to punch him in the face.
My older cousin Rhys is a SWAT sergeant on the force. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him since my arrest on Friday night, but I wish he was here. He’d be on my side.
I think.
“Mr. O’Brien,” the judge says, “I don’t take matter of drug use and sale lightly. Our city has a serious problem, and I’m committed to doing everything I can to mitigate that problem, which means getting dealers off the streets.”
But I’m not! I want to bellow at him. I wasn’t raised to take shit off anyone—not anyone. That’s part of my problem, but my ingrained sense of justice and standing up for myself fills my chest with fire.
My lawyer shifts his red eyes to me, frowning, as if he can read my mind. I don’t think he believes me, anyway.
“But I’ve had some conversations with some officers of Ridge City PD,” the judge goes on, glancing over my shoulder at someone. “Including your cousin, Rhys Hartley.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“He wrote an impassioned letter on your behalf,” the judge continues, holding up a piece of folded white paper. “You’re a decent student and haven’t been in serious trouble. You’ve just finished your junior year of college and are set to graduate next year. You’re on the football team. According to him, you’re a mostly decent young man.”
Mostly decent?
“After he and I had an equally impassioned conversation in person, I have two options for you to choose from, Mr. O’Brien. Your fate is in your hands.”
I swallow. This can’t be good.
“Option one is, you plead guilty to possession with intent to sell,” he says in a hard voice.
“Why the fuck would I ever do that?” I say before I can stop myself.
“Jesus, shut up,” my lawyer hisses.
The judge points a finger at me. “Speak out of turn and with profanity again, and your choice goes away, young man.”
I clench my jaw so tight it aches.
“Option two is, you agree to an exploratory program with Ridge City PD that will allow you to serve your community, and all of this”—he waves a hand around the court room—“goes away.”
Exploratory program? What the fuck?
The judge folds his hands and looks at me expectantly. “Well? What’s it going to be, young man?”
“Take the fucking deal, kid,” my lawyer hisses.
I glare down at my shoes. My gut is screaming at me not to take the deal, but what other option do I have?
“This deal has an expiration date,” the judge adds softly. “And you have five seconds to decide before I assign you option one.”
“Option two,” I mutter.
“Speak up, son.”
I know that old bastard heard me loud and clear. “Option two,” I say louder through my teeth.
He smirks at me, then bangs his gavel. “Your case is dismissed, and you’re hereby remanded to the custody of Ridge City PD. Officer Hartley?”
I turn as my cousin strides up the aisle toward me. He’s ten years older than me, but we could be brothers. He doesn’t look very happy as he waves me toward him. I step around my defender with a murmured, “Thanks,” even though he barely did anything and step beside my cousin. Even though I’m feeling totally unsure about all of this, I feel relieved when his hand drops on my head, then my shoulder.
“You and that loud mouth of yours,” he mutters, leading me out.
“Rhys, what the fuck is going on?” I demand in a whisper.
He regards me with a serious expression. “I just saved your ass, that’s what.”
“The drugs weren’t mine,” I insist. “I don’t do drugs. I’ve done stupid shit in my life. I’ve stolen as a kid, I fought way too fucking much, but I never—”
“Relax, buddy,” he says, steering me down some side hallway toward a set of double doors. “I know. I know you aren’t a user. I know you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the law, the courts, do not give a fuck about any of that. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” I say. “Where are we going?”
“To headquarters,” he replies, opening the passenger door of his car and standing back, waiting for me to get in.
“I thought I was free,” I say, struggling to keep the nervous tremor out of my voice.
Rhys smiles. “You’re not going to jail,” he replies. “But I wouldn’t say you’re free.”
And with that, he shuts the door.
1
Tommy
One month later
I step off the elevator onto the ninth floor of Ridge City General for my weekly visit with Tyler. It had to be pushed back a couple days this week. My daily, early morning football workouts started this week. I have a part-time summer job on a construction site, and the nightly demands of the Program, as I call it, have kept me pretty busy.
And exhausted. And sore.
As I head down the hall to his room, I roll my shoulders a little. I’m aching from a particularly intense sparring training session last night. Between hand-to-hand combat training, weapons training, surveillance training, and all the other training they’ve been putting me through, I feel like I should already be a cop by now, but that’s not how the Program works. At all.
I step into Ty’s room and stop short. “Coach?”
Ridge City University’s football coach Jim Rundle glances up at me and smiles. “Hey, Tommy. Good to see you. I thought I’d pop in and visit our champ.”
I nod. “Me too.”
Coach steps around the bed, where Tyler’s unresponsive form lays. He grips my shoulder. “I was glad to hear everything went all right with your charge, son.”
I avert my gaze. “Yeah. I guess.”
That’s a strange way to put it—all right. None of the guys who were using at my house were caught, and I’m not about to snitch, not even to my new bosses. The detectives Rhys put me in contact with asked for names early on. The only way I agreed to provide them was if I could get them to come forward themselves.
And I know they won’t do that until we figure out who their dealer is.
By now, Coach has announced that I’ll be filling Tyler’s starting tight end position come the fall. There’s so much on my plate right now, I can’t focus on that. Otherwise, I’ll crumble under the pressure.
I feel like I’m being tugged in so many directions now.
“Hey,” Coach says, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Pressure getting to you?”
It’s like he can read my mind. Or maybe it’s just all over my face. “No, Coach. Just…got a lot on my mind.”
“I know you do.” He pats my shoulder. “You had a great practice the past couple days. Keep up the great work, Tommy.” He tips his head toward Tyler. “He’s still not talking today.”
“I’m not expecting him to.”
“Don’t stay too long. You need rest too.” With another pat to my shoulder, Coach walks out.
I take a seat next to Tyler. He’s got a ventilator tube in his mouth and is hooked up to machines I don’t have names for. All I care about is the one that makes a beep-beep-beep sound in time to the beating of his heart.
“Hey, man,” I say softly. “How’re you doing? You look like shit.”
Tyler’s face is so still.
The doctors told me to talk to him, though. They said he might be able to hear us. I’ll take that chance. I don’t want him to feel alone.
“Shit’s getting crazy with that program I told you about,” I continue. “By the way, you can’t say anything about that to anybody, all right? That’s top secret. I’m getting really good at shooting. I put a seasoned combatives instructor on his ass last night, too.” I glow at the memory. “It feels like they’re going to start sending me out soon. I don’t know where, exactly. More parties. They want me to find the source, Ty. They want me to find out who’s dealing ’roids on campus.” I sigh, staring at his motionless face. “I wish I knew what you were doing. Why? Why would you take that shit?” I clench my fists. “I’m angry, man. I’m angry at you. I’m angry at what happened to you. I’m angry to the fuck peddling this shit. You’re almost twenty-two years old. Only twenty-two years old. You have your whole life ahead of you.” I rest one hand on his forearm and cup my forehead with the other. “You have to wake up, Ty. You have to.”
“He will.”
The soft voice makes me jump out of my chair and spin on the balls of my feet, heart pounding. I guess that’s another side effect of my training—my reflexes were good before, but they’re practically superhuman now.
“Hey, Tommy,” Augustina Russo, Tyler’s twin sister, says with a one-sided smile.
I’ve met her before when she’s come from Chicago to visit. Even though Tyler would kill me, I can’t help how attracted to her I am. It was immediate the first time I saw her, and that sense of incredible desire barrels into me now at the sight of her. She’s on the petite side, but even the boxy, cropped Soundgarden T-shirt she’s wearing with ripped-up jean shorts and dirty black Converse can’t hide the curves I know she has. Her face is delicate, framed by long, glossy, dark-brown hair that falls down almost to her elbows. My eyes land on her plush, pink lips and the memory of that one secret moment we stole at a party before she went home over spring break comes rushing back. I swallow and clear my throat.
“Aggie. Wow, it’s good to see you. When’d you get in?”
“Last week,” she replies, stepping toward me. She unslings the dirty, canvas messenger bag she carries across her body and sets it on the chair I was just in. “How is he?”
“No change.” I squint. “Are your parents still here too?” I saw them only once after everything went to shit. I’m pretty sure they hate me.
She lifts hazel eyes to me. They’re the perfect balance of green and brown, with flecks of gold near the pupil. “Yeah. They’ll be here until he wakes up or we’re told he never will. They’re helping me get settled in.”
“Settled in?”
“I transferred here.” She plants her hands on her hips and gazes down at her comatose brother. “To keep an eye on him. He hasn’t been the same Ty I remember. When he was home at Christmas, something seemed…off. And he was the exact same way when I came for spring break.”
In spite of everything, the mention of spring break makes my skin heat.
“So I finished my semester at my other school, and I’m going to do senior year here at RCU. I hear the journalism program is okay.”
I’m shocked. “Yeah, but it’s no Northwestern.”
Aggie’s mouth tightens. “My brother’s more important.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, and our gazes lock. “I’m sorry, Aggie.”
“You didn’t do anything,” she replies.
I huff humorlessly. “Yeah? Your parents don’t think so. A lot of people don’t think so. What makes you so sure?”
“Because Tyler always said you were a good guy who kept his nose clean. Literally,” she adds drily. “He told me some of the guys on the team used. He never admitted to it, but he didn’t have to. But he always said, ‘Tommy’s a good guy. I need to be more like him.’”
My throat tightens and I can’t speak for a second.
“I was hoping I’d see you,” she adds.
I glance at her. Does she think about that kiss like I do? We were both tipsy, but that was it. I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew exactly what I wanted. That hasn’t changed.
Because what I want is standing right in front of me.
“You never called or texted me after my visit,” she adds lightly.
“I didn’t know you wanted me to.”
Now it’s her turn to let out a dry huff. But all she says is, “I want to talk to you about that night. About Tyler. Everything. Can we go somewhere?”
“Uh…sure.”
“Great.” She leans over and kisses Tyler’s forehead, then walks out of the room, glancing back at me expectantly. “Well?”
The girl of my dreams, an investigative reporter, wants to talk to me about what happened the night her brother either overdosed or took a bad dose of steroids at a party and slipped into a coma. Wants to talk to me, the guy who hosted the party. The guy who’s now working as an
undercover informant for the Ridge City Police Department.
Against my better judgment, I follow her out of the room.
2
Aggie Russo
The past two weeks have been frustrating. I’ve confirmed there’s a doping ring among the players on campus. But that’s it.
I need to know who’s responsible. I need to know how my brother slipped into a coma.
I’ve made some fake profiles on social media to hunt for information. And in between that, I’ve been learning everything I can about illegal steroids. Their chemical makeup. Methods of consumption. What the pills and vials and needles look like. How it’s known on the street. “Gear” is how it’s commonly known on the streets.
I’ve been sitting on the couch for hours in my new, cramped apartment near campus, doing endless searches and research for anything when I finally get a lead.
One of my fake profiles is that of an athlete at a different school in a different state, one who didn’t get a scholarship and is trying to walk onto the RCU team. He’s in town visiting and wants to know where he can get the best “gear.” Two minutes ago, I got a message.
House party at 12th and Leavenworth. Be in the backyard by the shed at midnight if you want gear. $100. Cash only.