Tyrant

by Tiana Laveen

  TYRANT

  Written by Tiana Laveen

  Edited by Natalie G. Owens

  Cover Layout by Travis Pennington

  BLURB

  Hunter Wolfe’s life has been a revolving door in the penitentiary system of Saginaw and Detroit, Michigan since the age of eighteen. After witnessing the brutal murder of his mother as a young boy, his world changed, the trauma molding him into a juvenile delinquent his grandparents could no longer control. A suspected psychopath, it was no surprise to anyone in his circle that he became a weapons enthusiast and ruthless street boxer. Despite what many believe, though, Hunter’s heart beats for a select few—such as his dying friend, Noah, who has given him a set of tasks to complete on his behalf. Somewhere along the way, though, the unimaginable happens…

  Nita Percy is a hardworking single mother living in Detroit, Michigan. The last thing she needs is a hulking, beastly felon like Hunter hanging around her home, but her hands are tied, seeing that her daughter’s best friend’s father is about to draw his last breath. As time passes, Nita realizes appearances can be deceiving and sees through Hunter’s gruff exterior. As a friendship begins between them and their physical attraction grows stronger, she can no longer fight her desire for him, no matter how hard she tries.

  But there’s one question she can’t answer: Can Wolfe truly be trusted?

  With one afraid of giving his heart, and the other terrified of heartbreak, will they be able to overcome these obstacles and start anew?

  Read ‘Tyrant’ to find out!

  Please do not skip this section. The warning is here for your own protection. It is not here to scare anyone, but to provide a heads up to the reader.

  WARNING: This book is raw, gritty, and in your face. It offers no apologies. It is a romance novel that deals with real-life issues. However, I, as the author, never wish for my readers to be blindsided. If ANY of the below mentioned topics offends you or may be an emotional trigger, please proceed with caution:

  1. Graphic violence

  2. Profuse profanity

  3. Occasional racial slurs

  4. Graphic depictions of prison life including assault

  5. Detailed multiple sexual encounters

  6. Portrayals of poverty

  7. Red velvet cake with extra buttercream frosting

  (I just threw #7 in to see if you were paying attention.)

  8. Illness and death

  Thank You.

  Let’s continue…

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2020 by Tiana Laveen

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. PIRACY IS AGAINST THE LAW.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to every author who dared to write what they damn well pleased. It’s dedicated to the authors who simply want to live the ugly, harsh, beautiful, soothing, rough and bumpy truth that pours from their bruised fingertips along keyboards begging for relief from their constant banging, angst, and outpouring of pure love and dedication. I’m rooting for you. I want to raise my tea cup high, the one that says, ‘Classy Bitch’, and yell, “Cheers, my Love!” You’re not alone.

  As you sit there writing at your desk, hanging half off the bed in an intoxicated stupor, studying in that noisy café or in the gym locker room jotting down notes for your next chapter instead of exercising on the elliptical that you paid an annual membership to sweat all over so you could finally have your hot girl/boy summer, please know that I’m cheering you on, encouraging you every step of the way.

  You’re allowed to be authentic. Real. Dedicated to your ideas.

  You’re allowed to be a tyrant of your own damn books, philosophies, and notions.

  Write whatever you wish, but do it with passion, pride, and plentiful practice.

  Give yourself permission to please yourself while you entertain others. Lasting impressions upon our very own souls are priceless.

  After all, the books will still be here long after we’re gone.

  We live a hundred more years for each page written.

  I just made that up, but it sure sounded good, didn’t it?

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  About this Book

  Warning

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Love Letter to my readers

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Music Directory

  About the Author

  Love Letter to my readers

  Let me be frank. Unless you’re a zombie, you’re going to feel something from reading this book. Even if that’s hate… you felt it, right? LOL

  It’s ugly. It’s beautiful. It’s harsh. It’s nasty. It’s real.

  It’s just how I like it.

  I want to thank all of my ride-or-die readers who have climbed aboard this twisted train of thought with me for each new adventure I’ve penned. God has blessed me with the intense, toxic, romantic, endearing love of writing. My parents and my favorite English teacher (What’s up, Mrs. Briggs?!) had the audacity and unmitigated gall to tell me I was crazy, creative, and talented, and now here we are…

  God blessed me again… with YOU.

  I want to say ‘hello’ to all my new readers who apparently have no freaking idea what trouble they’ve gotten themselves into.

  Nevertheless, I am immensely grateful that you are a book lover. Something about the cover, blurb, or perhaps things you heard about me or my work sparked your interest and out of the millions of other books you could be reading at this moment in time, you chose mine.

  Thank you kindly…

  So, without further ado, grab your favorite beverage, sit back and relax.

  Let’s begin this twisted tale of hate, fate, and love.

  Your tyrant awaits…

  “In the calm, deep waters of the mind, the wolf waits.”

  – F.T. McKinstry

  “Funny, you don’t know me, but I know exactly who you are. You’re the boy who cried ‘Wolfe,’ so here the fuck I am. The better question is who I am not… Unlike you and your dumb ass friends, I’m not out here playin’ in the streets. I am the streets. You’ve made a wrong turn and fuckin’ with me and mine is definitely a dead end.”

  He tossed the man down onto the ground, shot all four tires of their car, and took off at high speed with police sirens blaring in the distance…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Who Rattled Your Cage?

>   “Full name is Hunter Anthony Wolfe. Race: White. Sex is male. Height is 6’5, 271lbs… Sixteen tattoos. The most notable: one of a wolf on left bicep, one of the word ‘Tyrant’ across back, one of a devil on stomach, and a cobra on the calf. Two scars – a small one by right eye, another one on left arm. Eye color is light green.” The lawyer licked his thumb and flipped through the sheets in the manila folder, going onto the next section.

  “Gang affiliations – none. However, has friends and relatives that are involved with the White Rabbit Radio and Gallows Tree Wotansvolk Alliance,” the attorney, Doug Reynolds, rattled on. The chains and handcuffs around Hunter’s wrist juddered as he got settled in the chair. The guard approached and removed them, disappearing just as fast as he’d entered the office in the prison.

  Hunter was certain he was dehydrated, his tongue thick and heavy. Rubbing his fingers together, he felt the dryness of his knuckles, as well as the veins and tiny raised scars from over two decades of fights. His gut churned from the disgusting breakfast that morning. Eggs swimming in old lard, fatty bacon strips, and stale English muffins.

  “…Detroit Reentry Center, Saginaw County Jail, Saginaw Correctional Facility, Central Michigan Correctional Facility, Michigan Department of Corrections, and even a stint in Flint at their county jail. Over the course of sixteen years, Mr. Wolfe, you’ve been charged with crimes including, but not limited to, three counts of second degree burglary, four counts of aggravated assault, one count of kidnapping, two counts of motor vehicle theft, one count of first degree attempted murder, one count of second degree murder, one count of manslaughter, two counts of intimidating a potential witness, three counts of destruction of property, one count of resisting arrest and two counts of trespassing.”

  The attorney tossed the papers down on his desk with a thud, then closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Those weren’t all separate instances. You read that off as if those were individual charges, tryna prove a point I guess by exaggerating the truth. Some of those happened all at the same time, and some of those charges are exaggerated or false.”

  “This is an uphill battle, Mr. Wolfe,” Mr. Lyle stated. He stood and glared at him and the other attorney from across the room. Two lawyers had him hemmed up in that office playing a silly game of good counselor, bad counselor. The place stunk of cheap coffee and superiority. Hunter had almost forgotten the bastard was there in the background like some backup singer. He reminded him of a swollen tick jammed into a dark suit – out for blood but doing little to earn his keep.

  “Your probation is approved by some miracle. Mr. Wolfe, don’t think it’s happened on your own merit. It has more to do with overcrowding, I’m sure, but I’m telling you, if you even sneeze wrong, you’re looking at being locked up for the rest of your life.”

  Hunter scratched the side of his neck as the annoying itch returned. The dry, crumbly bars of prison soap always left residue, no matter how hard he scrubbed. He often purchased his own but had run out of his Dial and Irish Spring that morning. He hated how the prison bars smelled, but more the way they made him feel. Couldn’t even take a damn shower without paying a price. Angry rashes were mere receipts for a crime horribly committed. He dropped his head and smiled… He hadn’t been busted for most of the things he’d done. These fuckers were barely scratching the surface.

  “Well? Don’t you have anything to say about this?” the attorney at the desk barked, forcing him to turn away from the bloodthirsty tick jammed in the corner like a booger-clogged nostril. He spun around and glared into the eyes of a pretty boy who didn’t know his asshole from a chocolate glazed donut.

  “No.” He yawned as he stretched his long legs, growing stiff from sitting awkwardly in the small chair.

  “Really? That’s funny ’cause you had a whole lot to say when you were dragged into court a few years ago, screaming at the judge after sentencing.”

  “That’s because it was a miscarriage of justice. If a motherfucker pulls a gun out on me, shoots and misses, and I pull my gun out in self-defense, shoot and pop his ass in the fuckin’ chest, that’s not my fault. That’s called self-preservation.”

  “You’re not allowed to have guns, Mr. Wolfe. It most certainly was your fault.” He had a good chuckle at that.

  These guys are out of their minds. They have no idea what happens in the real world.

  “You know what? This little justice system you bow down to and blow is all the way fucked up. We live in a country where a man can’t even defend himself. The guy who tried to kill me is now a victim in your eyes, and I was the one servin’ time when he started this whole mess. That’s backwards. Totally messed up. He got what he deserved and it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I stand around in Detroit or anywhere else without somethin’ to defend myself.”

  “You were supposed to be in Saginaw! You were on probation.”

  “We’re all supposed to be somewhere, right?” He threw up his hands. “You were supposed to be promoted by now, too.” He smirked, taking a nasty dig at the man. He craned his neck towards the bastard in the back. “And aren’t you running late for the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, you stupid frog-faced fuck?”

  “Hunter, that’s enough. I’ve known you for a very long time.” Reynolds’ eyes narrowed on him. “You need a game plan. You’re turning thirty-four soon. You’re getting out of here in three weeks. You have got to do something with your life. You’re getting too old for this shit, man. You’re going to end up dead or getting life in prison, which is pretty much the same thing.” Hunter slumped in his seat, itching to get back to his prison cell. “You have no skills, no education, no job lined up, either. You’re a convicted felon with a history of extreme violence. What are you going to do when you leave from here?”

  “Get some decent food, drive up in some pussy and get my dick sucked, then go get drunk.”

  The attorney rolled his eyes and swiveled in his chair.

  “Would you prefer I fuckin’ lie?” Hunter tossed up his hands. “I’ve been in here too damn long! The answer you wanted was, ‘I’m ready to start a new life, Reynolds. See what free courses I can take, attend church every Sunday and anger management classes, too… fuck that shit.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I need to get my hands on some money, I know that much, but all I know is the streets. The fuckin’ jails and prisons don’t care about rehabilitating anybody, Reynolds.”

  “Hunter, pointing the finger to get out of this mess has never helped you. You need to take accountability for your actions and figure out why you are in the spot you’re in.”

  “And so should you.” The guy hissed and spun around in his chair. “It’s true! Oh, and before I forget, why in the hell do you like to bring up what some of my family and friends are doing? I’m not them. I’m not a member of a gang, never was. I don’t do any of that shit and trust me, many have tried to get me involved but that’s not my thing. I rock solo.”

  “That’s only because you don’t like following rules.” Reynolds smirked. “You’re definitely not a follower, Hunter, but you are a problem. You earned that nickname, ‘Tyrant.’ When a leader of a prominent White supremacist gang gives you a moniker, that means something.”

  “I’m not a White Supremacist. Joe’s been dead for seven years, so that was a long ass time ago and again, that’s none of your damn business because I’m not involved in all of that shit. And even if I was, that has nothing to do with the latest charges or this specific case. To me, you’ve got bigger issues than that. I’m small potatoes compared to the problems you have. I wonder sometimes how you sleep at night? I mean, you wanna tell me to not blame anyone, but you—”

  “You’re off-track, Hunter. You need to—”

  “No, no… you wanted me to talk, so here we go. I had no intention of sayin’ a single word. I was going to let you sit up on your high horse with your little pal back there.” He hitched his thumb in the guy’s direction. “Have at me to pump up your egos like helium and tell me how good I’ve got i
t, how bad and terrible I am, all that shit, but you got mad that I wasn’t ‘more engaged in the conversation.’” He curved his fingers in the quotes signal. “Well, now I’m engaged. Here are the facts, Reynolds.”

  He began to count off his fingers. “My grandparents pay you a lotta money – money they don’t have. I don’t ask them for anything and you know it. Secondly, you’re not the least bit concerned about guys like me getting our life together, as you call it. We bring you too much money in fees. You don’t care about me walking the straight and narrow because once I do, your income dries up. You need guys like me so your pockets can stay fat.”

  “That’s complete nonsense.”

  “Is it? Without crime, there’d be no probation officers, prison systems, guards, judges, juries, rent-a-cops, police officers, probation officers, drug rehab centers, special tasks forces, criminal attorneys, F.B.I Agents, D.O.C., and bails bondsmen just to name a few. Millions of dollars gone in an instant if we turned square and you know it. Guys like you are banking on my downfall. Literally.”

  They stared one another down.

  “Hunter, regardless of what you think, I’ve always wanted what was best for you. You’re bright and have a lot of potential but you’ve squandered it.”

  “Squandered is such a silly word… It sounds fuckin’ funny, doesn’t it?” Reynolds grimaced. “You’re entitled to your opinion, and I’m entitled to mine but facts are facts, and you can’t deny this. When criminals are your bread and butter, how could anyone in their right mind trust you, the judges, or prosecuting attorneys to have our best interest at heart? That’s like expecting a lion to turn vegan. We’re necessary for this economy, you and I both know it, and you want to sit here and demand I tell you that I’m—”