Chapter 32
thirty-two
I drop my duffle bag off in my bedroom before heading downstairs to the basement. The setup down here is something I mainly use for coding.
I’ve been working on the sequel to Night Hunters, but with everything going on the past couple of weeks, it’s been pretty slow going.
Right now, though, I want to see if I can do some of my own digging into Ryan and his history with Sasha.
Firing up my computer, multiple monitors flicker to life as I crack my knuckles. Time to see what this Ryan asshole is all about.
Opening a browser, I start with a simple Google search for Ryan Collins Summit Studio and immediately, thousands of results pop up.
Wanting to put a face to the name, I click on images first.
“So this is you, dickhead,” I mutter, glaring at a photo of a clean-cut guy with perfect teeth and blond hair.
And of course, he looks exactly like the type of pretentious asshole who would secretly record his girlfriend during sex. Not to mention, he looks more like a Chad than a Ryan. IYKYK.
Most of the posts I’m scrolling through show him attending fitness expos or business events. In almost every photo, he’s wearing an expensive suit and a smug smile that makes me want to punch him in his fucking face.
His Instagram feed is filled with gym selfies, motivational quotes, and pictures of expensive cars. Nothing screams: I’m two million dollars in debt more, but appearances can be deceiving. Not to mention his casual look—khaki pants and polo shirts—just adds to the overall douche-canoe vibe.
“What are you hiding, you piece of shit?”
When I dig deeper, I find articles about Summit Studio’s creation.
According to Business Insider, Ryan and Sasha met in college. Both are fitness enthusiasts who saw an opportunity in the market. They started small—with just a single studio in Portland—before rapidly expanding throughout the United States. This is information I already know.
I click over to Summit’s website, navigating to their About Us page. There’s a professional photo of Sasha and Ryan standing back-to-back, arms crossed, both smiling confidently at the camera. She looks incredible—strong, confident, radiant.
He looks like a tool.
The bio underneath says they built the business on “mutual respect and a shared passion for helping people transform their lives through fitness.”
What a load of bullshit. If he respected her, he wouldn’t have recorded her without her consent.
My blood boils just thinking about it. What kind of scumbag does that to someone they claim to care about?
As I keep digging, I find recent articles about rumors of a business split, but nothing indicating financial trouble on Ryan’s part. In fact, most articles paint him as a fitness industry golden boy.
I lace my fingers behind my head in frustration and growl. Something doesn’t add up. Why would he be so desperate to sell his half of the business if everything seems to be going so good?
Next, I pull up his LinkedIn profile. Harvard Business School. Internships at a couple of Fortune 500 companies. Executive positions at two other popular fitness chains right before Summit came to fruition.
On paper, he’s the perfect business partner. If there’s one thing I do know better than most, it’s that some people have an innate ability to hide their demons, and hide them well.
After about an hour, I’ve compiled a decent file on Ryan Collins, but nothing that would explain a potential reason for blackmail. No signs of financial distress, no scandals, nothing that would suggest he’s desperate enough to extort his ex-partner.
But the one thing I do notice? The guy posts like clockwork, and there’s been no activity on any of his socials for the past three days.
My Skype rings and I glance over to see Dylan’s username flashing on the screen.
“Tell me you’ve got something,” I say as soon as his face appears.
Thick black-rimmed glasses frame gray eyes; his dark hair is messy, and he has at least three days’ worth of stubble on his face.
“Oh, I’ve got something alright,” he answers, typing furiously. “Your boy Ryan is in some deep shit.”
“How deep we talkin’?”
“Marianas Trench.” Dylan takes a swig from what looks like an energy drink before he continues. “I traced the text message. It came from a burner phone, but I was able to track the purchase back to a convenience store in Vegas.”
“Las Vegas?” I lean forward, interested.
“Yep. And guess who’s been making regular trips to Sin City over the past two years?” he asks rhetorically. “Your girlfriend’s ex has a serious gambling problem. I hacked into his credit card statements—”
“Jesus, Dylan—”
“Do you want my help or not?” he cuts me off, raising an eyebrow.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Go on.”
“As I was saying, his credit card statements show regular cash advances at various casinos. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars. And get this—he’s been taking out loans from some very unsavory characters, too.”
“Don’t tell me. The type that wouldn’t hesitate to blackmail someone as a way to get their money back?”
Dylan gives me a grim nod. “That, and much worse if they don’t get what they’re owed. From what I can deduce, Ryan lost big about six months ago. Started borrowing to cover his losses, and so on. Classic gambling spiral.”
“And now they want their money,” I conclude.
“Exactly. I also found emails between Ryan and various potential buyers for his half of Summit Studio. He’s desperate to sell, which we already know, but Sasha has first right of refusal on any sale. She can match any offer he gets.”
I run a hand over the back of my neck. “So he’s trying to force her into buying him out by threatening to sell to someone else?”
“Looks that way. But here’s where it gets interesting.” He leans close to the camera. “I don’t think Ryan sent that text.”
“What do you mean?”
“My bet is they have his phone. I found a few threatening text messages from different unknown numbers. The last one was more along the lines of a death threat. It said that if he didn’t pay up soon…” He slices a finger across his throat and shrugs. “That was a few days ago.”
My stomach drops. “So they’re using the video as a means to get their money directly from Sasha.”
“Bingo. Cut out the middleman. My guess? In order to save his own ass, Ryan told them she’s got enough money to cover the debt.”
“Fuck.” I scrub my hand over my face. “So what now?”
Dylan’s face breaks into a smug grin. “Now we fight fire with fire. I’ve already located the video on their server. It’s encrypted, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Give me another day, and I can wipe it out of existence.”
“Did you find out who the blackmailers are?”
His grin turns almost predatory as he leans back in his chair.
“You thinkin’ mafia?” I ask, lowering my voice unnecessarily.
“Nah, but close enough. They’re part of a loan shark operation.
One who prey’s on gamblers, offering quick cash with insane interest rates.
” Dylan cracks his knuckles. “I’ve already started gathering intel on their entire op.
By the time I’m done, they’ll have much bigger problems than dealing with Ryan. ”
I nod, feeling a surge of relief. “So what should I tell Sasha?”
“Not to pay. The process of wiping the video from their servers has already started, and I’m setting up some nasty surprises for anyone who tries to access it.
” He takes another swig of his drink. “But she should probably be careful for the next few days just in case. These guys tend to play pretty rough. I wouldn’t put it past them to make a trip if you know what I mean. ”
“How rough?” I growl.
Dylan’s expression turns serious. “Rough enough that you might want to stick close to her until this all blows over. I’m going to do an even deeper dive, just to double-check these guys don’t have any actual ties to the Triple Six Mafia. But it’s going to take more time.”
That’s all I need to hear. “Keep me posted. And thanks, man. We’re even.”
“Bet your ass,” he agrees with a smirk. “I’ll reach out when I’ve got more.”
After hanging up, I tap my fingers on my desk, mind racing.
Shit. This is the kind of news that could send anyone spiraling, especially with everything else Sasha has going on right now. And I have no clue how to break it to her.
I pick up my phone and call Ryder. If there’s anyone who can give me solid advice on how to approach this, it’s him.
“Sup,” he answers on the second ring. “How was the ranch? You two lovebirds have a good time?”
“We’re not lovebirds,” I snap, immediately regretting it. “Sorry, man. It’s been a day.”
His tone shifts, all playfulness gone. “What’s wrong?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. “Remember how I told you Sasha’s ex was being a dick about selling his half of Summit?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, it just got a whole lot worse.” I give him the rundown of everything, including what Dylan found out about Ryan’s gambling debts and the loan sharks who are likely holding him hostage.
“So now I gotta tell her that her ex is probably being held by some Vegas thugs who are trying to extort her for two million dollars, and oh, by the way, she should watch her back because they might come looking for her next if she doesn’t pay up.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ryder mutters.
“Tell me about it.” I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t know how to tell her without totally freaking her out.”
“You know there really isn’t a way to sugarcoat it, right?”
I snort. “How about: ‘Hey, Sasha, your ex might be getting his kneecaps broken as we speak, and you could be next!’ How’s that?”
He lets out a huff, pausing before he speaks. “Look man, just do what you always do—rip the Band-Aid off. Be direct, but be there for her. She’s a tough chick, so no doubt she can handle it.”
“Yeah, she is,” I agree, proud of how well she’s handled everything so far. “Still, this is some next-level bullshit.”
“All the more reason to just lay it out on the line. No sense in dancing around it.” Ryder’s voice firms. “Tell her exactly what Dylan found, what the risks are, and that you want to help her figure out a plan. She deserves to know everything.”
He’s right, of course. Sasha doesn’t strike me as the type who’d appreciate being coddled or having information withheld “for her own good.”
“Okay,” I concede. “I’ll tell her. Once I get an update from Dylan.”
“Good. And Jax?”
“Yeah?”
“If you like her as much as I think you do? Be there for her. Not as the guy she has—let’s call it an arrangement—with, but as a friend who actually gives a shit. About her. Not just getting his dick wet.”