Natural Born Killers (Sick Boys Book 3)

by Lucy Smoke

  gasoline? Pliers? Ice cream scoops? What the fuck is she going to do with an

  ice cream scoop?" I open my mouth to reply only to have him shove a hand

  in my face. "Never mind. Stop. I don't want to know."

  I release a chuckle. "We've killed people before, Troy," I remind him.

  "You've worked for my father and you've worked for me long enough to

  know that. What we're doing tonight is no different. Actually, it is in the fact

  that once you've accomplished your part of the job, you can leave. You're out.

  You don't need to hang around."

  Troy scrubs a hand down his face. His beard has grown in the last few

  weeks since he's been working Patricia's tail. He looks older and tired. "When

  Abel let on that you were involved with a chick, I kinda hoped she'd be

  normal, but she's..." He trails off as if unsure how to describe her.

  Abel's words from earlier come back to me. "A savage?" I supply, unable

  to stop myself from smiling.

  "A psycho," he says instead, making me laugh out loud. He watches me

  for a moment as I let the laughter take over. Avalon? I think. A psycho?

  Yeah, but if that's true for her then that's true for all of us. Each and every

  single one of us—Braxton. Abel. Her. Me—we're all a bit unhinged. Hell, she

  puts the hot in psychotic.

  Once I come back down from the insanity, I take a breath and shake my

  head. "Air your fucking grievances, Troy," I say. "Get it over with so we can

  go finish this thing tonight."

  Troy is quiet for a moment, watching me, contemplating his next words I

  assume. Then finally, he speaks. "I just want you to be careful, Dean." His

  eyes move across the street and he takes a step forward, facing it as he folds

  his arms over the railing at my side. "This world is as dark and deep and

  twisted as you are. As you all are. Your choices and actions, they can't always

  be taken back."

  "I'm well aware of that," I tell him. It's the truth. I've known that since I

  learned what it meant to be a Carter, to be an Eastpoint heir. To excel and

  survive in our environment, one had to be lethal. Ruthless. Untamable.

  Unstoppable. That was what had been expected of me and that was what I'd

  become. That is what I am now.

  I turn and look at him. "Thanks for worrying about me," I tell him. "But

  I'll be fine. I'm more worried about her."

  "Yeah?" Troy shakes his head and then cups a hand around the back of

  his neck, rubbing absently. "I don't know if you need to worry about her; she

  seems even stronger than you are."

  I know she does, but that only makes me worry more. The strongest on the

  outside are usually the most damaged on the inside and that is very much true

  for Avalon Manning.

  I don't reply to Troy's comment; I don't feel the need to. The two of us

  remain outside, taking in the air—even as rotten as it smells coming from the

  dumpster sitting in the hotel parking lot—until the door to the room opens

  and Avalon pokes her head out.

  "Ready to go?" she asks, standing in the doorway with her hip propped on

  the frame. She glances from me to Troy.

  I nod his way and he grunts as he leverages away from the railing and

  starts to make his way back down the balcony towards the stairs. "Yeah," I

  say, holding a hand out for her.

  She frowns but takes it anyway and lets me pull her into my body. She's

  decked out for war. Knives strapped to her ankles underneath her jeans where

  I saw her put them earlier. I can feel the ones under her shirt. Her holster is

  empty, but it's tight across her back and chest. She looks like an avenging

  demon and a badass spy at the same time. It turns me on.

  I rub against her as I lay my head on her shoulder and turn my lips so that

  they brush her throat. Her heartrate picks up, making me grin. "I'm sorry," I

  tell her. "About having to take care of her before Corina."

  Avalon's hands find my waist and she tucks her thumbs through the loops

  of my pants. "It's fine," she says. "I knew I'd have to deal with her sooner or

  later." Her body sinks against mine and the smell of her hair makes me want

  to drag her back into the hotel room, kick Abel and Brax out, and just strip

  her down naked. "I'd hoped," she continues a moment later, "that after she

  was transferred to the rehab facility you put her in, that would be the end of

  it."

  I lift my head. "Are you angry that it's not?"

  She bites her lower lip and glares across the road. She knows exactly

  which room is her mother's and the hatred in her gaze blazes brightly. Along

  with something else, something else I'm not sure she's ready to recognize.

  "In a way," she admits after a long stint of silence. "She's like a cockroach

  that keeps coming back. It's time for her to die. It's time for me to move on."

  Even if it's painful, I think, squeezing her tighter. She leans down and her

  cheek touches my chest as she continues to stare across the street. She can

  move on all she likes, I decide. She can kill, maim, and torture to her heart's

  content, as long as she realizes that there's no moving past me.

  18

  AVALON

  WAITING IS A SECRET AGONY THAT NOT MANY PEOPLE UNDERSTAND. AS I SIT

  in the back of Dean's SUV, watching the rural town of Spearwood pass by

  outside of the blacked-out windows, I think I've been waiting for this moment

  for a long time. I can feel the long strips of metal attached to my skin beneath

  my clothes. I'm overloaded, I know. I had just needed something to do,

  something to keep my mind occupied as the minutes to tonight's endeavor

  counted down.

  Now it's here. Now it's time.

  "Ava?" Abel's voice sounds from the front. "You good?" he asks, his

  blond head popping around the side of the front passenger seat to looks back

  at me.

  "Peachy," I lie.

  He stares at me, and for a moment I think he's going to call me on my

  bullshit, but he surprises me instead. He gives me a soft smile and then turns

  back around and doesn't say another word for the rest of the drive.

  The warehouse Dean's friend—or employee, I assume—Troy had set up

  for us is very unlike the ones in Eastpoint. Where those warehouses were

  obviously well kept and maintained, this one appears to be abandoned. In

  fact, it looks more like a barn than a warehouse and as we pull around to the

  backside and I roll down my window, the faint whiff of rain and sawdust

  touches my nose, making me want to sneeze. I roll the window up once more

  and sit back.

  "Troy's already inside," Dean says looking down at his phone. "Pull

  farther around so she doesn't see us."

  "You don't think she'll check the area?" Abel asks.

  Instead of Dean answering, though, I do. "No," I tell him. "She won't." I

  don't give further explanation even when Abel eyes me, but after a few

  seconds, he takes it and sits forward again.

  "How long do we have to wait?" Brax asks as he parks the car and kills

  the lights.

  "Not long now," Dean says.

  The seconds tick into minutes. The clock on the dashboard glows in the

  dim interior of the SUV. I unbuckle my seatbelt and pull my knees up to my

  c
hest, setting my boots on the edge of the backseat as I curl up and watch the

  empty field behind the warehouse barn. The subtle vibration of Dean's cell

  nearly a half hour later sounds more like a blaring alarm in the silence of the

  cab.

  No one says a word as he cracks the backdoor and gets out. The rest of us

  follow to do the same. It's time.

  I glance up at the building as we circle towards the back door we'd passed

  earlier. It's already dark since the sun has gone down, but even still, clouds

  hover overhead. It looks like it's going to rain soon.

  Braxton draws his gun and moves towards the backdoor, checking the

  handle before lifting it and peeking inside. He doesn't say anything, just nods

  that we're clear to move ahead and Dean touches the small of my back as

  Abel takes the front and moves into the building.

  Sweat collects at the top of my spine. My breath slides in and out of my

  chest. The cold air from the outside swirls around my skin before I step into

  the scorching repressing heat of the warehouse. The second the door shuts

  behind us, it feels more like an oven door closing.

  I hear their voices before I see them. Troy's is deep, rumbling. He's saying

  something, his words muffled, but whatever he's saying, he sounds very

  matter of fact. It isn't until he pauses and receives a response, though, that my

  body locks up and I stop walking.

  Unlike Troy's, her voice comes around the corner clear as day. Pristine.

  Unshaken. Unwavering. There's no doubt in her tone. No hesitation. "I've got

  the money," she says. "Here." Something hits the floor; it sounds like fabric

  —heavy fabric.

  "Ava?" I suck in a breath as Abel's voice reaches me a split second before

  Dean's hand hardens on my back. I jerk my head up, seeking out his gaze.

  "Are you okay?" he asks.

  I nod. I am. I have to be. At least I know this will be the last time I'll ever

  see my mother. There's no coming back from this. It's a small comfort.

  "Are you sure?" Dean presses, and this time his hands become restraining

  when I move forward. His other arm encircles my waist and holds me still.

  "I'm fine, Dean," I whisper. "Let go."

  He waits a moment more as if trying to gauge if I mean it. I tilt my head

  back and let him see the truth in my expression. There's no more softness in

  me for the woman in that room. She's my mother in name only. I don't feel

  sad about this. Hell, I don't even know if I can feel sad when it comes to this.

  All I can sense inside of me in this moment is a bone deep rage and a desire

  to exact revenge.

  Eye for an eye. Life for a life. Pain for pain.

  Dean's arms loosen and I push them away, taking the lead as I stride past

  Abel and turn the corner of the long hallway until I come to the opening of

  the main part of the warehouse.

  I step inside and turn my head as Dean, Abel, and Braxton follow behind,

  spreading out. From one end of the room to the next, the space spans a

  massive distance. Large enough to hold a dozen cars or more. The air is stale

  from disuse. That sawdust scent is stronger here. The heat, however, has

  dispersed somewhat and goosebumps rise along my arms.

  "What the hell?" Patricia's voice makes my head pivot towards her.

  Like the image of her in the bank's security footage, she's dressed in

  baggy clothes that hide her frame. Her face looks haggard and even skinnier

  than when I last saw her. There are shadows under her eyes. Her lips are pale

  and cracked, but it's clear that she still hasn't given up her bad habits if the

  dilation of her eyes and the smidge of white powder still lingering under her

  nose are anything to go by.

  I know the second she sees me because her already pale face goes even

  paler and she jerks several steps back from Troy, turning as if to make a run

  for it. Braxton doesn't even hesitate, he takes off across the space and tackles

  her to the ground before she even makes it a few feet. I watch with disinterest

  as her face hits the concrete floor and skids a bit before Braxton's able to

  leverage back up to his feet, bringing her with him.

  Abel moves towards them as Dean and I head for Troy. Abel passes

  Braxton a pair of handcuffs. Dean says something quietly to Troy. He glances

  my way once before nodding and then leaving the same way we came.

  All the while, Patricia is cursing and screaming as Braxton and Abel drag

  her back to where we're standing. Braxton shoves her back to the floor, her

  knees hitting the unrelenting stone, making her wince and cry out in pain. I

  glance to the side and see what it was that I'd heard earlier. A duffle bag.

  Without looking her way, I stride over and bend down, unzipping the bag.

  I freeze. Green. Lots of fucking green. It's hundreds and hundreds of dollars

  worth of bills. Thousands. Money I'd never seen in my entire life. I stare at it

  for a moment before pulling out a handful of the packets they're so neatly tied

  in and thumbing through it.

  Patricia finds her voice. "Should've known that's what you'd be here for,"

  she sneers.

  I lift my head, but I still don't turn towards her or reply. Instead, I reach

  down into my left boot and withdraw a knife. Using it, I cut through the paper

  tying the money together and then fan it out with my fingers.

  I look back to Dean. "Do you have a lighter?" I ask.

  He grins and reaches into his back pocket to produce one. I take it without

  another word and then I stride back over to where my mother kneels on the

  concrete, her lip leaking blood down the side of her chin. I hold up the money

  in front of her face and then flick the light, watching as the flame flares to

  life. I hold it under the green paper until it catches fire.

  "Money is the last thing I'm here for," I finally say, throwing down the

  bills in front of her. "I'm here for fucking justice."

  "Justice?" she repeats, scowling at me. "Justice would see that you were

  already dead."

  "Yeah?" I reply. "And why do you think that? Is it because you knew

  someone was going to try to kill me? Because you took advantage of it to pay

  the asshole who kidnapped me to torture me before he finished the job?"

  "Not that he could manage it," she snarls. "Obviously, you're tougher to

  kill than I expected."

  "And you're too desperate to be rid of me," I snap back. "Otherwise, we

  wouldn't be here, now, would we?"

  "Just do it and get it over with," she says. "I know you want to kill me for

  what I've done."

  "Kill you?" I repeat, shaking my head. "No, mother, I don't want to kill

  you—well, I do—but I want you to feel what I went through first."

  Her eyes widen as Braxton catches my meaning and grips the back of her

  head, yanking it up so that her face is tilting up, facing the lights at the top of

  the arching ceiling. The orange yellow bulbs sway back and forth over us,

  throwing shadows all along the sides of the room as I bend over her face and

  touch the side of it with my knife. I dig it in, watching as tears pop up in her

  eyes and slide down her cheeks to mix with her blood. I slowly draw the edge

  of it down her jawline—the same way Ace had done to me.

&
nbsp; She gasps when I finish and Braxton releases her again. "There," I state.

  "Now we match." I point to the pink line along the side of my own face,

  barely noticeable until I turn it into the light. It's almost healed, but hers never

  will. Corpses can't heal.

  "You little bitch," she hisses, cursing as she spits at my feet.

  I don't resist the urge that hits me. I drop the knife to the dirty floor, ball

  my hand into a fist and then let it fly. My knuckles slam across her cheek and

  skid up into her eye socket, sending her flying to the side.

  A laugh bubbles up out of me as I stare down at my knuckles where the

  skin has split over the third one. That felt a lot better than I expected it would.

  Dean bends down beside me and picks up my knife, closing it, and pocketing

  it.

  "Avalon?" he asks. "What do you want to do?"

  Abel moves to grab Patricia by her shoulders and resituate her in front of

  me. "I have a few questions before we finish what we came to do," I say.

  There's no point in dragging this out. A part of me wants to. A part of me

  wants to slice through her lower calves and watch her drag herself across the

  concrete as I douse her body with gasoline—the cans I see Troy has set to the

  side of the warehouse for me for just the occasion—maybe it was too much

  to ask for. Too much to really consider. I want to do any number of

  unimaginable things to this woman.

  Mothers are supposed to love their children. They’re supposed to protect

  them. Not hurt them. Not trade them for drugs. Not hate them.

  Patricia begins laughing. The sound is hollow and dry, but it shakes her

  shoulders and echoes up to the rafters. All eyes land on her. When her head

  tips back and her eyes open, tears leak out of them. They're a dark rimmed,

  watery mess. Red and empty. So fucking empty. Like they've been ever since

  I can remember. They've always been empty. And I realize just how true my

  feelings towards her have been. I've always said she was already dead, just a

  walking corpse that didn't know how to just lay down and stop moving.

  I'm more than willing to let her finish her laughing spree. It doesn't bother

  me one bit, but Dean has other plans. "What the fuck are you laughing

  about?" he growls, stepping forward. It's almost amusing how he takes a half

  step to the side as he moves. It's unintentional, but it's protective because that