Unorthodox (Sick Love Book 1)

by K. V. Rose

  Copyright © 2020 by K V Rose

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For more information, please contact authorkvrose@outlook.com

  Cover design © Books and Moods

  Edited by: Amy Briggs

  ISBN: 978-1-989954-00-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-9992752-9-7 (ebook)

  To anyone who has ever found strength in the shadows.

  Also available on Spotify.

  Cold - Crossfade

  Follow You - Bring Me The Horizon

  Push - Matchbox Twenty

  Lie to Me - Black Atlass

  Dark Signs - Sleep Token

  All Hail the Heartbreaker - The Spill Canvas

  Regrets - Dream on Dreamer

  All My Friends - Dermot Kennedy

  To the Moon - Brennan Savage, Nedarb

  Rome - Dermot Kennedy

  Adore - Amy Shark

  Don’t Play - Halsey

  Without Me - Fame on Fire

  If I Want To - Goody Grace

  Demons - Written by Wolves

  it’s okay to be afraid - Saint Slumber

  Reverse - Vic Mensa, G-Eazy

  Alone In A Room - Asking Alexandria

  Popular Monster - Falling in Reverse

  ihateit - Underoath

  Beyond The Pines - Thrice

  THE SOUND - The Plot In You

  Reset - Zero 9:36

  For Billy - Highly Suspect

  What It’s Like - Everlast

  I Mean It - G-Eazy, Remo

  The End - Kossisko, G-Eazy

  Not for the faint of heart. This is the story of a villain and a girl brave enough to claim him. If you are sensitive to extreme themes found in dark romance, proceed with caution.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by K V Rose

  I see Christopher London before he sees me.

  He’s standing at the trunk of his black Mercedes, hands in his pockets, trying to pretend the unmarked cop car and the officer inside, parked just across from him in the nearly empty garage, isn’t on his payroll.

  The officer, in turn, is trying to pretend he doesn’t have his gun resting against his thigh, finger on the trigger.

  I know better.

  One of my guys has the cop’s head in his sights. I imagine the inside of the officer’s brains will splatter that pristine windshield before this meeting is over.

  At least, I hope that’s how this will go.

  Then again, killing cops is messy. The coverup costs a lot more than I like to spend.

  I’m unarmed when I exit the stairwell, strolling toward Christopher with a smile on my face, Dante at my back.

  Dante is armed, a rifle strapped across his chest, but Christopher knew how this would go.

  He fucked up so, I get to bring the guns.

  If I had fucked up—which I never do—he could’ve brought the fun.

  Unfortunately for him and his daughter, who is nowhere to be seen, that’s not quite how this is going to go.

  When I’m close enough to make eye contact and he’s close enough to feel threatened, he pushes off the back of his car and extends his hand, like I’m actually going to shake it.

  I don’t. And, I don’t say anything at all.

  I will never understand why people waste perfectly good words when silence and a look can convey almost everything.

  Christopher’s blue eyes narrow and he drops his hand, smoothing down his black blazer. It’s the same as mine, except I can almost guarantee mine costs more money.

  “Look, Max, I thought we could talk this over.”

  I slip my hands into my pockets, clutch the matte black playing card inside my left one. The card is a reminder that it’s no fun to lose your shit too early in a confrontation. Then your opponent just dies, and you don’t even get to watch them bleed.

  That’s exactly the kind of sloppy I want to avoid.

  Not saying a word, I shrug and glance at the cop, who is still looking down, like he’s fucking invisible. I turn back to Christopher, stare at him for a few seconds before I ask, “Where’s your daughter?”

  I’ve seen pictures of Addison London. Thankfully, she looks nothing like her father. Which is great. None of my clients would be interested in fucking a female version of this asshole.

  Christopher bites his tongue, glances down at the pavement beneath us on the second floor of the parking garage. It’s hot here, as it always is in North Carolina. I drove all the way here from Athena, South Carolina, to pick up my merchandise.

  And now Christopher London wants to play games.

  I squeeze the playing card tighter, feeling it flex beneath my fingers. It’s worn in places, torn around the edges. But I need it to last a little while longer before I move on to another king. I’ve already gone through four aces, trying to keep my shit together for nearly two decades, since I was fourteen and started using these things.

  At thirty-two, you’d think I’d be better at it by now.

  I’m not.

  My trigger finger is feeling twitchy just looking at this pathetic excuse for a man. Men always do what they say they will.

  But Addison isn’t here. Christopher is wasting my time.

  When I feel like I might lose my patience, he finally looks up at me and his shoulders sag.

  I feel a twinge of something like unease with his motion.

  Christopher London operates businesses like mine. And like me, he knows how to manipulate people. But I know how to read them. It was a necessity growing up with a father like I had. Back in Pretoria, South Africa, not reading my father’s moods could, quite literally, get me or my brother killed.

  So, I know Christopher isn’t fucking around when he says, “She ran.”

  I hear Dante shift on his feet at my back. He’s also got an itchy trigger finger, but his patience is better than mine. Just barel
y.

  I glance for a second at the cop, and find the fucker is finally paying attention to us now. He must know this isn’t going to go so well.

  “She ran?” I repeat, weighing my options as Christopher works out how best to explain this shit to me. Did she run, or did he tell her to leave?

  Christopher nods once. “She ran,” he says again. “Last night.”

  “Did she know I was coming for her?”

  Another nod. “Of course. I wasn’t going to throw my own daughter in the trunk of my car without an explanation.” For some reason, I don’t quite believe that.

  I smile at him, running my tongue over my teeth. That playing card is going to break apart in my fucking fingers if this dipshit doesn’t say something that isn’t completely stupid at some point in this conversation. I don’t say a word, waiting for him to do just that.

  “I wasn’t thinking.” His voice is calm. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t ball his hands into fists. Doesn’t twitch.

  But it’s in his eyes.

  The fear.

  That’s where it always is.

  The eyes can’t fucking hide the truth. And the truth is? Everyone is at least a little bit afraid of me.

  In Christopher’s case, and now Addison’s, by extension, they have fucking reason to be.

  I nod my head, looking down at my shoes, thinking about all the places this girl could be. She’s the daughter of a crime boss, and obviously, if Christopher is telling the truth about her being a runner, she’s not stupid.

  But the last thing on earth I have time for is chasing after a teenage girl who will become nothing more than a whore to grovel at the feet of powerful men.

  “Give me something,” I warn Christopher, meeting his gaze once more. “Give me an idea of where she might be. Because if you don’t, when I find her, I won’t keep her.” Not that I ever planned to do that. A blonde American could fetch a fucking fortune. If she’s still intact, even more. “I’ll fucking kill her.”

  Christopher’s eyes widen, and he swallows, his throat bobbing. He knows my threat is real.

  “She’s with my son,” he finally whispers, and the way he says it, I know he just gave her up. Interesting, how men will turn against their own children in the interest of saving themselves a little pain.

  There is no moral code in my world.

  Christopher London is a walking, talking example of that.

  And so am I.

  “Danik?” I ask him.

  Christopher’s face goes pale. There may not be a moral code in organized crime, but if there was something close, it’d be that sons are far more important than daughters will ever be. I’d personally never risk what Christopher is going through right now.

  I will never fucking have kids. They’re only pawns to be used against you.

  I’ve spent a long, long time half-hoping my brother never turns up, for that reason alone. He could be leverage.

  Pushing thoughts of Oliver aside, I focus on the fuck in front of me. “I know where your son lives. Off the coast?” I smile at Christopher, then turn my back on him, head to the driver’s side of my black Maserati, parked two spots down from his Mercedes. “I’ll pay Danik a visit.”

  I get into the car, start it up and roll down my window. Dante still stands at the hood of the car, hands on the rifle slung across his chest.

  “If he’s not there, and she’s not there, I’ll still find them. And I promise you, Christopher, when I do, I’ll put a bullet in their skulls.” I give him a smile, watching his face turn beet red, a vein bulging in his temple. “Tell your wife I said hello.”

  His wife is fucking dead.

  I grab my handgun from the center console, have it out the window before Christopher can blink.

  The gunshot makes my ears ring, echoing in the parking lot as he drops to his knee. More, louder shots reverberate in the garage, and glass shatters as Dante takes care of the cop.

  In the silence that follows, Christopher London screams, because he went down on the wrong leg after I decided to let him live.

  He’s only got one good kneecap now.

  He’ll need to figure out how the fuck to kneel correctly.

  Danik is at the beach when he comes for me.

  I know it’s him, because the glass of the screen door shatters and only a man that’s in the same line of work as my father would make such an entrance in a sleepy little beach town like this.

  He’s coming for me, but I’m ready for him.

  Or as ready as I’ll ever be.

  Danik should’ve listened. He should’ve driven us to the west coast. He should’ve gotten me the hell out of here, but Danik has been out of the life for five years. At twenty-three, he’s five years older than me, but he’s been sheltered.

  Not from everything.

  No, we experienced our uncle, Cade, together, but that was when we were kids. The past five years, since he left?

  He’s missed all of that.

  Besides that, he’s a boy. In my world, boys get treated with respect. Girls…not so much.

  I grab my cell phone from my nightstand, ripping it off the charger. I dial Danik’s number, but I know he’s probably on a wave right now.

  Still, I let the call ring, set the phone down, and reach for the knife under my pillow.

  It’s not a gun, but I don’t feel comfortable with those.

  You get one shoved down your throat as a child and you never really get over it, I guess.

  There’s silence in the aftermath of the glass shattering, but this house is small. I glance at my open window, stand to my feet. I’m in grey leggings, an oversized pink t-shirt. I haven’t been able to sleep in my usual shorts and tank for fear of exactly this moment happening.

  Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I see it’s six in the morning. Danik left fifteen minutes ago.

  They were watching.

  He was watching, but I’m sure there’s more than one man.

  I take a step on the creaky wooden floors, toward my window. Danik’s house is modest, my bed a twin, barely enough room for him to have squeezed the dresser in.

  When you leave the life, you don’t get to take anything with you. If it weren’t for the fact my father thinks Danik will come back and take over the “family business” once he’s “had his fun”, Danik would be dead.

  I’d be dead, too.

  But my father values Danik, and Danik values me. That makes my life worth a little more than nothing in my father’s eyes.

  Not quite enough to not sell me off for some job that went horribly wrong down in Miami, but still. I’m here, and I’m breathing, and that’s more than a lot of runaway kids of the various cartels throughout the country can say.

  The window is free of any furniture because I set it up that way, and when I get to it, I kneel down silently, listening as I press the tip of the switchblade up to the window screen because the sliding gears are jammed in this old house.

  There’s nothing but bramble and sand in the backyard, and Danik’s Subaru. He walked to the beach; it’s two blocks from the house here in Surf City. If I can climb out of this window, I’ll be able to run down to it, and I know, even this early, people will be there.

  It’s June in North Carolina. Tourist season on the coast. Someone would help me.

  I think.

  Holding my breath, I try to still my trembling hand, try to get myself together.

  I don’t like that I can’t hear anyone moving in the house. Since the glass shattered, it’s just been…nothing. I almost wonder if maybe it was just a regular robber and not someone coming to drag me to hell, but…that’s a stupid thought.

  I take a deep breath. Press the blade against the window screen.

  Then I see him.

  A man with a fucking AK slung around his chest, his eyes on mine as he stares up at me from just a couple of feet down below, in the backyard.

  My heart nearly beats out of my chest and I have to bite down hard, so I don’t scream. I don’t kn
ow if it’s him him, or if it’s one of his men, but either way… Holy shit.

  Max Bennett isn’t fucking around.

  I stumble away from the window, my palm sweaty as I clutch the knife tighter in my hand.

  The man doesn’t move, and that unnerves me. He just watches me through the window, and I know that means there’s probably at least one other person in this house.

  I flatten myself to the floor, army crawl my way toward the door, trying to breathe with every shuffle of my hips and swing of my elbows, knife still tight in one hand.

  Even if it is useless.

  My father never taught me how to fight.

  Fighting was for men.

  A lot of things were for men in my house. Including beating women.

  “Women were made for men,” my father used to say. “Men were made to take on the world.”

  But I’ve always wanted a piece of the world too. Fuck the men.

  It’s why I ran, after I overheard my father telling his right-hand man what was going to happen to me.

  He wasn’t going to give me a head’s up. He was going to let me be taken.

  Fuck the men.

  I hold onto that thought as I crawl toward the door, straining my ears. Funny how every night I would yell at Danik to stop getting three a.m. snacks because I could hear him chewing in the house and now, I can’t even hear a man coming to kidnap me.

  Kidnap me.

  I shove the thought aside. Growing up, I always knew it was a possibility. It’s why I was always so heavily guarded, protected like the Virgin Mary...from things on the outside.