Styx (The Four Book 1)
Page 1
Table of Contents
STYX
Copyright
Other Books by Layla Frost
From the Pervy Mind of the Author…
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Author
Connect with Layla Frost
© 2018 Layla Frost
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Covers by Combs
Interior Design by CP Smith
Other Books by Layla Frost
The Hyde Series
Hyde and Seek
Best Kase Scenario
Until Nox: Happily Ever Alpha World
The Amato Series
With Us
Standalones
Give In
From the Pervy Mind of the Author…
Each time I write this part, I hope I’m able to properly express my gratitude. Without these people, my books wouldn’t be what they are… I wouldn’t be who I am. I know I thank a lot of the same people, but it’s because they are my rocks. Like a Wonderbra, they support me. And I’ve never been more grateful for their squishy friendship.
Sarah Curtis and Brynne Asher, THANK YOU! Thanks for the support and love. Thanks for taking the time from your busy schedules to work your magicks. Thanks for being my friends… I don’t know how I’d adult without you two. And all hail Princess Zoe.
My betas… you’re goddesses! All the advice and love and encouragement has pushed me. Thank you for being amazing betas and friends.
And Lindsay, he’s yours. There. Your book boyfriend DIBS are now on record. You’re welcome.
Artistic thank you to Covers by Combs. This series’ covers are beyond anything I imagined. I’m blown away.
To the readers, authors, and bloggers… Again, I’m so in awe of this community. And I’m humbled and grateful that I get to be a part of it. It’s a dream come true. Thank you.
And my Naughty Cupcakes… I could sit here all day and still not be able to put into words how much you mean to me. Every time you tag me in a post about murderous authors(muahaha!), tacos(yum!), hotties(double yum!), or whatever, I’m so thrilled. That you think of me and my words is something that’ll never get old. This group is seriously the best. Thank you for rolling with whatever nonsense I come up with. And thank you for being a Cupcake. Love you all!
Dedication
To my Mister…
To sum up what I’ve said before…
Good coffee.
Good dick.
Good listener.
Good nachos.
Amazing and thoughtful husband, best friend, and love of my life.
Thank you.
Prologue
Demon Denny
Denny
Nine years ago…
THEY’RE FIGHTING.
She doesn’t want me here.
As soon as we’d arrived at my grandmother’s house, my dad had ordered me into the living room.
I snuck another peek around the corner to look where they stood on the porch.
She looked calm.
He looked angry, just like always. His face was red and tight.
He looks like a cartoon devil.
I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. Comparing him to the devil—even a cartoon version—was the ultimate insult.
The sound of the door closing made me jump away to stand in the middle of the room.
My grandmother came into view, muttering and shaking her head. She stopped when she saw me.
Neither of us spoke as we stared.
She looked like a regular grandma. Her navy-blue pants and floral blouse looked exactly like what a TV grandma would wear. And her hair—more gray than blond—was cut short and was a little poofy. Although her blue eyes were darker than mine, there was still a strong family resemblance. We had a similar nose and face shape, but creases and wrinkles lined her mouth and eyes.
My best friend’s mom called them laugh lines. I didn’t think that was the real name, though, because my dad was getting them, and he never laughed.
His were scowl lines.
I wonder which kind of lines hers are.
Remaining silent, I waited for her to tell me what to do. I was hoping she’d order me to a room for the weekend—out of sight, out of mind. I’d snuck some library books into my bag and would happily hide away to read them.
Doing chores wasn’t something I opposed, either, but her house was already clean. I didn’t see what I could do.
Her eyes moved down my body, stopping at my feet.
Looking down, I cringed.
My shoes were filthy. Holes had formed where the formerly white canvas split from the plastic.
I should’ve taken them off before stepping into her house.
She didn’t even want me here, and now I’ve dirtied up her floor.
“Come with me a second,” she said finally, turning away.
Apprehension and curiosity filled me as I followed her down a short hallway.
If she’s showing me to my room, maybe that means she’s not mad.
Or maybe she’s getting me cleaning supplies, so I can scrub the floor while reciting scripture.
My stomach churned at the thought.
The truth was, I didn’t know what to expect. At twelve years old, I’d only met my grandmother a handful of times. They’d been short visits, and each time, I’d sat quietly while her and my dad had talked. I’d only spoke when spoken to, which had usually been to politely answer questions about school or my hobbies.
We were strangers.
Or maybe enemies, if she was anything like her son.
Stopping in the hallway, my grandmother pushed open a door and stepped inside.
I couldn’t hold in my gasp.
Books lined the wall. Some were open on shelves and the small table. There were even four on the massive recliner—two on the seat and one on each arm.
“Do you like to read?” my grandmother asked me.
“I love to,” I breathed before remembering my manners and tacking on, “grandmother, uh, ma’am.”
She laughed. “Call me grandma. Or Eve, if you’d feel more comfortable. But never ma’am.”
“I… okay.”
“Do you go by Haden?”
“Denny,” I said distractedly, giving her the nickname I’d been using. I clenched my hands into fists, fighting the urge to touch the books.
My dad said I ruined everything I touched. Handling the books meant I was risking destroying them. No w
ay would I do that.
Even if I were willing to risk it, I didn’t trust it wasn’t a trap. Like, when Lucy set the football up for Charlie Brown, only to snatch it back at the last second. Only in my case, instead of the pain of landing on my back, I would have the shredding mental pain that came from viciously hurled insults.
During an anti-bullying assembly we’d had earlier in the year, my school counselor said most bullies learned the behavior at home. Since my dad was a bully times a million, he must’ve learned it somewhere.
Maybe from her.
For all I knew, the nice thing was an act, and as soon as I broke a rule, she’d go berserk like my dad did.
My grandmother tipped her head. “I have a few rules, okay?”
I knew it.
Stomach sinking, I nodded. “Yes, ma… grandma.”
Lifting a finger as she went, she counted off each rule. “Never close the open books. Never write in a book. Never fold the pages.” She aimed her three extended fingers at a shelf. “There are bookmarks over there.”
I turned to look, my breath burning in my lungs.
She picked up some sticky notes. “If you take a book, put one of these in its place to keep the spot. I have them in a specific order.” Her expression was warm and reassuring when she added, “But if you forget, it’s okay.”
When spots began to dance in my vision, I released my held breath with a whoosh.
She tapped a finger on her chin, her lips twitching. “What am I forgetting?”
I braced, my chest rising and falling.
She’s going to tell me she was kidding, and I can’t be in here. She’s going to call me names and tell me I kill everything I touch.
“Oh yeah,” she said, her smile growing. “Some of the books are heavy on the hanky-panky. I’m guessing you learned about that in health class?” At my nod, she continued. “Good. If you come across any of them, especially the ones on the second case from the left, shelves two through five, that’ll be our secret.”
My eyes went wide, shooting to the bookcase.
I’d seen a bay window in the living room, the sun brightly shining in. I imagined curling up there with books about love and happily ever afters.
“Before then,” Grandma started, picking up a set of keys.
Panic flared again.
She’s bringing me back to him.
I looked around the room, trying to memorize it so I could tell Lula every detail.
A glimpse of heaven before returning to hell.
“Let’s get you some new shoes,” she finished. She was still smiling, but it was different. It looked like the kind Lula’s mom gave me.
A smile that didn’t reach the eyes and were filled with sadness.
I hated them. My life wasn’t the worst. I had a house and food. I had friends… Well, I had Lula.
I didn’t need pity.
“I have shoes,” I said politely.
“Those look ready to disintegrate off your feet. In fact,” she paused scanning me again, “I think some new clothes are in order. We’ll make a whole day of it.”
“My dad…” I trailed off, not sure how to explain.
Grandma’s eyes went hard, but her voice was soft. “He’ll never know. How do you feel about sushi?”
Grimacing at the thought of slimy fish, I shook my head. “I’ve never had it.”
“We’ll fix that.” She headed for the door, going around me. “Let’s go.”
Giving the room one last longing glance, I turned and followed, feeling something I’d never felt before.
I belong here.
This is my heaven.
_______________
Six years ago…
“I hate my life,” I groaned. The toe of my dirty Converse dug into the sand beneath the swing set as I pushed slightly, making the chains clatter and the swing go crooked.
My life was crooked.
“It’s not so bad,” Lula, my best friend, lied.
It was worse than bad.
I wiped at my nose, checking my fingers to be sure there was no more blood. “He barfed everywhere, Lula. Like, blew major chunks. And then he passed out and fell into it. There’s no way he’ll want to go to the spring dance with me.”
Ayden Bash.
The love of my life.
My future husband and father to our many babies.
He just didn’t know it yet.
Even though we were only in tenth grade, there were seniors who thought he was cute. He’d hit his growth spurt early, filling out from a lanky tween to a muscular teen while most of the other boys still had voices that cracked and gangly limbs they didn’t have complete control over. His blond hair—highlighted from time outside at the skatepark—did that perfect swoop thing in the front, falling into his blue eyes. He’d push it out of the way, and my heart would go funny.
He had one deep dimple on his left cheek, long lashes, and a penchant for going shirtless at the skatepark. That was how Lula and I had found out about his birthmark in the shape of Louisiana on his left side.
In all my fifteen years, I’d never seen anyone as cute. Which was why, on my way to eighth period, I’d been staring and imagining how he’d ask me to the dance.
There’d be ollies, kickflips, and a switch heelflip. Then, after the sickest tre flip, he’d stop and ask me to the dance in front of everyone. After I said yes in a super cool and nonchalant voice so I didn’t sound desperate, he’d hold my hips and chuckle while he taught me to skate. And I’d be giggling and graceful, looking cute.
The touching part was what’d done me in. So distracted by the thought of his hands on me, I’d walked into a door, giving myself a bloody nose.
The sight of the blood had been enough to make Ayden barf and then pass out.
When he’d come to, embarrassed and messy, he’d lashed out at me.
Demon Denny.
Same song, different verse.
“Why would you even want to date him?” Lula asked. “Your names rhyme. It’s so matchy-matchy.”
“I kind of like the matching names. It’d be our thing.”
“He’s not right for you,” she said.
She was right.
Ayden Bash was popular.
His parents were known for letting him throw legendary pool parties in their massive backyard.
My dad was known for being a religious nut job who wouldn’t let my friends come over. The only reason I got to see Lula was her parents lied for us.
Ayden was so freaking cool.
A sheltered life and no TV meant I lacked the social skills and knowledge to be even a little cool.
Ayden wasn’t right for me because he was out of my league.
I might not have been a loser, but I didn’t have a large pool of friends, either. In the high school hierarchy, I wasn’t a jock, nerd, stoner, goth, or any other subcategory.
I wasn’t on the chart because I didn’t fit in anywhere.
Lula must have known how I’d taken her comment because she grabbed the chain of the swing and pulled me toward her. “You’re too good for him. He’s superficial and an ass.”
“Better an ass than a freak,” I pointed out, digging my toe in the sand to jerk away.
Even though I was supposed to go right home after school, the thought of sitting inside had made me feel claustrophobic. With the bad day I’d had, I’d needed to breathe fresh air and pretend I was free.
Normal.
I’d met up with Lula at the park near our school, but I only had a few minutes left before I’d have to run home. I didn’t want to spend my precious time reliving my major mortification.
There’d be plenty of time to do that for the rest of my life.
“Tell me about Matt,” I said, knowing she couldn’t resist talking about the new kid she had a crush on.
She gave me a look, the kind that told me I wasn’t fooling her, but then she grinned. “I said hi to him today.”
“Progress.” I spun around, twisting the chain.
“Yup. Have you seen him yet?”
I shrugged, lifting my feet to twirl quickly before rotating to wind the chains again. “What’s he look like?”
“How do I describe perfection?” She rubbed her chin, her eyes going unfocused and dreamy. “He looks like…” She paused before standing up straight, her voice urgent when she hissed, “Your dad!”
My stomach churned violently, and not from my spinning.
Fighting the urge to hurl, I asked, “He looks like my dad? Eww, dude, that’s disgusting.”
“No, your dad! He’s here!”
Stumbling off the swing, I almost fell when my hood got caught between the twisted chains. I righted myself, relieved I’d pulled on the sweater before leaving school. If my dad saw the belly shirt I borrowed from Lula… I didn’t even want to think about the consequences.
“Oh fuck,” Lula muttered. My gaze followed hers, and I died a little inside.
Ayden Bash and his friends were coming toward us, skateboards in hand.
My worlds—school and home—were about to collide. The whole thing was going to be apocalyptic.
Annnnnd this is the point where Ashton Kutcher jumps out and tells me I’m being Punk’d. Right?
Right?
“Where are you supposed to be?” my dad yelled, his face already turning red. There was a vein on his bald head that throbbed when his anger reached its peak.
The guys stopped to watch the show, though Lula frantically gestured at them to leave.
“I had some extra work to do,” I lied.
“On the playground?”
“No, I’d—”
“Lies! All of it!” he yelled, gathering more of an audience.
“Ohh,” one of the boys sing-songed. “Someone’s in trouble.”
He has no idea.
My dad turned to Lula. My best friend, God love her, was insane enough to look ready to go head-to-head with him.
“Go home,” he ordered. “Tell your parents they should do a better job at parenting and keep you away from my daughter.”
He sneered the word, like I was an awful burden. His cross he was forced to bear.
When Lula opened her mouth, I widened my eyes and shook my head. I rarely got to see her as it was. If he took that little bit of time away, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. Her defense of me right then wasn’t worth that.