Natural Born Killers (Sick Boys Book 3)

by Lucy Smoke

"This picture I found—" She pulls it back up and I find myself drawn to the

  man in the photo. Just like before, I notice all of the ways he looks like me or,

  I guess, that I look like him. This was the man my mother had fallen in love

  with, the reason she'd hated me so much. "Ava?"

  I jerk and realize Rylie's been calling my name for what sounds like a

  while. "What?"

  "You drifted, did you hear what I said?" When she turns and looks at me,

  her hazel eyes staring straight at me almost as if they can see right down into

  my soul, I pull away.

  "No," I say. "I didn't hear you. Just say it again."

  She blinks and returns her eyes to the computer screen. "I said it looks

  like someone spent a lot of time and a lot of money to try and erase his

  existence online," she repeats. "I saw him in that photograph and thought he

  looked familiar, though, I didn't realize he was your father until I found your

  birth certificate. Well, an older version anyway. The one that's officially on

  file actually has your father's name as unknown, but—"

  The more she talks, the more confused I get. "Can you just skip to how

  you connected the picture with the money?" I ask.

  "Right." Rylie clears her throat and then clicks across the screen making

  the image disappear. "So, I found that Chaz Mason was killed in a car

  accident, but like your birth certificate, there were two reports. An older

  report details that he had severe internal bleeding caused by gunshot wounds

  to the chest and abdomen. Then, later, the report was updated and those

  details were removed." Her fingers click across the keyboard as her words

  flow into my head. "The only way I fucking found it was by sheer dumb

  luck."

  "That fucking asshole," I mutter.

  Her fingers pause. "Huh?"

  "Nicholas fucking Carter," I clarify. "He told me that my father had been

  his best friend, but he never mentioned being an Eastpoint heir. He said he'd

  died, but never mentioned how." I release the edge of the mattress and lift my

  hands to find them shaking. I'm shaking all over, actually. Trembling with

  barely suppressed rage. "He was murdered, wasn't he?" The question comes

  out of my throat raw and hoarse.

  For a moment, Rylie is silent, and then I feel her shift beside me. I don't

  look up. I don't turn to her. I just wait for her to respond. When her hand

  touches mine, I realize that she's moved her computer to the side. I don't

  squeeze back as she holds it, but it's … I guess … kind of nice that she does.

  It calms the anger down marginally at least, enough that I can think clearly.

  "Yeah," she says. "It looks like he was."

  I suck in a sharp breath. "Keep going," I tell her.

  Rylie doesn't reach for her computer again. This time, she just starts

  talking, and I realize—she knows this story by heart. She's probably run

  through the details of what she's discovered for hours—long before she called

  me here. The computer, the clicking, the typing, pulling up evidence, that

  damn photo—it was all a distraction. For her and for me. Because the fact is

  this is a heavy subject. I doubt she likes it any more than I do.

  "The old file on his accident was supposed to have been destroyed years

  ago," Rylie tells me. "Someone accidentally saved the report, though, when

  they started doing online cataloging. Newer cases went first into the database

  that I had to hack into, so his didn't pop up immediately. Ava … someone

  went through a lot of trouble to cover up his death." His murder, she means.

  This is dangerous now, not just for me, but for her, too. And though I

  don't really care much for normal people—Rylie's grown on me. I almost feel

  bad, even responsible for putting her in this position. Once you know

  something, you can't take that knowledge back. No matter how much you

  might want to.

  Patricia's crazy ramblings are starting to make sense to me. She said that I

  was the reason my father was dead. A part of me had wondered, but I hoped

  it was just Patricia's justification for all the shit she did, for her own grief. If

  he was murdered almost nineteen years ago—just months before I'd been

  born—maybe she was right. Maybe it is my fault.

  41

  DEAN

  I SIT IN THE SUV IN FRONT OF A FAMILIAR BROWNSTONE, GRITTING MY TEETH

  as I dial Braxton's cell for what feels like the millionth time. This time it

  doesn't even ring but goes straight to voicemail. The same thing happens with

  Abel's number.

  Three days is nothing. They’d been gone for far longer than that before.

  Yet, something in my gut tells me this time is different. It doesn’t feel right.

  Something is definitely off. I slam my cell into the console and grip the

  steering wheel hard, fighting back the urge to hit something. With everything

  we’d been through recently, not having Braxton and Abel nearby is like

  having my arms chopped off. There’s no doubt I’m strong on my own, but

  being without two of the most important people in my life when I’ve grown

  so used to them being within reach for the last few years … it only amplifies

  my feelings.

  A knock on the passenger side window has me immediately reaching for

  the gun I’ve taken to carrying at the small of my back. The familiar face that

  greets me, however, has me pulling my hand away without bringing it out.

  The door cracks and Viks leans in, gripping the top of the frame with two

  hands as he arches a brow.

  “You’ve been sitting out here for quite some time,” he comments.

  “Staking out my place now to try and get ahold of your old man?” I scowl,

  but before I can deny it, he continues talking. “You should know, Dean, he

  doesn’t come here.”

  “Is that a fact?” I deadpan.

  “It is.” He smirks. “I can tell you, however, that he called a couple of

  nights ago and said he had to fly out to California to deal with Miranda.”

  I scowl. Of course he did, I think. My mother can’t fucking keep her cool

  for two goddamn minutes. “Did she get dumped again?” I ask.

  Viks shrugs. “She was asked to go to rehab for her alcoholism this time.

  He’s dealing with that.”

  “And he called you to let you know,” I snap. “How is it the two of you

  aren’t fucking the same bitch again? You’re so close.”

  Viks’ expression darkens. “You know I’m with Haley, Dean. I don’t take

  kindly to anyone questioning that, even jokingly.”

  I curse and turn my head even as a minor sliver of guilt eats at me.

  After a moment of silence where neither of us say anything, he sighs,

  making me look his way once more. “I know you don’t like your old man,

  Dean, but Nicholas isn’t a bad character. I wouldn’t have worked for the man

  as long as I did if he were.”

  I sit there staring at him—trying to decide my next course of action.

  There’s a reason I drove down here. A reason I’m sitting outside his fucking

  house. It’s because I have no one else to go to. I have two best friends in this

  world—and they’re both unavailable until further notice. Avalon is … she’d

  listen, but I don’t want to dump more onto her plate than she alre
ady has to

  deal with. Who the fuck am I—how the fuck can I call myself a man—if I

  can’t keep her fucking safe?

  “Come on,” Viks says, knocking the top of my SUV with his fist before

  he pushes away from the car. “Come in and have a drink or something; talk

  to me.”

  My hands curl into fists. “Can I?” I ask.

  His brows shoot up. “What the fuck kind of question is that, man?” Viks

  asks. He shakes his head and turns away from me. “Get your ass in gear

  before I rescind my offer.” I snort. We both know he’s not going to. He may

  look like a badass with more ink than anyone I’ve ever seen, but there’s a

  reason when he finally managed to get his degree it was in something like

  psychology. A hardass with a fucking heart. Definitely never thought I’d

  have one of those as my final option.

  I cut the engine and slide out of the vehicle to follow Viks up to the

  porch. When he reaches for the door, he pauses and looks back. “You don’t

  need to worry about whatever you tell me,” he says suddenly. “Haley’s at a

  doctor’s appointment.”

  I press my lips together but nod my acknowledgment and he opens the

  door. We trek inside and go immediately to the kitchen. It’s hard to believe

  that a few short weeks ago I was sitting in this exact same spot with Avalon

  at my side. Then, I’d blown up. I wonder if I’d kept my cool then, could I

  have come back here earlier? Would I have figured things out that much

  sooner? Fact is, I haven’t figured it out yet, but I hope by talking to Viks, I

  might save my sorry ass.

  “Alright,” Viks pulls out a couple of beers from the fridge and tosses one

  my way.

  I don’t flinch as I catch the thing and twist the top off before downing my

  first swallow. It’s rich and kind of tastes like coffee. After I’ve drained an

  inch or so from the bottle, I pull it away and look at it, smirking at the foreign

  label. “Got used to the good stuff, I see,” I say, holding it up and shaking it

  his way.

  He laughs. “What can I say?” he replies with a shrug. “Good place. Good

  woman. Good beer. I’m living the perfect life.”

  “Haley’s doing good then?” I ask. “With the baby?”

  A warmth enters Viks expression. “Yeah, I’m happy, man. Can’t wait to

  have two girls in the house.”

  “Oof, man … a girl?” I tip my bottle up again. “What are you gonna do

  when she starts getting interested in guys?”

  His expression darkens, and then after a moment, the sunny warmth is

  back. He smiles back at me. “I’ll kill any motherfucker who wants to put his

  hands on my daughter,” he says pleasantly.

  I shake my head, not shocked in the slightest.

  “What about you?” Viks asks as he lowers his bottle and leans back

  against the counter. “You thinking about popping out a few of your own with

  that girl of yours?”

  I freeze, stunned by the question—not because it’s not something I

  haven’t half expected someone to ask, but certainly not so early. “I—ah—I

  don’t think so,” I reply.

  Viks tilts his head. “Oh?” That’s it. No demands as to why, no pressure or

  talks about how great kids are—then again, his hasn’t even come out of the

  oven yet, so maybe he’ll be different after he’s had a chance to hold her in his

  arms. Still, though, that one little syllable makes me feel like I need to say

  something. Damn man is good at that.

  “I can’t imagine it,” I confess. “I love Avalon. I want her—for the rest of

  my life, honestly. I’ve already proposed.”

  “Congratulations.” He tips his beer towards me, and I laugh.

  “I didn’t say she accepted,” I tell him. “In fact, she turned me down.”

  He whistles. “Scared?”

  I lean back on the stool I sit on. “Yeah,” I reply. “Out of her mind—

  though she’ll never fucking admit it. I know she’s probably still half

  expecting something to happen between us. She’s never had anyone stick

  around before.”

  Viks barks out a responding laugh. “She’s in for a hard time then,” he

  says. “When you want something, you’re as sticky as it gets.”

  “Damn right, I am,” I agree. My eyes lower to the bottle in my hand and I

  rim the top with my thumb as I speak. “I’m not going anywhere. I know that.

  She doesn’t. That’s okay … but kids?” I can’t picture it. Okay, that’s a lie. I

  can. I can picture a miniature Avalon, or hell, even a miniature me—but her

  with kids? That’s hard. “I just don’t think it’ll be for us.”

  “Why not?” There’s no judgment in his tone, for which I’m grateful.

  “I hate the idea of sharing her,” I tell him honestly. “I’m too …

  possessive. I think about having to give a part of her to someone else, even to

  my own damn kid, and I get jealous. If we ever do have kids, it’ll be because

  she wants them, but I’ll be honest, man, I don’t think she will.”

  “That could change,” he replies lightly.

  “Yeah, it could.” I lift my thumb away from the rim of my beer. “But I

  don’t think it will. We’re too damaged—both of us are.”

  “Damaged people sometimes make the best parents.”

  I inhale, lift the bottle, put it to my lips, and down at least half of what

  I’ve got left. “Yeah, maybe,” I concede. That still doesn’t take away the

  feeling I have in my soul. Abel’s always been the family guy. Maybe he’ll

  have one, and if he does, I’ll love that little shit like the best damn uncle in

  the world. I’d be happy with that. I shake my head. “I didn’t come here to

  talk about my relationship with Avalon,” I say, getting serious as I look up

  and meet Viks’ gaze.

  He nods. “You didn’t.”

  “I’m worried about Braxton and Abel,” I confess. “Elric and Lionel called

  them back a few days ago, and I haven’t heard from them.”

  Viks sets his beer down on the counter and crosses his arms over his

  chest. “That’s not unusual,” he replies. “That happened often when you were

  still in high school.”

  “No, I know.” I down the last of my beer and set it on the counter as well.

  “Things are different this time, though.”

  He narrows his eyes on me. “How so?”

  “It’s different because of what we’re dealing with when it comes to

  Avalon. We just finished tracking someone down and getting rid of a

  problem,” I say. “Then all of the sudden we come back to find the fucking car

  and Mr. Andrews ready to take them away. You don’t fucking think that’s

  suspicious?”

  Viks takes that in and doesn’t say anything for a moment. He lowers his

  eyes to the floor, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. I’d

  give anything to be inside of it right now, to follow his thoughts and see if I

  can make sense of what is happening around me that much faster. I’d been

  able to distract Avalon as much as I could over the last few days, but she’s

  just as concerned as I am, and there’s only so much I can do.

  “Have you figured out who’s behind everything happening with your girl

  yet?” he asks sud
denly.

  A scowl forms over my face. “No, my father still hasn’t told us shit.” I

  pause. “Well, he did finally fucking tell us who Avalon’s father was—though

  it was like pulling fucking teeth.”

  “Oh? And?”

  I turn away, blowing out a frustrated breath. “He said the guy was his best

  friend from his college days. Chaz Mason.”

  Viks moves so quickly, he knocks over the bottle he set down on the

  counter and I hear the glass shatter on the tile floors before I feel his hands

  grip the front of my shirt and he jerks me half over the island. “What did you

  just say?” he demands.

  I stare at him, stunned. “Chaz Mason,” I repeat the name. “Why? Who is

  he? I thought you’d know since you said you knew of Avalon.”

  Viks looks shocked to his fucking core—his face pale and brows drawn

  down low. “I knew of her, Dean, but I didn’t know Chaz fucking Mason was

  her father—shit, I should have. She looks just like the man.”

  “Did you know him?” I ask.

  “I did—a long time ago,” he answers. “I was a fucking teenager. One of

  the high school program students and he was…” Viks releases me abruptly

  and turns away, his foot smacking into the half of the bottle that had

  somehow managed to stay intact when it smashed into the floor. The neck

  however, is scattered all over. Not that he fucking notices. “Chaz Mason was

  an Eastpoint heir. He died. This is—shit, you need to go. Go get Avalon.

  Bring her—no, fuck!” He shoves a hand over the top of his head and scrubs it

  down his face as he looks around between the baby shit in his living room

  and me. “You can’t bring her here.”

  “Why the fuck would I bring her here?” I demand. “Viks, man, tell me

  what’s going on.”

  Viks spins to face me. “Fucking think about it, Dean,” he snaps. “Your

  father knows who’s behind everything—have you ever fucking known him to

  keep from throwing his power around? Is he tracking them or has he found

  them? I guarantee you if he knows who they are, then he knows where they

  are.”

  “Yeah? He said he can’t do anything yet—”

  “Did he say why?” he cuts me off. “I’m guessing the answer is no, but

  Dean, you’ve been so mad at him for not telling you what’s going on, that

  you didn’t think about the fact that him not telling you is a clue within itself.”