Natural Born Killers (Sick Boys Book 3)

by Lucy Smoke

  arms away and picks me up. I don’t want to leave Abel. Something tells me

  that my tantrum had brought things back for him that he wasn’t sure yet how

  to deal with. It’s why he said those words; You're okay. You're going to be

  okay. Nothing's going to hurt you. You're not alone. I'm here.

  It’s why he’s still saying them, quietly whispering them under his breath.

  I turn back, glancing over Dean’s shoulder. “No, baby,” Dean says, stopping

  me before I speak. “Let him be. He’s not alone.”

  And a moment later, I realize Dean’s right. Braxton passes us and heads

  straight for Abel. I watch as he leans down and says something I can’t hear in

  Abel’s ear and. finally, Abel stops talking. He stops repeating those words

  over and over and the silence that follows feels peaceful. It feels fucking

  freeing.

  20

  DEAN

  AVALON DOESN'T CRY LIKE ANYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD. SOME PEOPLE,

  usually children, cry without restraint. Loud and obnoxious. Other people are

  more stoic. They cry silently, away from others, and always alone. Avalon

  doesn’t cry at all. It’s a bit disturbing, if I’m being honest. This seems like

  one of those times she should cry, but still, she doesn’t. She does, however,

  hold onto me. Her hands dig into me, nails sharp and biting as if she’s afraid

  she’ll be ripped away at any moment.

  When I first walked in and saw her with Abel, I was worried that she’d

  finally broken, but the dryness of her face, the crease of worry not for herself

  but for my best friend, told me that was far from true. And I realized just how

  fucking strong she actually is.

  Strength should be something people acquire at their own pace. It should

  happen naturally. But her kind of strength—and mine—was born out of

  necessity. I pity anyone that has been forced to be strong. If I could give up

  all of the strength I have to go back and not need to be, I would. For both of

  us.

  Abel had clung to her the way she clings to me now. The words, "It's

  going to be okay," repeating over and over, falling out of his lips. I doubt he

  even realized that he was doing it.

  Avalon doesn't say a word now as she presses her forehead against my

  chest. She doesn't tremble or sniffle or sob or make any sort of noise. In fact,

  she doesn't move at all. I'd think she was asleep if it wasn't for the rapid beat

  of her heart pounding against her ribcage, fluttering faster and faster as her

  breaths puff over my skin.

  Maybe it makes me fucking twisted inside, but I kind of wish she would

  cry. I think I'd like her crying. That's fucked up. What fucking guy wants to

  see his girl cry? The answer: I do. Her tears, when she finally chooses to shed

  them, will be evidence of her realness to me. They'll tell me that she's here.

  She's real. She exists and I'm not alone. They'll prove that she's changing, too,

  and I'm okay with that as well, as long as we change together.

  Besides, I think she'd look just as beautiful as she does when she's ranting

  and threatening to unman me, but I wouldn't mind fucking her until she's got

  more of these dark streaks under her eyes. I could make her come so many

  times, she'd stop screaming and just sob as I fucked her straight into oblivion,

  where the two of us could just stay forever. Her and me. No one else to find

  us, to use us, to betray us, to hurt us.

  I reach up and brush a thumb over her cheek, smearing what's left of her

  mascara and eyeliner to the side until she looks more like one of my

  teammates just before a big game than a half-drowned raccoon.

  "Ugh." She pushes me back and climbs out of bed.

  "Where are you going?" I ask.

  She doesn't respond as she disappears into the bathroom and I roll to my

  back, moving one arm up behind my head as I listen to her move around in

  the bathroom. I guess touching her face reminded her of what she looked like

  because when she next comes back out, her face is wiped clean of all make-

  up. She looks younger without it, fresh and so full of innocence. It's hilarious

  and makes me crack a smile.

  "Ava?"

  "Don't," she says immediately as she yanks back the covers and crawls

  back in bed. "I don't want to fucking talk." Despite her harsh tone, she moves

  up along my side and lets me rest my arm against her upper back.

  "You don't have to," I tell her. "But I am curious—what happened while

  Braxton and I were gone?"

  "You mean while you were out burying my mother's body?" she hisses.

  Hmmmm. Interesting response. "Yes," I say.

  "Nothing happened," she snaps back.

  "Nothing doesn't usually make a woman like you cry," I tease.

  She punches my side. "I'm not fucking crying, asshole."

  I press my lips together and try not to smile. "Of course not."

  She pushes herself up against me and glares down into my face. I had

  hoped to hide my growing amusement, but when she looks at me, there's no

  use. "You're such a fucking dick," she mutters, pulling back and wiping a

  hand down her face as she rolls over and scoots up until her back is pressed

  to the headboard. I watch as she brings her legs up, one foot on the mattress

  as she sets an elbow on her knee and the other slightly bent and laying at an

  odd angle.

  My hand itches to reach for the bedside drawer, to the small box that rests

  there. She’s gonna be pissed when I finally pull it out. I wonder if it wouldn’t

  be worth it just to see what happens sooner rather than later. Perhaps…

  "I don't normally agree with you," I point out. "I thought that would make

  me less of a dick."

  "A dick can't change its spots," Avalon replies.

  I blink, picturing some sort of grotesque monstrous monkey cock with

  aging spots. "That's disgusting," I say with a grimace. "I'm pretty sure the

  saying is 'a leopard can't change its spots.’"

  She shrugs. I scoot up alongside her, my shoulder against hers. I half

  expect her to shift away, but she doesn't. Instead, she presses harder against

  me, even as she glares at the comforter in front of us.

  "I killed my mom today," she says.

  "Yeah," I reply, "you did. Congratulations."

  A startled laugh escapes her. It's quick and loud and then gone in the next

  instant, and I think it surprises us both. She clamps a hand over her mouth as

  she turns to look at me wildly. I can tell there's still a smile there. "Braxton

  said damn near the same thing," she says.

  I nod. "I'm not surprised."

  "You're not worried it'll change me?" she asks after a while.

  "Do you feel changed?"

  She's quiet for some time and then she shakes her head. "Not really, but

  that doesn't mean I'm not."

  I relax back against the headboard. I know what this is about now. "When

  I killed for the first time, I was pretty detached about it. Both in front of my

  father and the guys." I can feel her eyes on me, curiosity in their depths, and

  something else. Something I'm not even sure she recognizes yet, but I'm okay

  with that. I can wait until she does. "I shot him at point blank range," I say,

  lifting an arm and pointing across the room with my thumb up. "One second
,

  there was life in his body..." I jerk my arm up, mimicking pulling the trigger.

  "And the next, there wasn't."

  "Did that bother you?" she asks.

  "Not really," I admit, my arm lowering back to my side. "Lots of people

  have their own experiences with murder, with death. Soldiers and survivors.

  Some say it gets easier. Some say it never does. I think it's different for

  everyone. I think it helped that I didn't see this person as an actual man."

  I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and watch as her brows furrow.

  "What do you mean?" she asks.

  "I just didn't see him as human," I tell her.

  "How can that be?" She doesn't sound accusatory or even upset, merely

  curious, as if she just wants to figure out what makes me tick. I like that. It's

  too bad I don't have a long, drawn out, clear answer for her.

  "I don't know," I say honestly. "Sure, he looked human. He had eyes and

  a face and a voice. Even had a family, I assume. Most people do. But I didn't

  see any of that when I killed him. I just saw his wrongs. That he was a liar

  and a traitor. He admitted as much in the hopes of being spared. Now that I

  think about it, maybe that was a lie. Maybe he thought by giving us what we

  wanted—a confession—we would show mercy." But Eastpoint never showed

  any mercy. Not my father, not Abel's, or Braxton's. No one.

  "Braxton's like that, too, though," I confess. "He doesn't really see people

  as human. Not in the way the majority of society does. He's a little more

  jaded than I am, though. He's a little more removed. That's what gets certain

  people when they kill. They get all bent out of shape about taking a life. They

  relate to their victims. They realize it could've been them on the other end of

  that gun or knife or whatever method they used to kill, and then they lose

  their shit. Like their weak minds can't handle the correlation. I don't see it,

  though. Neither does Braxton. There's a difference between us and them."

  "I think we call those people psychopaths," Avalon points out, her voice

  full of sardonic amusement.

  I smirk. "Yeah, I guess we are that, but not completely. I see you as

  human. I see Abel as human. His mom was human. Braxton, too. There are a

  limited number of human lives I care about, connections and people that

  make me give a shit. I wasn't connected to the man I killed. In my eyes, he

  was a traitor to our family. That's what I'd been told. I beat him to a bloody

  pulp and then I killed him when they said pull the trigger. Killing him didn't

  really bug me, not even at that age. What got me later was the fact that the

  choice had been taken from me."

  "The choice?" she repeats.

  I nod. "Yeah. I didn't decide his death. My father did. The other Eastpoint

  heads did. I wasn't supposed to ask questions. I was just supposed to point

  and shoot. I was a tool for their use. Nothing more."

  Silence descends and for a long moment, for several long moments—

  seconds stretching into minutes—neither of us says anything. Then, she takes

  a breath and I feel her hair shift against my shoulder as she lays her head

  against my arm.

  "I hated my mother," she says.

  It's not new information, but it feels like something she needs to say to

  start whatever the hell is going on in her head. So, I just remain silent and

  hope she keeps going.

  "I didn't at first—no kid does. One moment, we're floating in this dark

  cocoon of warmth, and the next, we're being shoved, carelessly, frighteningly

  out into a loud, bright world. We latch onto the only thing we recognize."

  Our mothers, I supply silently when she doesn't.

  "Only instead of love and a gentle hand to teach me about the world, I

  learned what a scream felt like as it rung in my ears, what a slap felt like

  against my face, and then what disgusting expectations she had for me. I

  looked around me, and I was fucking confused. No one else was living the

  same life as me. Some had it worse. Some had it better. Some cried and sank

  into themselves and gave up, others were..." She pauses, her voice drifting

  and growing tense right before she keeps going. "Others bottled it all up and

  pretended like everything was fine."

  "You didn't," I remind her.

  Her head shakes, turning back and forth against me as she agrees. "No,"

  she says. "I didn't. I couldn't. I was too angry. Angry at the unfairness of the

  world. Angry because people tried to tell me that everything had meaning

  when nothing fucking does. Patricia was born and she lived. I may have

  killed her, but she died with my father—whoever the fuck he was."

  I can hear her teeth grinding together from here. "And whoever he was—

  he was a fucking moron. So, I hate him too."

  She lets that hang in the air between us and I can't help but want to ask

  the question that's sliding around inside my skull. "Do you regret killing

  her?" I ask.

  Avalon snorts and lifts her head. I turn to meet her eyes. "No," she says.

  There's no hesitation in her answer. "I don't regret doing it. I'd do it again. I'm

  going to do it again. I'll kill and kill until blood soaks everything that I have,

  everything that I am. And I'll keep killing until I get answers. About who she

  was. Who I am. To you. To Eastpoint. I wasn't born just to suffer, and the

  people who did this to me think that they can play games with my life. I'm

  not like the traitor you killed, though."

  "No," I agree. "You're not."

  "I'm human to you," she says. "To Braxton. But more than that, I'm

  human regardless. Maybe no one else is. That's because they haven't made

  themselves be human to you. I did."

  She forced her way into our world, dominated it without even trying.

  Earned respect—ours as well as that of our fellow classmates. Maybe she

  earned it with fear, but it was earned nonetheless. The fact stands, now, that

  she's at the top. She clawed her way up from the gutter and she sits on a

  throne made of bones and blood.

  If anything proves Brax and me right, it's Avalon Manning. There is a

  difference between them and us. They stop when they meet resistance. They

  don't last. They don't fight back.

  I reach for her, cupping the back of her head, and drag her close, pressing

  a kiss to her lips—fast and hard.

  We always have, I think. We always will.

  And that box is coming out tonight.

  21

  AVALON

  THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN I CRACK MY EYES OPEN, THE SUNLIGHT POURING IN

  through the slitted curtains across the room makes me want to burrow under

  the covers once more and pray that someone shoots me through the skull

  before the pain in my head can fully settle in. Morning headaches are the

  worst. I huff, reaching up to push my hair out of my face, when something

  clunky knocks me in the chin. I pause.

  "Dean..."

  His arm tightens around my middle and he groans, the sound deep and far

  more sexual than it should be. I shake my head. Focus, Avalon. Focus on the

  dumbassery at hand. As in, quite literally, on my goddamn hand. "Dean,” I

  say again, louder this time.

  “What?” he grumbles.

>   “What the fuck is sitting on my finger?" I demand, shoving his arm off

  and turning around to face him.

  The second my eyes land on him, however, my brain short circuits. The

  irritation that had been building dissipates in the wake of the image he

  presents. A naked Dean is sinful, a half-naked, barely awake Dean is

  temptation itself. Slow breaths, I urge myself. Calm your pussy.

  His long brown lashes lift. Dean peeks over at me before stretching his

  arms up and yawning. "What does it look like?" he prompts.

  "It looks like a goddamn engagement ring," I snap.

  "Then that's what it is." His arm comes back around my middle.

  "Dean, I'm not marrying you."

  Scratchy beard scruff touches my shoulder, and I shove down a shiver as

  he presses an open-mouthed kiss to my skin. Fuck him. Fuck this. No. I'm not

  doing this. "Dean." I hate the way my voice trembles. "I—"

  "It's okay, baby," Dean interrupts. "It's nothing to be scared of. It's an

  insurance policy, that's it."

  "An insurance policy?" I repeat, confused.

  Dean looks over my shoulder as he sits further up on the bed and drags

  me into the cradle he's made between his legs. One of his hands catches mine

  and holds it up and suddenly my eyes are right back on the rock sitting on my

  ring finger. It's huge. At least, huge to me. For rich bitches, it's probably a

  moderately sized diamond. To me, it feels like a heavy weight that I want to

  rip off and throw in the ocean.

  "This is your ticket to freedom, baby," Dean says.

  I settle against his chest, absorbing his warmth, and stare down my arm

  the same way he is. His fingers play in mine. I never thought I'd be one of

  these girls—the ones that just completely lose themselves in a man, but I

  can't help it. Dean isn't a normal man. He's all consuming. A monster that

  swallows me up.

  "How so?" I ask sardonically.

  "It showcases that you're mine, Ava," he says.

  I snort. "As if you don't showcase it enough," I mutter.

  "Well," he chuckles, "it's either this or perhaps I can tattoo my name on

  your ass. Would you prefer that?"

  "Actually," I say, "I think I might." It isn’t like I don’t still have light pink

  scratches down my spine that spell out his fucking name.

  "The ring is less permanent," he points out.