Eleven Punk Novels & Stories

Fastest hands on deck with a sister on drug VLADIMIR ORLOVISTA: 6'0. Right Wing. Son of richest man in Russia (Druglord). My brother's main bully. ELLIOTT CROSS: 6'3. Goalie. Son of the President’s Secretary. IQ 146 with psychopath tendencies. Least interested in bullies but does to hide himself. They're called gods of ice and move like it. Effortless, Synchronized and Fast. Asher duck a puck and the screaming intensifies

Edward was holding up a lightstick, flashing a peace sign at the camera. There was also a family photo of the four of them, with the concert venue in the background. Yes, the four of them, without me. All of them were smiling happily. They said they were working overtime so they couldn't celebrate my birthday, and they sent me a bit of money. Yet, on the same day, they took Edward to a concert without bringing me along. They even lied to me. This happened in both lifetimes. I suddenly felt a little sick. … Time flew by. I got into a key high school as I had hoped, and I successfully applied for a dormitory.

"Names." "We're with the supply side," I said, my voice flat and bored. I channeled my best Jax Carter impression. "Direct contact. Not on the list." The man's eyes moved to Ren, who just stared back with a look of pure, cold hatred. Three seconds later, the bouncer held out his hand. "Phones." I handed mine over without a blink. Ren did the same. The door opened, and we stepped into the belly of the beast. Inside, the music hit my chest like a blow. Red and blue lights cut through a thick cloud of smoke. The air smelled like expensive alcohol and a strong, manufactured chemical scent.

He passed the pair to Richard. Leaving chips on the pass line, Richard shook the dice and tossed them against the opposite table wall. They rolled nearly halfway back to him before landed on a nine. Griffin, who had assumed role of the pit boss, moved the dealers puck to the number nine. “Nine is the point, guys,” Griffin took another drink of the martini still in the shaker. Jake set down two chips behind his pass line chip. “I want to double down on the next roll. If I lose you let my friends go, they have nothing to do with this.”

At least he'd stopped crying by now. Just then Noah shuddered and started talking in a very quiet voice barely above a whisper. It was as though he wasn’t even talking to me, just to the space between us. “I was eleven,” he whispered, “when that story came out. Do you remember the goalie from Vancouver Dogs? The one who got outed after some reporter dug through his private messages?” I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see me in the dim lighting and how his face was tucked away from me.