by Lucy Smoke
NATURAL BORN KILLERS
SICK BOYS BOOK 3
LUCY SMOKE
Copyright © 2021 by Lucy Smoke
All rights reserved.
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.
Editing by Heather Long and Your Editing Lounge
Cover Design: Dee Garcia at Black Widows Designs
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Prologue
1. Avalon
2. Dean
3. Avalon
4. Dean
5. Avalon
6. Avalon
7. Dean
8. Avalon
9. Avalon
10. Avalon
11. Avalon
12. Avalon
13. Avalon
14. Dean
15. Avalon
16. Avalon
17. Dean
18. Avalon
19. Avalon
20. Dean
21. Avalon
22. Avalon
23. Dean
24. Avalon
25. Avalon
26. Dean
27. Avalon
28. Dean
29. Avalon
30. Avalon
31. Avalon
32. Dean
33. Avalon
34. Dean
35. Avalon
36. Avalon
37. Avalon
38. Dean
39. Avalon
40. Avalon
41. Dean
42. Avalon
43. Dean
44. Dean
45. Avalon
46. Avalon
47. Avalon
48. Avalon
49. Dean
50. Avalon
Epilogue
THANK YOU FOR READING
About the Author
Also By Lucy Smoke / Lucinda Dark
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Hey friend! Welcome back to the world of the Sick Boys. If you’ve made it
this far then you know what to expect in this little note—a warning.
As in the previous books in this series, Natural Born Killers is a Dark
Romance. That means that if events, actions, and themes common in dark
romance are triggering for you then this may not be the book for you. NBK is
just as dark, if not more so, than the previous books in the Sick Boys series.
This book may be a little more psychologically fucked up, so if that’s
something that upsets or triggers you, again, this may not be the book for
you.
This is the last book in Avalon and Dean’s story and I want to thank
everyone for coming along with me on this ride. These two assholes have
been a major turning point in my life and in my career. They’re violent and
fucked up and I love them very much because of that. I hope you enjoy
Avalon’s journey of revenge and romance.
LAST WARNING: If you are sensitive to or offended by any such themes
that are common in dark romances or you are easily triggered, this book may
not be the best fit for you. Please keep that in mind and read responsibly.
“I threw myself to the wolves, only to learn the tenderness of their howl, and
loyalty in their blood.”
Isra Al-Thibeh
PROLOGUE
AVALON
The soft whirring of tires turning over pavement lifts me out of the darkness.
It feels like several tons of concrete are sitting over my eyes as I fight to open
them. Once I do, I find that my forehead is pressed against the cool glass of a
car window. Blinking rapidly, I sit up. The world is foggy; I can't seem to
bring anything directly into focus even with my eyes wide open. Trees fly past
outside and I look to see who the driver is.
"Dean?"
His head turns. "Hey," he says, his voice deep and familiar and yet, at the
same time—strange. "You're awake."
"Where are we?" A hard pounding ricochets through my skull. I put a
palm to the side of my head and groan. "What happened?"
"Don't worry," he replies, looking back through the windshield. "It's
going to be okay. We're almost there."
"There?" I repeat, confused. "Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer, and that doesn’t sit right with me.
"Dean?" Something hits me. We’re in the Mustang, but Abel isn’t here. I
feel around, my hands cold and shaking. The aching in my skull isn't going
away. Instead, it’s getting worse. It feels like red hot spikes are being shoved
through my ear holes and into my brain. "Ugh." I lower my face to my knees,
breathing rapidly through my mouth and nose as I try to bear through the
pain. What’s wrong with me? Why can't I remember getting in the car? Why
does everything still feel so fuzzy?
"Dean," I say through clenched teeth, "where are we going? Why are we
in Abel's Mustang? Where is Abel? Where's everyone else?"
Dean turns his head towards me, though his hands remain gripping the
wheel. "It's going to be okay," he repeats.
A chill rushes down my spine and irritation flares to life. I slam my fist
against the dashboard. "Stop fucking saying that,” I snap. "Just answer me!"
"You're hurt, Avalon," he says, cool faced. Not Ava. Not baby. Avalon. I
turn my head and stare at him for a long moment, but he doesn’t look at me.
I’m in pain—it’s obvious—and he’s not asking me if I’m okay. No, he’s not
asking—he’s telling me that I will be. Maybe I’d believe it if his voice shook,
if he showed some sort of emotion, but he seems as cool as ever. And that's
when I know. This isn't real. He isn't real. Whoever this man is, he most
certainly is not Dean Carter.
My hand shoots for the glove compartment and I rip it open, reaching in
for the gun I know is always stashed there. My hand meets empty air. I jerk
my head down. There’s nothing in there, not even papers or old receipts like
there normally is. It’s just … empty. Slowly, I lift my head and stare at the
man driving the car. "Who the hell are you?"
He glances my way finally and sighs. "I thought you would feel more
comfortable with this face," the man says.
Chills chase down my spine. "That's not an answer," I reply.
"You should get comfortable," he says, ignoring me. "We'll be there
soon."
"You still haven't told me where we're going," I grit out.
"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet, Avalon."
I hate it when he says my name with that face. Whoever this man is, he
isn't right. There is not a single ounce of emotion in him. No fear. No anger.
No concern. Just a stillness, a coldness I’ve only ever experienced from one
other human being before.
His body is like a puppet. His movements are jerky as if he’s being played
and pulled around by strings. I want to cut them. I want to shoot him in the
head and see what comes out. Will it be blood? Or will he be as hollow
and
empty as his words?
My breath comes faster. The pain grows fiercer. My eyes dart to the door
handle. I reach for it.
"Don't," he warns.
"Don't what?" I ask sharply. "I want out. Get me the hell out of here."
As I fight through the agony in my head, a new one spreads through my
chest. Breathing becomes harder. My heart squeezes, pumping so slowly it’s
as if it’s moving tar through my veins and arteries instead of blood. What’s
happening to me? Where the hell am I? Is this a dream?
"It's not a dream," the man says. Had he read my mind or had I asked that
question aloud? I don't know. I can't even hear myself think anymore.
"Fuck," I whimper. It hurts. I want it to stop. Stop hurting. Stop tearing
me apart inside. I want it to stop. Stop. STOP!
"It will," the man assures me.
"Stop doing that!" I yell. My lungs squeeze with my panic. "Let me out!" I
grab onto the door handle and yank. It doesn't move. I release it and punch
the window. My bones feel like they've broken, but the glass remains
unfractured. I’m not going to stop, though—not until I get out of this fucking
car.
"Avalon, you’ll hurt yourself before we even arrive. I recommend that you
don't."
"Shut the fuck up!" I scream. "I don't know who you are. I don't trust you
and I hate that fucking face you're wearing!" I rear back and punch him.
" Fuck !" I double over, cradling my fist in my hand. His face is like granite
beneath the facade of human skin. Certainly harder than the glass.
"Calm down," he says.
I work through the pain. Unbuckling my seatbelt and sliding down in the
passenger seat. I turn and put my feet against the window and start kicking.
"Dean!" I scream his name. "Dean, get me out!"
Suddenly, the dark trees outside begin to grow lighter. Sunlight peeks in
through the branches. I shudder inside. The warmth in the car turns cold—
like ice in my veins. The fake Dean turns his head towards me and stares in
what appears to be shock. "Interesting," he murmurs.
"What?" I look back at him, trying not to panic, but that’s all I feel right
now. Panic. Horror. Fear. True fear. Where is the real Dean? Why isn’t he
here? "What's interesting? What does that mean?"
He looks down at me. "I thought you were ready," he says. "I guess not."
I gape at him. "No fucking shit, Sherlock! Now, let me out."
He hums and I feel the car decelerate. "It's time for you to wake up,
Avalon."
“What?” I blurt. I sit up straighter as something hard hits my back, like a
hard metal surface, but when I glance at the seat, it’s normal—just a regular
car seat. Nothing metal about it. I refocus on the fake Dean.
The car rolls to a stop as more sunlight pours in through the trees on
either side of us, and he turns to face me fully. "Wake. Up."
I’m propelled out of the car by a force I can't see. My eyes slam shut and
when I open them again, I’m not in the Mustang anymore. Instead, I’m on a
rolling table. The hard metal surface, I absently realize. A bright light shines
down on my face—not sunlight but a manufactured light—straight into my
eyes. What the fuck? Memories come rushing back to me. Corina. Patricia.
Them. The gun. Dean’s blood. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I’m not
with Dean. Where is he?
"She's awake!" someone yells, distracting me.
"Increase the dose and put her back under,” someone else replies. “We're
not done."
The black fog that I'd fought my way free of before begins to seep into
my mind once more. My lips part and I can feel how dry and cracked they
are. "No..." I can't go back. I won't.
"Shhh." Someone's fingers brush over my hair, smoothing it back from
my face. "It's okay, Avalon," they say. "This is a good thing. You're awake,
honey. You woke up. You'll wake up again."
That’s the last I hear before the darkness rips me back into oblivion.
Right back into hell.
1
AVALON
15 YEARS OLD …
“High or drunk?" The sound of Micki's voice causes me to lift my head
and look her way. She stands at the end of the cracked driveway of Patricia's
single wide in a pair of cut off shorts, a baggy t-shirt, and dollar store flip-
flops that look one wrong step from snapping even under her slight stature.
Has she lost weight? I wonder. If I comment, she'll just blow me off. It’s
what she does. Hell, I can’t even be mad about it; I would too.
"Neither," I tell her. "She's with Roger and a couple of his guys—fucking,
probably."
"Ah, well, guess that’s the life of an adult,” she says lightly.
I snort and lower my head back to my knees, breathing deeply as I do so.
I’m so fucking tired and hungry. Some ‘life’ Patricia leads. I have to believe
that not every ‘adult’—if that’s even a term I’d use for my mother—is like
her. Micki rolls her shoulders back and shoves her hands into the pockets on
her ass before turning away. She takes two steps down the street, pauses, and
glances over. "You coming or what?"
I thought she'd never ask. I jump up from my spot and follow after her,
knowing whatever she's got cooked up in that crazy brain of hers will be a
welcome relief to waiting out Patricia's disgusting payment method. I kind of
hope whatever Roger gives her will kill her this time. Sooner or later,
something or someone will.
Micki heads off down the road and I trail her, walking slower as I stare at
the back of her head. It's only been a few months since I met the strange girl
who lives a couple of miles up the road from the trailer park. Since then,
we've formed a sort of distant friendship.
From the night we met, she knows about my mom and my life. I know
that she lives alone in a ranch house that's ten times nicer than the trailer. But
it's weird— she's weird. She's always alone. No mention of any parents. I've
never seen her at school—though I suppose since she's eighteen, she could
have already graduated. Or maybe she’s just in one of the schools I’ve
already been kicked out of.
The fact is, I don't know anything about Micki except that she doesn't
seem to mind my attitude. She doesn't judge me about Patricia when most
would take one look at the drug-addicted stripper’s daughter and see nothing
but the same. She’s pretty handy at teaching me to fight—far better than
learning on my own, which has only gotten me a few cracked teeth, several
bloody noses, and a few close calls with a broken limb—arm, leg, finger,
didn’t matter. Street fighters went after everything they could get and they
fought dirty. There is one thing that does bother me about Micki, though.
She’s cool, older, and easy to hang with, but she’s got secrets. Weird ones.
When we make it to her place, she hops up the back porch steps, and
heads for the rear door, twisting the knob and swinging it open to head into
the older kitchen with its cracked tiles and dated design. "Want something to
eat?" she asks.
I shrug and turn back to close the door. "Did you really leave your door
>
unlocked?" I ask with a scoff. "You know someone might just break into your
house and steal your shit. This isn't a great area."
Micki snickers as she pops open the fridge and reaches inside. "It's not
really breaking and entering if I left the door open," she replies. "And I don't
care if they do."
"You don't care if they take your stuff?" I scowl at her, wondering why
the hell I spend my time with such a fucking weirdo. Who the hell just openly
wants people to steal from them?
Micki pulls a casserole dish out of the fridge and lifts the tinfoil over it
before sniffing the contents. She wrinkles her nose and pivots towards the
trash can, dumping it inside—glass pan and all. Like I said, a motherfucking
weirdo. Next, she grabs a loaf of bread, yanks out a couple of pieces, and
proceeds to make a PB&J—two, one for her and one for me. My stomach
rumbles, telling me to keep my mouth shut about her strange habits and
complete disregard for shit—as if none of it actually belongs to her and
therefore, it doesn't warrant even a modicum of interest or care—and let her
feed me. It might be the only thing I eat for a while.
"Listen," Micki starts, "it's just stuff. Ain't nothing super special about it.
Whatever gets broke or thrown away will be fixed or replaced … eventually."
"Yeah, but what if you need it before that ‘eventually’ comes?" I can't
help but ask.
At the countertop, her movements still until she stops what she's doing
completely and turns around to face me. "I don't need anything," she says.
"And neither do you."
I frown. Of course, we need shit, I think. We need to sleep and eat or else
we'll die.
As if she senses the direction of my thoughts, she smiles and waves the
butter knife in her hand through the air before turning back to spread jelly
over the bread slices. "I mean, sure we need the basic necessities," she says.
"Water. Food. Sleep. But everything else is just window dressing. Everything
else comes and goes. It was here before we came along for the most part and
it’ll be here when we’re gone. Other than what we need for pure survival—
everything else is just … dangerous.”
Dangerous? I eye the back of her head. What the hell is going on in that
strange mind of hers? What the hell does she mean?
She continues working for a moment, reaching into the cabinets and
