The Loser Club It Novels & Stories

I feel our tail wag again. "My name's Leonder, but my friends call my Leo" He starts rubbing the sides of our face. There's nothing in his eyes but adoration and contentment as he stares into Honour's dark blue eyes. He glances back over at his jeep, it's still running and the driver side door is wide open towards the road.

" They were so persistent that I willed myself to ignore the itching and burning in my throat. Clapping a hand over my nose and mouth, I hurried to the table, picked up a glass of beer, and downed it in one go. I then turned and made a beeline for the door. Caleb lounged on the couch and called out to me, "Hey, where do you think you're going? We're not done drinking. You need to have a drink with each of us, princess." "That's right. This is what hanging out is all about. You can't drink and leave without tossing some jokes around. We're not all that bad, right?" Breathing became difficult as if a leaden weight pressed down on my chest. At some point, I couldn't even make out what they were

Jordan made a mess of the table, and the cleaners at the club quickly came over to clear it, but Nolan stopped them. The cleaners left quickly after that. Nolan approached Jordan slowly and stared at the mess he made. He looked at Jordan’s calm expression and could not help asking, “Captain, UN Club wants to sue me and have me expelled.” “Yeah, I know.” Jordan did not seem to mind. “Let them do whatever they want. It's punishment enough that we’ve lost the tournament. What else do they want?” Were they planning to kick the club out of the tournament? Too bad. Rainbow Club had been eliminated by UN Club. They would not be competing in this year’s national tournament.

"Warriors in their own right. We support each other, plan together. It's about taking back our stories, writing the endings ourselves." "Taking back our stories," I echoed, the phrase resonating within me, a call to rise from the ashes of victimhood. "Can you… can we really do that?" Lizzie's nod was solemn, resolute. "Yes, Roanne." She reached out, her fingers brushing against mine, grounding me back to reality. "The Revenge Club operates in the shadows," she began, her tone shedding any remnants of casualness, morphing into something steel-edged and formidable. "We're a collective of souls, bound by shared scars, who channel our pain into retribution."

Club C had leveled up since my last visit in my past life. Back then, it had been a decent spot, a little underground, a little exclusive. Now, it was something else entirely—polished floors that reflected the neon lights, sleek high-end decor, and a crowd dripping with wealth and entitlement. This was the kind of place people bragged about getting into, the kind of club where tables cost more than rent. But to the rich, this was nothing. Just another night out.

It seemed like the universe was making a joke on her but she would return the favour. If they thought her failure to bag the City’s Resort project would send her to the abyss, they were in for a rude surprise. Lucy stiffened in shock at the next words that proceeded from June’s mouth. “About that club.” June faced her. “Did you say it was at the City’s central?” “Ah-Yes!” Lucy said from behind her. “Would you like to visit?” Her tone was careful and trying. “Of course. We should celebrate our failure.” She shrugged. “Who knows, I might find a man that would help me get over the loss.”

“But the club? Downstairs? That’s where the real fun is.” “Oh?” June’s skeptical gaze roamed the building again. “Still seems way out of our league.” “The bar? Yeah, definitely,” Lola admitted with a shrug. “But the club? Not so much.” She leaned in, a sly grin curling her lips. “And besides, we don’t even have to pay.” June immediately stiffened, unhooking her arm from Lola’s. “I am not committing theft.” Lola burst out laughing, doubling over as a surprised snort escaped her. “Oh my god, June,” she wheezed, clutching her side.

He looked up and tried searching for Matt, but to no avail. Python Mountain was WK Club's territory, after all. Now, an outsider was causing trouble and humiliating Quincy, a member of the club. Was the boss really going to do nothing about it? Quincy clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the knife. At that point, the spectators became increasingly rowdy. "Quincy, are you scared now?" "You're a man, but you're behaving like a wimp!" "We lost all our money because of you! You're a pathetic loser!"

Not of being exposed. Of losing him.

It was a PR stunt meant to whitewash the peace. When a yellowed photo appeared on the screen, my breath suddenly stopped—it was my mother, taken during a free clinic in the slums a month before she died. The host spoke in a sentimental tone: "The establishment of the Moretti Foundation stems from the dying wish of the late Mrs. Moretti. She dedicated her life to eliminating the trauma caused by violence..." Just then, I heard mean whispers coming from the booth behind me. "Dante, look. The Mafia are such good actors."