Wanted: An Outlaw Anthology

by Lane Hart

  I think of Val, wondering if she’d have wanted this, seeing me so crazed with vengeance that I can’t see past the blinding rage. And Isabella. Would she have feared me afterward? Or been comforted by the slaying of her monster. What about Ivy? Will she wake with remorse?

  When I pull the curling iron away, bits of flesh stick to the metal, and he stills in my arms, eyes closed, probably passed out. His swollen lips are sealed together, as though soldered. I release his head and stare down at him.

  It’s too late to ponder whether, or not, I’m a good man for what I’m about to do. I can’t see past the tears on their faces, the pain in their eyes. It’s a torment that outweighs my conscience. One that challenges my faith. My devotion to God tells me to forgive this man and let him be judged for his sins.

  The stabbing pain inside my heart is a reminder that I can’t.

  And as a result, it’s going to be a long night, because I’ve no intentions of granting him mercy.

  Blood pools across the white tiles, seeping into the rug on the bathroom floor. The evidence of one fatal crack to a skull. Vinnie’s arms, legs and face bear the burns of the curling iron, while his mangled cheekbones carry the punishing blows of a hammer I found in one of Ivy’s junk drawers in the kitchen. Kneecaps busted, along with several toes, he lies motionless on the bathroom floor, as I wash away the remnants of his blood streaked across my arm into the sink above him.

  At the flicker of movement in my periphery, I lift my gaze see to Ivy, standing in the doorway, face a ghostly shade of white, as she covers her mouth. In the next second, she falls beside the toilet and expels a torrent of vomit that splashes up in her face. Over and over again, she empties her stomach, and I stand watching her, drying my hands on the towel.

  “Oh, my God.” Another belly-deep cough, and she spits the stringing mucus from her lips into the toilet.

  “I told you before, Ivy.” I toss the towel, stained with faint smears of Vinnie’s blood, onto the sink. “There is no God here.” Peeling back the sleeve of my shirt, I notice the bleeding has slowed quite a bit, the slice to my arm burning, gaping with clotted blood, but bearable.

  “Calvin … is he dead?”

  I glance down at Vinnie, then back to her. “I’d say so. Does the thought of that trouble you?”

  “I didn’t …. Oh, God.” She heaves into the toilet bowl again, and I reach down to pull back her hair, catching the flinch of her shoulder when I massage her there. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

  “You doubted me?” Brow raised, I release her, and she rises to her feet and rinses her mouth in the sink, swishing some mouthwash set out on the counter. “Any chance you have a large garbage bag? Like, lawn and leaf size?”

  Another glance toward Vinnie, then back to me, and she stumbles out of the room, returning with a shiny black bag that I slide up over Vinnie’s legs. Hands uncuffed, he folds easily, as I stuff him into the bag, my muscles shaking with the effort of manipulating his body. I tie it closed, trapping the demons of my past inside with him. After giving one good yank of the knot to seal it, I push to my feet and check my shoes, which show no trace of blood that could be tracked through her apartment.

  “What …. What are you going to do with him?”

  More of his blood stains my forearms up to the rolled sleeves of my black shirt, and across my chest. Careful to avoid the blood on the floor, I scrub at my skin once more, washing away the evidence of my cruelty, and dry my hands a second time on the towel that’ll need to be trashed along with the bathroom rug. “I’m going to throw him into my trunk. Drive him to the church. And dump him into the septic tank. Isn’t that what we talked about?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Gripping her chin, I guide her eyes toward mine. “No buts. This is what you asked for, isn’t it? The only way out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You’re going to clean up the blood on the floor. Bleach it. And burn the rug. I don’t want to see a trace of blood when I get back here, understand?”

  She nods, eyes filling with tears that I know aren’t for him, but because she’s scared. A trembling little mouse who narrowly missed the bite of a venomous snake.

  “Don’t be afraid. He can’t hurt you, anymore. You’re free, Ivy.” Planting a kiss to her lips, I grip the back of her neck, staring down at her. “Now I need you to clean up as good as you can. Can you do that for me?”

  With an emphatic nod, she licks her lips. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Good.” One more kiss, and I release her, keeping my eyes on hers for any sign that she might lose it while I’m gone. For now, the dull shine staring back at me tells me she’s resolved. Perhaps relieved, if she were to be honest with herself.

  Hoisting Vinnie up onto my shoulder, I carry him across the room and out of the apartment. As I spin around to make my way downstairs, I see Mrs. Garcia staring at me with one arched brow.

  I pause to stare back at her.

  Clearing her throat, she rolls her shoulders back. “Tell Iby I hab some lumpia for her. I’ll bring dem later.” Her eyes shift to the bag and back to me. “There’s a door out back to dump garbage.” She purses her lips and slips back into her apartment, as if it isn’t obvious the massive black bag slung over my shoulder is a body.

  With a smirk, I keep on down the stairs and exit out the back door of the complex, where I set his body on the stoop like a bag of trash. Observing not a soul in sight, I jog back to the front of the building and drive the car around, drop him into the trunk, and make my way back to the church.

  It’s after one in the morning when I arrive, noting the rectory standing dark and quiet behind the church. Like déjá vu, I drive the car around back, my skin prickled with the anxiety coursing through my blood. Nabbing the same shovel I used to dig the hole last time, I work quickly in the moon’s faint light, excavating through fresh dirt to the access lid of the septic tank. Vinnie’s body sits in the garbage bag beside me, and a scant amount of blood from my cut has trickled down my arm in all my toil. One more glance around, and I bend forward to lift the heavy concrete from the tomb below it.

  It feels heavier this time, or perhaps that’s the weight of my crimes bearing down on me as I hurry to bury the evidence. I steal a quick breath and hoist the lid off to the side, exposing the reeking hole where Chuck’s body is hardly visible in the darkness. I’m tempted to shine my phone light inside, just to be sure he’s still there, but instead, I drag Vinnie closer to the hole, setting the bag at the edge of it.

  “Damon?” The familiar voice from behind ripples down my spine and wraps itself around my chest in one suffocating squeeze.

  I turn to find Ruiz standing behind me, a look of confusion painted across his face. Seconds tick off with the pounding of blood inside my ears, as I watch his gaze dip to the black bag and back to me. Breaths slicing through what little my lungs will allow, I contemplate my choices: confess to my crime—crimes—or eliminate my witness, as I would’ve done ten years ago without question.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, lifting a slice of apple to his mouth. It’s then I notice the fruit in the palm of his hand, and his unfocused gaze while he chews it.

  “I’m … taking out the trash?” The words hardly slip past the dry knot in my throat.

  He looks around one more time, the crunching of his apple filling the awkward silence between us. Stepping over the bag, he pats me on the shoulder, as he passes on his way toward the rectory. “See you at mass.”

  As I watch him make his way down the path, without so much as a glance back at me, I exhale a shaky breath and keep on.

  It takes an hour to dump his body into the septic tank, where I discarded Chuck’s only just over a week ago. By the time I return to Ivy’s, she’s already cleaned up the mess on the floor, and I double check the grout for any residual specks she might’ve missed, but find nothing. Everything is bleached white and the rug has been removed. I exit the bathroom and find her sitting on the bed, back against the wall with
her knees pulled into her chest.

  “Damon, I’m so sorry for everything. Will you ever forgive me?” She crawls across the bed and lowers to her knees in supplication before me. “Please forgive me.”

  “Only God forgives, Ivy.” She stares up at me with pleading eyes, and, hand set to the top of her head, I feel my body harden. Every cell of my being is on fire with the sins coursing through me. The need to push her away, to ignore the temptation of feeding my cock between those eager lips, is smothered by the weight of culpability already pressing down on me. A suffocating iniquity no God could ever forgive.

  Why should I be so virtuous, then?

  Unbuckling my belt, I lock my eyes on hers as I slide it from the loops of my slacks, and fasten it around her neck like the white collar at my own throat. “But your penance is my pleasure. And you have much to atone for.”

  One small tug, and her mouth gapes, her chest rising and falling with what could be fear, or excitement. Or both.

  “Your lust and temptation. You must expiate these sins in equal measure to the way you’ve made me suffer for them. Will you accept this punishment, Ivy? Will you give your body over for these trespasses against me, these licentious thoughts you breed?”

  “Yes,” she breathes, eyes hooded, as she reaches for the belt caught in my fist. “I’ll take whatever punishment you decide.”

  “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  Eyes on me, she reaches up to glide my zipper down slowly. “Amen,” she whispers, yanking my slacks to mid-thigh, springing my dick free. Another tug of the belt at her throat guides her forward, and the moment her lips meet the head of my cock, I’m certain there’s no chance of redemption for me. No going back.

  Feeding my shaft down her throat, I lay my hands on her head, as if conferring the Holy Spirit upon her, and tip my head back when she sucks me base to tip. “Yes, that’s it. Take all of it, Ivy. Every inch of what you’ve sown.”

  Threads of tension wind deep inside my stomach, as she takes me in her mouth again. And again. Moving up and down my cock with such deference, such devotion to the act, while stripping away what little piety is left in me.

  “Pécheresse, you’ve damned my soul with these lips,” I say, curling my fingers into her hair. “Fucking hell.”

  Hands still pressed to her head, I wrench my cock from her mouth, breaths heaving, every muscle in my body keening with the loss of contact, begging for more of that delectable constriction. I want to punish her for the way she commands my body. How easily she invites me to sin, as if it’s the answer to my every prayer.

  There’s no fighting this, though. And the truth is, I was damned the day I was brought into this world. There’s no denying that anymore, either.

  As a father, a husband, and a priest, I like to think that, for a short time in my life, I knew what it felt like to be a good man. One of integrity and good intentions, with the capacity to forgive and show mercy. But I’m the son of Anthony Savio, a criminal by my very birth, and no matter how far across the country I travel to get away, or how many times I change my name, killing will always be in my blood.

  It’s who I am.

  Loosening my collar, I remove it from my neck and toss it onto the nightstand. I won’t need it after tonight, as I fully intend to turn over my resignation to Bishop McDonnell first thing in the morning. Next, I unbutton my shirt, peeling it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, beside Ivy, my temptation in the flesh, who watches me undress. Patiently waiting, like a good little supplicant.

  I wish I could say that the blood I’ve spilled is enough, but just as I know I can’t stay away from Ivy, I’m certain it isn’t in me to forgive my father for having murdered my family. So, as much as I wish I could be a man of virtue and unyielding devotion the church, the truth is, I’m not finished with this wrath.

  Or indulging in my darkest fantasies, for that matter.

  I crawl over top of Ivy, while she backs herself onto the bed, eyes carrying what I surmise is something carnal. Wicked.

  Far too irresistible for my slowly unraveling control.

  Taking the end of the belt in hand, I urge her beneath me, licking my lips like a wolf at the thought of what’s to come.

  Tonight, I’m going to fuck her. I’m going to glut on her body until I’ve had my fill. Until there isn’t an ounce of lust left in me. Then I’m going to fuck her again after that.

  And tomorrow? I’m going to fly back to New York to make my father answer for his sins.

  Sins that can never be absolved.

  Authors Note

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  About Keri Lake

  Keri Lake is a dark romance writer who specializes in demon wrangling, vengeance dealing and wicked twists. Her stories are gritty, with antiheroes that walk the line of good and bad, and feisty heroines who bring them to their knees. When not penning books, she enjoys spending time with her husband, daughters, and their rebellious Labrador (who doesn’t retrieve a damn thing). She runs on strong coffee and alternative music, loves a good red wine, and has a slight addiction to dark chocolate.

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  Other Books By Keri Lake

  Contemporary Romance

  Ricochet

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  Ballistic

  Erotic Romance

  Ripple Effect

  Paranormal Romance

  Soul Avenged

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  Soul Enslaved

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  The Fallen (A Sons of Wrath Spinoff)

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  Rebel Ink

  A Lords of Carnage MC Novella

  Daphne Loveling

  Introduction

  Six:

  I’ve been looking over my shoulder for three years, changing my hair color, my name, my locations, and barely existing. Tanner Springs feels like home, and I’ve stayed too long. I know it’s careless of me, but I can’t seem to leave. Something holds me here—and his name is Bullet.

  He’s six-feet four of raw masculinity, with a bad boy edge, and wears the colors of the Lords of Carnage MC. I’d like to wear him, but only for a few nights. It can’t be anything else.

  I can’t risk it becoming more than pleasure, but the thought of walking away from him rips out my heart.

  Bullet:

  She’s been mine since I laid eyes on her, and I’m done waiting.

  If I have to get a tattoo on every inch of my body just to have an excuse to flirt with her, I’ll do it. When she finally agrees to a date, it ends between the sheets. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and after a lifetime of getting crapped on by Karma before finding her, there’s no way she’s walking out on what we have.

  I’ll do anything, or kill anyone, to protect her from the trouble bearing down on her.

  Six is mine, and I protect what’s mine.

  Rebel Ink is an offshoot novella to the Lords of Carnage MC series.

  Chapter One

  Six

  “Is it the number of times you’ve broken a man’s heart?” he teases. “Because if so, you’re about to make it number Seven.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “No, that’s not it either. Face it, you’re ne
ver going to get it.”

  “Would you tell me if I did?” Bullet asks. “I bet I already guessed, weeks ago.”

  “No, you honestly haven’t,” I tell him.

  Although he is right.

  I wouldn’t tell him, even if he guessed.

  The name I go by, Six, is a frequent source of interest and amusement here at Rebel Ink, where I work as a receptionist and aspiring tattoo artist. Though, if you wanted to find a place where a weird first name would blend in, a tattoo parlor is probably one of your best bets. I fit right in among Chance, Sumner, Hannah and Dez. Most of my customers hardly even blink when I tell them my name. Hell, a lot of them go by handles even stranger than mine.

  Like Bullet, for example.

  So far, Bullet’s the only one of our customers who’s been this insistent on trying to find out what my name means. The first time he came into the shop and introduced himself, I tried to deflect his question by pointing out that his name was odd, too.

  But then he immediately told me his real first name is Wyatt, and that Bullet is his “road name,” which is what motorcycle clubs call the nicknames their members go by. Apparently, Bullet has an actual bullet lodged in his body. Hence the choice of monikers.