Wicked Souls: A Limited Edition Reverse Harem Romance Collection

by Rebecca Royce

  “If heaven was a porch,” he’d always say.

  The coffee pot chirped inviting me inside. I passed the cozy living room with its rose-colored walls and hard walnut floors to the bright white farmhouse kitchen littered with blue and white porcelain and copper pots hanging, also thanks to my papa. Soon, I sipped the elixir of life from a Garfield mug as old as the earth. I was starting to like my coffee black although I used to prefer it any other way. Flipping through last year’s Cosmo, smelling the perfumes still folded away, I knew my leisure time was about up. The days were getting shorter, after all.

  I read my horoscope.

  Leo, this will be your year to find true love. Typically, you pounce too fast. You have no problem falling in love. Nonetheless, this year you will finally stay in love. Known for longevity, luck is always on your side, but self-awareness of health has never been more important. Mindfulness is key. An inheritance is on the horizon, either goods or knowledge. This year throw traditional roles out the window. Lioness lead your own pride.

  I laughed out loud, somewhat startling myself. If only it ALL had come true.

  I finished the coffee and headed to my bedroom, the next room over since our Creole style house had no halls. Well, the room with its muted walls, wicker furniture and a dark, four poster bed belonged to me now since I’d buried my papa. My inheritance if you will. Though, other than some clothes, I hadn’t moved a lick of my stuff from my former attic room. I had managed to pack most of papa’s belongings and stow them away. Truth be told, I couldn’t bear to look at them. I’d even stripped his walls of crosses and other religious paraphernalia since praying had done him little good.

  Sparse, the room was a clean slate, a new beginning.

  Dressing in the full-length, free-standing mirror, I’d just borrowed from Mrs. Dean’s house, I would not cry for my papa. Instead, I decided my long ginger hair needed a trim. I grabbed the scissors and started cutting, not caring if I cut straight. I nicked my finger and kept cutting. Papa told me many of times that it was scientifically proven, red heads had a higher tolerance to pain.

  My hair hung in big waves, neither curly nor straight enough for my taste but fashionable nowadays. Well, it had been, last I knew. At twenty-five, I probably looked as good as I was ever going to. Always too skinny growing up, my metabolism had finally slipped giving more curves. Not to mention the fact, my daily routine earned me definition in all the right places, toned abs and arms, a round, perky bootie. More than that, my naturally pale, freckled skin tanned. I never thought a ginger like me could pull off the look but here I was, hot for once. A cruel joke. Hot after all, but utterly alone with no hope of ever meeting a soul in this town.

  Slipping into the most expensive leggings one could own and matching tank in shades of teal green, I put on some even more expensive lip gloss. I never believed anything should go to waste. As for makeup, a little on the lashes was all my sensitive skin could handle.

  Grabbing my backpack, I locked up the house and climbed into my brother’s pickup, a Ford F-150 with a custom paint job, orange with black stripes. My brother Joey had moved first to Chicago then finally to Indiana around five years ago leaving his truck and any reminders of his childhood behind, including me. I was thankful for his truck these days. Painted our high school’s colors, I understood him moving on, but me… Well, it wasn’t fair for me to feel Joey abandoned me. Most kids dreamed of getting out of this town.

  Like it was pulling my leg, the beast stalled for a moment before it started, reminding me of Joey, the big prankster. Soon, I’d have to replace the hideous truck but not today. A smile filled my face thinking of my brother. Him being two years older, we weren’t but we could pass as twins with his hair color, eyes and nose matching mine completely. Humming a tune, I switched on the radio with the knob. The clock read 10:15 am. I turned the static down all the way and kept humming. My first stop was the Piggly Wiggly to stock up on some canned goods and paper products. They were getting low on everything. I unloaded my buggy and put my cart away like the good citizen I was.

  Back in the truck, I unfolded my map to find a street I hadn’t marked off yet. There weren’t many left. Second stop, Mallard Avenue. I parked at the head of the boulevard. This was a good block, a newer cul-de-sac filled with big two-story houses with brick facades. They all circled each other as if they were hiding their vinyl sided rear ends. As good as you could get in Creepy. Getting out of the truck, I slipped on my backpack. Clutching two gas cans I plucked from the truck bed, I made a beeline to the closest driveway, the one with two black Chevy Suburbans sitting in it.

  “Who needs two?” I thought as I tugged the length of hose from the backpack without even taking it off. “You’re practically a pro at this now,” I told myself. Puckering my lips, I prepared myself mentally before I took the plunge. Sucking, I siphoned the gas from both SUVs. For a fleeting moment, lightheaded, I imagined the kind of people who had abandoned them. Boy, did their busy and abundant lives get turned upside down. Then again, maybe they were FBI agents for all I knew, ones who married each other. Awe sweet. Visions of Mulder and Skully ran through my head.

  Before heading to the next house, I traded out the gas cans for my prybar and went for the side door leading to the garage. I made quick work of the door and propped it open, letting light stream in. Inside, there was another car. Geezus. I thought about leaving the gas in the vintage white Chevy Camaro Iroc Z28 convertible, but I couldn’t drive two vehicles home by my lonesome. Besides, Joey would kill me if anything happened to his ugly truck. I took out my map and red pen and marked the spot of this treasure to come back to later. Mulling it over some more, I searched the wall for keys and spotted a Camaro keychain. Bingo. The car roared to life and had a full tank of gas. Checking myself out in the mirror, I tried on the Ray-Bans under the dash. I put the roof down and raised it again. I’d always fancied a convertible, but it was the red leather interior that sold me. Resting back in the seat, I knew this was the car I wanted to own. “I’ll take it,” I said, to the dimly lit garage. Pocketing the keys, I made a mental note of what I’d have to do to get this baby home. I’d have to put a bit of gas back into the SUVs in the driveway and move them. Luckily, their keys were hanging in the garage too. But I’d have to disconnect the garage opener so I could open the door.

  Ugh.

  My stomach rumbled. Maybe tomorrow. I raided the garage fridge to find canned Pepsi, mineral water and craft beer. I cracked opened one of a hot IPAs to wash the taste of gasoline from my lips. The tastes similar, it did the trick. I crumbled the can and tossed it in the recycling, knowing it was useless, but I was no litterbug. Combing the garage’s shelves for tools and other necessities, I found a black, steel baseball bat. Tucking it into my pack, I didn’t dare go further into the house. I had no idea what or rather who, I’d find inside.

  Not to worry though, zombies didn’t actually know how doorknobs worked.

  Repeating the same for five more houses, I didn’t find much at all. Not even a drop of gas. Maybe I’d gotten this street before but missed the first house so didn’t mark it off, I thought. Surely, I would’ve remembered this street. Walking back to the truck, I about melted in the heat. I wouldn’t think more of it. I ventured onto the next street on my map to fill my gas cans and my brother’s truck bed with loot.

  My stomach gurgled again as I drove back to town if you could call it a town. The welcome sign in Creepy boasted a population of 565 people, but I never believed it, even before. Passing the courthouse, the largest building in town, red, brick and impressive, you’d think Creepy, the parish seat was once bustling, but the sparse streets didn’t look much different than normal. Downtowns were dying long before everyone started dying. I steered down the alley in-between Zed’s Hair Voodoo and Mrs. Dean’s Dirty Rice, parking in the back. Before I entered the back door of Miss Dean’s, I filled the generator that kept the cooler and walk-in freezer running. Once inside, I got to work flipping on the lights and more importantly, firi
ng up the grill and fryers. Waiting for them to warm up, I stepped inside the freezer, relishing the cool air and found two chicken planks, grabbed a handful of French fries and a piece of Texas toast. Thankfully, Mrs. Dean had stocked up before she left town. I’d added to her freezer’s collection with whatever I could find before the power went out. Stepping out of the cool air, I walked face first into a body.

  I bumped into Dillon Hebert, a wall of muscle, scaring myself to death. Jumping back, I dropped my supper.

  Watching the foodsicles side across the floor, he barely laughed. All I could expect of him. The man rarely smiled anymore.

  “What in the devil are you doing here?”

  “It’s Monday.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So it is.” I thought of the Garfield mug from this morning, thinking I should have remembered, but the days ran together anymore. Turning away from him, I squatted, scooping up the frozen food.

  “Have you forgotten?”

  “How can I when you’re always here to remind me,” I said, on my knees, knowing darn well I had. Sticking my arm under the center island, I stretched to retrieve every frozen fry. They were still good. Hot grease beat any five second rule.

  Dillon tapped his boot, waiting for me to get up.

  I stood to face him, cradling my supper. “Are you alone today?”

  “No. Karl is waiting.”

  Dillon’s personal bodyguard and dumb as a rock, Karl was lethal and loyal to Dillon and his crew.

  “You’re supposed to come alone,” I whined.

  “Things change. I tried to give you a heads up.” He slammed his walkie talkie down on the stainless-steel island. “Where’s your radio?”

  “Want some grub?” I asked, smiling and batting my eyes, trying to change the subject.

  “You even left your radio…” he scolded me, in a disappointed tone.

  Fuck that walkie talkie, I thought. Still, I held my nice southern smile, hoping he’d at least let me eat before I headed back to the house to get his shit.

  “I leave you be, leave you here and you keep the goddamned radio on.” Dillon let his anger show.

  His moods never scared me. “Oh. Is that all?” If only it were.

  “And you deliver the goods.” He added a goddamned wink.

  That wink on top of our ridiculous deal turned my fake smile into an all too real scowl. I blew out through my nose like a raging bull. I raised my chin and sweetened my tone. “But, Dillon, we’re practically family, you and I.”

  His nostrils flared this time. He hated the reminder. Night black hair and pale blue grey eyes, tall enough and fit enough too, Dillon Hebert’s looks weren’t the most attractive thing about him. Seven years my senior, he was the son of the late Darius Hebert, a US Senator from Louisiana, back when that sort of thing mattered. He still held himself like the well-educated, privileged man he’d been before. Problem was, not only was his dad a famous senator, he was my papa’s closeted lover. Something Dillon had never been keen on, hence my stab at him.

  I turned the knife, “Hell, we could’ve been stepbrother and sister, if…” I stopped briefly when I noticed his hands turn to fists. Fuck that. I went on. “You can’t seriously come here and take what’s mine on a weekly basis like some kind of post-apocalyptic tax collector.” I envisioned him as a much sexier, Sheriff of Nottingham. I could picture him in a black ruffled pirate shirt, billowing open. With his new beard and his old stuffy attitude, he could pull it off.

  “Protection is the new currency. Just making groceries, Sha.” He stepped in close, way too close for as angry as I was. Pee-yew. He stunk like he used to when he was out golfing all day. He didn’t golf anymore. “Creepy, you smell like gasoline. You drinking the stuff? All out of wine?”

  “You know good in well why…” I started to turn away from him. “Don’t call me Creepy.”

  He snatched my upper arm, stopping me. “Sissy,” Dillon ditched the name he used to tease me with for one I actually went by, “you wouldn’t have to do all this if you’d come with me.”

  Having refused his offer to move to the next Parish over, live with him, many a time, I huffed and turned hard, breaking away from him to drop my food in the fryer. Dillon’s drama or not, I couldn’t wait anymore and waste the power. I told him, “I’ve got to eat.”

  “What happened to you being a vegan?” He spoke to my back.

  “That was years ago, and I can be, when the time comes…”

  “And what about my payment?” He cut to the chase.

  Without turning around to look at him, I slid my toast onto the grill, and said, “I left it back at the house.”

  “I can do without the vegetables this time. I’ll look at what’s in the truck. I’m here for Miss Mary. I know you didn’t leave her at home.”

  I turned around. Dillon had crossed his arms, a clear sign he was itching to fight about this. “No. It’s ALL at the house.” I emphasized the word all.

  Getting my drift, he smirked. “I’ll wait and follow you back to the house then.”

  “Deal was you don’t come to my house, ever again. Especially if you’re not alone.”

  “Deal was you bring the goods here every Monday… and then some. You breakin our deal?”

  I crossed my arms this time. “No.”

  “Because I’m fine if you do. Means I get to take you back with me. You and Miss Mary.”

  “No. I’ve got ALL of the payment… as usual, but ALL of it is at the house. And you aren’t bringing Karl along. And I’m eating first.”

  “Damn straight you need to eat.” He shook his head, saying something about my mood under his breath. “And you’re making me a drink, woman.”

  I knew what Dillon was talking about. He wanted something on the rocks, anything. He’d get it thanks to my freezer. I didn’t share the fact that I just put some beer in the walk-in. I grabbed a bottle of bourbon, one that he’d let me keep, bottom shelf stuff he wouldn’t have dared order back in the day. He certainly didn’t care for the frozen food I’d stored. All junk, he’d say, even back in the day. Nowadays, Dillon and his crew of Stayers had gone in a different direction when it came to survival. Sure, they liked the finer things and alcohol, but they were also primitive, living off the land, hunting and building fires. Real Lord of the Flies’ shit.

  “What did you eat this morning?” I asked while I poured his drink.

  “Eggs and deer meat,” he answered.

  God what I wouldn’t give for some eggs. “Don’t you mean, venison?”

  “Whatever.”

  Boy, Dillon had changed.

  While he sipped and savored the ice, I enjoyed my fried food, knowing it wouldn’t last.

  Dillon swirled the ice around in his glass. Echoing my thoughts, he said, “This won’t last forever. You need to get used to it.” He thought trying to run some electricity was useless.

  “I’ve kept it going this long,” I rebutted, my mouth full.

  While I was proud of it, Dillon belittled it. “It’s a waste of time.”

  “Time. It’s all I have.”

  When I finished eating, I saved the dishes and powered down the kitchen. Dillon’s eyes followed my every move. After all, I was armed, but I wouldn’t dare shoot him. I locked the back door and tucked the keyring in my backpack. Before letting Dillon join me in the truck, I filled the generator again.

  “I’ll drive.” He took my place. I didn’t argue because I figured it kept up appearances, the appearance I was somehow subservient to dear leader. We stopped around front to let his lackey know he’d be back.

  I didn’t want any of Dillon’s crew to know where I lived. “Tell him to stay put,” I insisted in a whisper.

  Dillon complied.

  At his word, big ole Karl waited on his motorcycle in the heat like it didn’t bother him none. The 300-pound guy could have been a linebacker in his former life for all I knew.

  Once we got out of ear shot, Dillon started talking. “Karl’s not all bad. None of the crew are as
bad as you believe.”

  “You’re not gonna sell me.”

  “Sissy, you’ll have to change your mind soon. Word is survivors are migrating east, coming back here, trying to stake a claim.”

  “And how do you know?”

  “We’ve got our ways.”

  “No one wants Creepy. No one wanted Creepy before. Who in the hell would want to live in this town now?”

  “It’s not just Creepy.”

  I gave him an evil glare.

  “You may be off the map for the time being, but even I can’t control my own people forever… Now if you came with me.”

  “Not happening. I promised I wouldn’t leave.” Before he could get the next word out, I added, “My word means something.”

  That shut him up.

  We rode the next ten minutes to my house in silence. He didn’t even turn on the static like I do. I drummed my fingers on the door. The window down, I took in the scenery. Fall was by far my favorite season, but it was near 95 degrees in Louisiana in September. In normal times, festivals would be starting, tamale, gumbo, beignet, meat pie. Most festivals were food based. I missed pumpkin patches, haunted houses and corn mazes, too. Typically, by the first of October, it being cooler, I’d take a trip north to Homer, to the lake to see the best orange and red foliage the state had to offer. Leaning back, I relaxed. The cooled air hitting my face, I imagined myself out in the middle of Lake Claiborne, lily pads floating by.