Rampage (Ruthless Tendencies Series Book 4)

by D. M. Burns

  The grip I have on my crystal glass threatens to snap at any given moment. I roll my neck trying to ease the tension from my body then kill my McCallan’s shot. Normally I don’t drink but I’m hoping the kick from the alcohol will help stable off my evil ache.

  As soon as I shift my way down the main hall, I look up from adjusting my cuff links to see Rage and Rebel. God damnit, I don’t have time for this shit. Not to mention, when these two fuckers get together nothing good ever comes out of it. Other than costly repairs to the décor and structure. Maybe I should take them to a room Lena has on the schedule for remodeling next week. They can fuck that shit up and it won’t cost me a damn thing that’s not already considered in the budget.

  “What’s up, fucker? I mean other than your flawless fag boy fashion.” Rage waives his hand up and down at me in a flippant zero fucks kind of way.

  “You do know that a great deal of the cliental here is that of the gay community, right? Be respectful.” I stop in front of dumb and dumber.

  “Don’t flip my fucking shit into a racist thing, you dick. I have nothing against our gay community. Shit, I prefer anyone’s company over you. Plus, I don’t give a damn what turns a fucker on. I’m just offended by this god damn suit, much like anyone else that’s unfortunate enough to land their fuck-sockets on it. So, shove that fuckboy statement up your ass.” He growls.

  Hell, I know he’s not homophobic. I just love pushing this overgrown grumpy fucker into a red zone of Rage. It’s one of those small pleasures in life for me. He flips me the bird and I smirk.

  “You’ve got an angry soul, Rage.” I continue before Rage can explode on me. “What are you two doing here?” I look to Reb and see his red-rimmed eyes shining bright. “You back to rolling up those green hay-stacks, brother? What’s everybody calling it now? Cush? Whacky weed?”

  “Your ass is as bad as Reese.” Reb laughs. “She’s the only one left on planet pot that calls a THC trip, wacky weed. But to answer your question, no. I just need sleep, brother. Alex has been out of town for the past couple of days. Her book club crew took a trip to a famous library in Washington. She gets back tonight though.” He rubs the back of his neck.

  “I call that mean-green shit, silly smoke. And it’s this fucker’s fault that my wife pisses green lika little blunt blazing leprechaun. Then she eats her weight in pickles and crunchy peanut butter afterward.” Rage points his beefy middle finger in Rebel’s face. Reb smacks his hand away.

  “I can’t blame her. I’d still be getting high as hell too if I lived with you.” Rebel makes out like he’s toking on a joint.

  Nudging my head for them to walk and talk, I casually stride my way down the corridor to the hawk-eye room. This way I can get a bird’s eye view of where my inquisitive little gangster is and see how I want to handle this situation.

  “Ramp, we had a security breach come in this morning.” Rebel says. I look over my shoulder and quirk my brow. What the actual fuck? “Of course, it was an unsuccessful attempt. My software is superman tight. Not even kryptonite can take my fucking wall down but still, they tried.” He says.

  “Who’s they?” I ask.

  Stopping in front of the scanner, I place my hand over the access panel and the locks disengage. Pushing through, I place my empty glass on the side table and walk up to the tinted glass wall.

  The other walls to the left and right are covered with screens displaying all the other playing levels here at Aces Down. Each gaming floor has a hawk-eye room just like this one. You’re never out of range and always in eyeshot here. I peer out over the well-suited bodies playing in the pit below, scanning.

  “Mr. Haze. Our New York gangster.” Rebel says. “I tracked the IP address and it led back to that fucker.” He side-eyes me. I can feel the crazy beams burning against my forehead.

  So, that’s why two of the Three Stooges are here. Like I’d involve them in club business, never. No one can link any of my family members to this place and I have it that way for a reason. If shit gets out of hand and Aces Down goes up in flames then the only one to burn will be me, period. Hell, pinning this place on me will be a feat for an outside source to accomplish.

  Of course, Rage and Rebel flank both of my sides and look out into the space beyond the window. The floor is littered with people. A livewire of excitement for all the optimistic possibilities mixed with desperation for the futuristic consequences to come. Those unfortunate and unlucky loser fucks are an occupational hazard. It’s a house divided.

  I’ve been banking money since I was a kid. My wayward ways and Wallstreet dealings have made me a very wealthy guy. No one truly knows my net worth, never will. Keeping my head low and ten steps ahead of everyone else have been my specialty ever since a certain middle school misconception.

  Rage likes to think he bought Club Chaos but no. I’ll let him continue to believe that. I’m not the kind of man that requires recognition-quite the opposite. Gratitude or a pat on the back is not necessary nor my style. Flying under the radar and watching my family flourish with equal amounts of success and happiness, that’s thanks enough.

  If this human tank of boiling Rage ever investigates the depository that houses his mom’s life insurance policy, he’ll piece it together. The guy lost years of his life because of me and only me. My underground dealings landed him in prison. I owed him that much, period.

  Club Chaos was our first wise business decision sans the gambling on the side that I singlehandedly headed up. We’ve all have shared the ups and downs along with success as brothers, Rage included. I can’t tell a difference in Rage or my brothers because there’s not any.

  When I paid cash for that franchise, I had pops slip Rage’s money back into that bank account that he never touches. And the deed of ownership is divided equally amongst them. The bad seed that is me intentionally excluded, no involvement.

  Also, I paid off the warden and a handful of other dirty politicians to get Rage released. It worked. Rebel thinks it was his diabolical dirty secrets but again, no. Those slimy assholes that wrongfully tossed Rage in the slammer could care less about your bag of secret bullshit. But fill up their pockets with greenbacks and you get results, money motivates. What can I say? It’s the nature of the beast.

  Rebel was closest to Rage and it made him feel right with the world to believe he helped out. Who am I to bust my little brother's bubble? That guy's marble maybe warped every which way from Wednesday, but his heart is sugarcoated with a sweet center for those close to him. Plus, his level of evil is just god damn scary, hard pass.

  When Rebel lost what little mental stability, he had left with that twisted asshole formerly known as Jake Sellers, that shit was some costly chaos. The candid criminal camera shots that Rebel thought he collected all the copies of from Alexander Greyson accidentally resurfaced. Those said pictures ended up in the hands of a rookie FBI agent a month after Rebel got married. Of course, I found out. Dirty news travels fast through the tunnels of the underworld.

  The corrupt cop wanted two million for the pictures to disappear. I gladly paid five to have him quietly dealt with, permanently. Rebel and Alexandria didn’t need any more shit. I saw to that. It was money well spent, something I have an abundance of. In the end, I obtained the pictures and that retched rookie asshole is no longer an issue.

  Renegade and Asia are debt-free too. I paid their business affairs off the day the boys were born. Then I set up an account for Raid and Zaid, both. Those kids will never have shit to worry about, not that they ever did. Plus, mom and dad are living the easy life after years of struggling.

  No one knows the benefactor of said mystical mounting funds either. Rebel’s cyber genius can’t even crack the code on my magical contributions into their bank accounts. He’s wasting his time. It’s untraceable. Just call me the fairy Godfather of funds.

  With all that being said, I’ve spent a great deal of time orchestrating my family’s future and I don’t want them caught up in my brutal business affairs. I don’t ne
ed any help dealing with Mr. Haze. Even though these assholes show of force is heartwarming they need to go back home to their wives. At this point, I need to focus on getting these two out of here.

  “What I don’t get is why a deviant fucker like him would want to hack into Aces employee personnel files.” Rebel says. I grunt out my acknowledgment.

  I’ve got to admit that I didn’t take Crellan for a complete fool but trying to hack into my files here is a crippling offense. I know what he’s after though. It’s almost as bad as him sniffing around my palace in search of Len.

  It’s a personal hit and he knows it. One he intended. I’m feeling raw about it too. Especially after I politely told him to fuck off at the party a few weeks back. It’s his way of smoking me out, bringing me front row and center.

  Spotting the mobster mogul is easy enough and I slip my hands into my pants pocket contemplating. My fingertips touchdown on a familiar money clip and continuously flip it over.

  This bastard is the result of a busted-up childhood. A cross of two evils between an alcoholic father that liked to beat on his kid coupled with a crack whore for a mother who only cared about her next hit.

  It’s rumored that at the age of fourteen, Crellan put a bullet in their foreheads. Smoked them both. At close range. Then he strolled right out of his apartment building and into the hands of the underground. Where he took his rightful place alongside the rest of the deranged deadly criminals. He had something the mob bosses wanted, a soulless existence with a cryptic cranium conspiring between the shoulders. Plus, the guy is full-blooded Italian.

  “It’s quite simple. Because I pissed him off, that’s why.” I smirk.

  Denying him access to Lena has set his little contaminated demon hamster loose on the hunt. He needs to focus. She’s not part of the deal. A light sheen of tingles races up my spine. Rebel smiles sadistically while Rage cracks his knuckles.

  “Well, let’s go welcome that motherfucker with a little bit of Chaos.” Rage smiles and moves for the door. It must be said that he gets way too much pleasure out of inflicting pain.

  “Hold up… This is not the cage, Rage. Shit gets handled differently here.” I stick my hand out chest checking him to a stop. He slowly looks down at my hand probably contemplating breaking it in half.

  “If you like your arm and the vag-suit that’s covering your underdeveloped little bitch boy body, you’ll remove that hand.” He pretends to straighten my collar. I wink at him causing his lip to twist up in a snarl. It pisses him off that his asshole ways have no effect on me.

  “Are you two done?” Rebel crosses his arms over his buffed-up chest while staring at us.

  “As much as I appreciate it, both of you need to head on out. Go home to Alex and Reese. I can handle Aces Down. This guy is a different bred and he’s my problem to deal with.” I say. Rebel’s eyes stay lock on mine like he’s decoding my brain.

  “Whatever, you fashion fag. Let’s go, Reb.” Rage says while moving for the door. Rebel tilts his head at me, and I blow him a kiss. He smirks but reluctantly moves in step behind Rage.

  “Swear to Christ, if we put matching shirts on you two, you’d be identical twats.” I say. Rebel ignores me but Rage holds his middle finger up over his shoulder flipping me off.

  “Later, brother,” Rebel mumbles as the door clicks shut with them on the other side. I have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. That shit was way too easy.

  Turning back to the window display, I squint my eyes at the New York gangster gunman that’s currently staring back at my hawk-eye window like he knows I’m watching him. Time for a sit-down, one-on-one. Chaos King verses the Gruesome Gangster. This shit should be interesting.

  chapter 18 – lena

  age 15 - monroe High School

  Laying in the middle of my bed with my face firmly smashed into my pillow, I think about Ramp’s birthday that’s coming up soon as well as mine. I bite back another wave of tears from the bullshit that he pulled today. My bookbag was special and priceless to me. Not only did I love it, but it was one of the last gifts that my dad gave to me before the accident.

  Before a drunk driver took my dad’s life.

  Before Rampage stopped talking to me.

  Before things stopped making any sense at all.

  Before life got completely twisted.

  Rolling over, I let out a long sigh into the shady consumed room and watch my fan windmill around above my head. I rub my palms over my face feeling puffy pockets under my eyes from my post drama crying spree. One of many episodes. My mom is working tonight and I’m here alone with my thoughts running rapidly.

  My mind keeps replaying Paige’s phone call earlier about the Chaos cousins all transferring out of Monroe High to Creekside High. Apparently, Rage was expelled for brutally beating one of the football jocks. I wasn’t there to see it, but Paige said the guys NFL dreams are just that, a dead dream. After multiple concussions, countless staples, and a broken leg; she said the guy is lucky to be alive.

  The jock jerk supposedly slipped something into a girl’s drink at a party then took advantage of her. Instead of the girl calling the cops, she called Rage. Bad mistake for the football fuckboy’s futuristic career. I don’t condone violence but even I’m silently fist-bumping Rage’s demonic side with mad respect for his skills with that guy’s beatdown.

  Considering this was not Rage’s first, second, or even third outburst of Ruthless Tendencies, he was tossed out of the front doors. The faculty feared him, and the principle avoided any encounters at all costs. Their all probably breathing a sigh of relief now. Rage lives up to his name.

  You’d think I would be glad that the Rampage torture has finally come to an end, but you’d also be very wrong. My sick and twisted heart wanted desperately to believe that there was hope. Hope for what? I’m not even sure. I’m a silly red Robbin.

  After almost two years I still have no idea why Ramp despises me. All the shitty things he does regularly should be enough to make me hate him back. Or at the very least, provide me with the motivation to supply him with multiple open stab wounds that require staples instead of stitches.

  If I gave back as much as he dished out, he’d look like a new age Frankenstein by now. That whole metal locker to his face incident was a complete accident on my part though. In fact, the entire thing only enhanced his facial attributes making him that much more appealing which really pisses me off.

  Since Rampage stopped speaking to me altogether, he’s picked up quite a few new habits. Other than making my life hell, his other noteworthy trait so far that was even a shocker for my ears to hear, is the fact that he slept with Renegade’s ex-girlfriend, Isabella. I can honestly say that even I was taken back by that info.

  It supposedly took place the very same weekend that Ramp decided to ghost me altogether. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make sense of his actions. I mean, it’s like he’s out to hurt everyone that’s closest to him. Renegade is his twin brother for God sake. Who does that to their own twin?

  I know what you’re thinking though. Yes, that was the same weekend that I stumbled into my room and found Renegade sweating between the sheets with my slut of a cousin, Cat. So, yes… Ren was cheating on his girlfriend or whatever, but to get that cosmic Karma back in lieu of your twin sleeping with your girlfriend, really? To me, that’s a little harsh. Admittedly, when I heard about the rumored triangle, I was ashamed of Rampage and felt bad for Renegade.

  My mouth was firmly shut. Even though I did threaten to rat the two of them out to my parents. Still, I never told anyone about those idiots making out in my bed. It’s not my style to toss rumors out there or in their case, facts. I’m not judging anyone. However, I do have my own opinion that I keep to myself for the most part. But I did make Cat change my sheets and Lysol my damn bed down.

  I’m not for sure but maybe Renegade and Rampage have an unspoken share the pussy pack going on or a sibling rivalry of sorts. Maybe they hold weekly meetings and updates. A sicko sessio
n of bro compare-a-ho highlights commences afterward giving each romp or lay in the hay a rating. With pussy charts and fuck sheets. Going over a play by play with Rebel and Rage. If so, that’s just weird as hell and gross.

  From what I’ve seen with my own eyes Rampage and Renegade don’t date the same people. And if you pay attention, as I do, they hardly ever hang out outside of school. So, who really knows what has happened there? It’s a mystery to me.

  Renegade’s life revolves around playing football and Rampage handles secretive business of some sort. Ramp’s always on his phone talking numbers. I pick up little pieces of info here and there in passing. Plus, I know him. Frankly, rumor has it from all the other heartbroken girls that have slept with Ramp, he doesn’t date. He fucks.

  Those are not my words. Those are the words that he actually tells the idiots that willingly take their clothes off for him. At some point, I stopped feeling bad for those girls. If someone flat out told me that then you could bet your sweet ass that they wouldn’t be tapping mine, period. Unlike half the other guys in high school, I’ll say this for Ramp, at least he’s upfront about it. The other horny assholes will simply lie and say they love you to get what they want.

  Like always, I took the rumors with a grain of salt, right? RIGHT… Ramp’s reputation is that of a man whore, period. Normally my opinion is based on truths. And I had a front-row seat to his factual fuckery figuratively. Last month I was running late for PE class. When I cleared the locker room door to dress out, I could hear a faint moaning sound.

  Perhaps, looking back on it now, I should’ve ignored that loud voice that lives inside of my head urging me to make sure whoever it was, was in fact okay. But what if it had been a legit sick chick in need of help? My conscience is a fickle female at times. At any rate, that’s something that I, as a good human, couldn’t ignore. Okay, alright… There was a bit of curiosity that needed a cure too.