Note: Contains explicit language.
Everyone knows I’m the real thing. That I live life on my own terms.
It takes a lot of endurance and a strong mentality to survive the streets. Which goes to say, I've earned my label as the most nefarious gang leader in Jacksonville. I relish in the fact that I am feared. This out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere country land would go unheard of if it weren't for me. Granted, I fill the town with crime, but that's what makes it interesting. Life this way has been habitual ever since I can remember, and nothing or no one can change the way I choose to live it.
I am the authority.
Establishing a gang doesn't go unnoticed to the policía, but then again they're not so inconspicuous when it comes to patrolling my neighbourhood. Over the years, outrunning them has become second nature—our midnight missions and daily violence are always obscured in cunning and immediate ways, therefore proof of ever committing the crime can never be confirmed and traced back to my team. It's what I'm notorious for.
My group is not for coños, for people to come and go as they please—there's no in between when it comes to joining my mob, you're either in or you're out. Every moment, every breath you take in my gang, your life is on the line. Dedication is essential. That's not to say I haven't had members betray me, or try to destroy me in the past—challenging my power is one thing, but compromising my status is another. Traitors are dealt with ruthlessly.
But with everything said and done, I will only ever trust number one. Ultimately, at the end of the day, there's only yourself to rely on. Cut the cord to your emotions, let apathy dry up your soul—it's the only way to survive. Having been disappointed too many times to count, not giving a fuck about other people has almost become a reflex. Independency is what gets you through in life, if you have to depend on anyone else, you're already screwed.
Nothing ever comes at an easy price. Life's a game and survival is key.
The acrid scent of marijuana drifts through the compact shed as I walk towards one of my gang members splayed out on top of a rugged mattress. Covering the cold cement, he lays against his back, his eyes staring up at the ceiling—completely out of it. With my own bloodshot eyes, I focus in on the used joint trapped between his fingers. His dark, tussled hair falls into his eyes as he feels me approach him.
"You better hope that's not the dope for tomorrow's client," I warn.
Ineptly, Cane grasps the joint and takes another desperate drag; throwing his head back, he sucks at the pipe greedily before letting out a satisfying moan.
"Relax, hermano," he slurs, "it was just a single bud."
"I'm not your fuckin' hermano." I spit drily. "Get your dopey ass up and prepare another bag."
Despite going through a euphoric high, he remains aware that my order isn't optional. Erupting into a coughing spasm, he forces his heavy body off the crusty mattress. I watch with narrowed eyes as he stumbles through an archway, directly into the storage area. I'll be lucky if he's still conscious by the time he's finished with the preparation of another batch of weed to sell. Cane's not my most intelligent guy around, but he comes in handy with the weaponry—firing a gun is his only strong suit, which always works in my favour.
With him dealt with, I head towards the alcohol. At the end of the shed, along a thick tin wall, three fridges lean against the back in a line. As I reach in to the largest refrigerator for a cold beer, echoing barks of laughter burst from behind another thin wall to my left—the "entertainment" room. Flicking open my can, I chug down the liquid until it hits the spot; my tastebuds flare when the bitter taste of beer spreads along my tongue.
“Don’t get too excited, Mickey, because this is as much cleavage you’re going to see tonight.” I hear another shout, and as I follow the cackles, I find the team sprawled around a cardboard box.
A bottle of Jim Beam has been placed in the middle of a poker game. Strip poker. The only chicas of my gang—Amy and Susie—tease the guys with their quick witted dealing and half-naked bodies. Cal and Michael, stripped down to their boxes, soak up the view. The smell of alcohol is detectable in the room, but not overpowering as I watch them from the doorway. Amy loses a round, and strips down to her underwear, throwing her blouse at Michael.
|Spanish Hunk||as Kade Trevino|
|Emma Stone||as Ariella Carrington|
|Drew Van Acker||as Cole Nicolson|
|Chris Zylka||as Tristan Bentley|
|Phoebe Tonkin||as Sally Dekker|
|Paul Wesley||as Wes Hamilton|
|Troian Avery Bellisario||as Sadie Price|
|Marlon Teixeira||as Tate Trevino|