Natural Born Killers (Sick Boys Book 3)

by Lucy Smoke

  She and Roger may be dead, but what they did will always remain with

  me. Inside of me. Slithering around like an immortal snake. The only thing I

  can do now is live with it and feed it so that it can't consume me like this ever

  again.

  THE BED IS EMPTY WHEN I WAKE UP. PANTING. SWEATING. I FEEL

  disgusting.

  I crawl out from between the sheets and practically sprint for the

  bathroom, cranking the hot water up and diving underneath with my clothes

  still half on.

  When I finally manage to get my clothes off and shove them outside of

  the shower, they fall to the tiled floor with wet sounds. Even those sounds are

  too similar to the sound of thighs slapping into my flesh. I scrub my hands

  down over my body. Reaching for the soap, I lather up and start to rub it over

  every inch of my flesh.

  It doesn't feel like enough. It'll never be enough.

  I scrub and I scratch and I clean until my skin turns pink and then red. I

  hate this feeling. It makes me feel … weak.

  I stop scrubbing and just press my hands into the wall beneath the

  showerhead, feeling how cold the stone feels against my hands versus the

  burning heat of the water falling down over my face and head.

  Why? I think to myself. Why the fuck would I dream about Roger Murphy

  now? He's dead. He's been dead. And her … why did she have to be there,

  too? Spewing her fucking lies.

  I slip a hand down over my face and eyes, wiping away the water. Then,

  without thinking, I slam my fist into the stone wall in front of me. It hurts, but

  I do it again. I do it again and again until a fissure forms. My breath shudders

  in and out of my chest. It squeezes into my lungs until there's no room for

  anything else. My knees buckle and I fall, hitting the bottom of the tub with a

  resounding thwack!

  No. No. No. I can't think. She's not right. I'm not weak.

  I start rubbing my arms, not realizing I'm scratching my skin until my

  nails come away with blood. This body feels ... wrong. All of it is wrong.

  "I dealt with this," I whisper.

  Did you deal with it? Another voice responds. Or did you just shove it

  down and pretend like you were stronger than what happened to you?

  "I am stronger than what happened to me," I grit out.

  Dead eyes. Dead bodies. The smell of blood, of something catching fire

  —each of these things drift through my mind like cuts from a broken glass.

  They slash and cut and burn, causing internal wounds. No, not causing them

  —reopening the old ones that I hadn't paid any attention to.

  Slowly, I get back to my feet and stare down at the drain as the water runs

  pink from the cuts on my arms where I'd dug my nails into my own flesh.

  "I am stronger," I repeat to myself. I always have been. I always will be.

  In the end, I was alive and they were dead. I survived. I got my revenge.

  The dream was nothing. It meant nothing. The only thing it'd done was

  remind me what I was doing and why.

  I finish washing my body and this time, when I get out of the shower, I

  don't feel quite so unsettled. I move into the bedroom and grab some clothes

  and get dressed. The suitcase I'd packed the night before is missing, and in

  the distance, I can hear Dean yelling something and Abel responding.

  My hand lands on the doorknob, and just before I turn it and push the

  door open, I look to the side and catch a glimpse of my expression in the

  mirror hanging on the wall.

  My cuts and scratches are covered by fabric, but there's still the lingering

  of truth in my eyes. I hadn't known when I started this journey—the one that

  led me to Dean and the guys, the one that led me to that shitty trailer and

  Roger Murphy, the one that led me to the warehouse where I'd killed my

  mother—just how much each of these actions would affect me.

  I'd thought myself invincible. Still did, on some level. I look down at my

  hand, noting the bruises on my knuckles. Maybe I am human after all. Can

  one be a monster and a human? Guess I'll find out soon enough.

  28

  DEAN

  AVALON IS SILENT AS SHE SITS NEXT TO ME IN THE SUV. IN THE BACK, ABEL

  is passed out—hungover and lightly snoring as Brax fucks around on his

  phone, playing some sort of video game with his headphones plugged in.

  With one hand steering the wheel, I reach for Avalon's hand with my free

  one. Immediately she pulls away and turns towards the window, but not

  before I noticed the bruises on her knuckles. Bruises that for fucking sure

  hadn't been there last night.

  "Hey," I say, "you okay?"

  "Fine," she snaps, and then as if realizing how off her tone is, she starts

  talking again. "Where'd you say we’re going?"

  She's lying. I pull my hand back and replace it on the wheel. "The city," I

  answer. "Are you—"

  "Yeah," she cuts me off, "but where in the city? Will it be like the last

  hotel we stayed at?"

  "It's a hotel that Braxton's family owns. So, yes. This is actually a nicer

  one. We usually have one of the penthouses reserved for whenever we feel

  like getting out of town. We don't always stay there, though, because it's

  attached to another hotel and restaurant chain." I grimace and grip the wheel

  a bit tighter.

  She casts me a look. "Didn't know it could get nicer," she responds

  lightly. "What's wrong with the other hotel it's attached to?"

  "It's owned by the Kincaids," I tell her.

  She nods and doesn't say any more. She doesn't even ask when the last

  time Kincaid messaged me was. Something's definitely not right. The rest of

  the drive goes like that. Brax and Abel doing whatever they do on their own

  and Ava staring out the window, not talking.

  The second we pull into the hotel parking lot, I direct the SUV to the

  valet. "Abel," I snap.

  He snorts and jerks awake at the same time that Brax leans up and

  removes his headphones.

  Avalon says not a damn word as I cut the vehicle into park and push open

  the driver's door, taking the valet's ticket. I don't waste any time circling the

  front of the SUV, but I'm already a step behind Ava as she steps out of the

  passenger side and moves onto the sidewalk. She starts towards the back of

  the car.

  "Don't," I tell her, stepping in front of her and making sure to keep my

  hands to myself. "They'll get the luggage, let's just go inside."

  She nods but doesn't look up. Something sinister curdles in my gut. That's

  not like her at fucking all. For a moment, I watch as she turns around and

  starts towards the double glass doors that lead into the reception lobby.

  "What's up with her?" Brax asks as he hits the sidewalk and stretches.

  "I don't know," I admit honestly, "but I'm gonna find out."

  Braxton glances between Ava and me and then nods. "I'll take Abel out

  for some food and see if we can't get a fuck in before we come back. Will a

  few hours be good enough?"

  I'd never been more grateful in my fucking life to love this motherfucker.

  I nod. "Yeah," I say. "Thanks." I blow out a breath. "I'll return the favor.”

  "Don't worry 'bout it. Make sure our li’l savage girl is alright. That's all

/>   you need to do to return the favor," he says, and then without missing a beat,

  he flips around and hooks an arm around Abel's neck the second he steps

  from the vehicle and starts to drag him away, down the street.

  I sigh and follow Avalon into the hotel.

  "Mr. Carter!" The second I enter the lobby, the manager is on me.

  Although he eyes Avalon—in her ripped jeans and beat up sneakers—like

  she's a conundrum, he's professional enough to keep it at that. Avalon doesn't

  say a word as he fawns over me. "It's been so long since we've had the

  pleasure of your presence. Will Mr. Smalls and Mr. Frazier be joining you?"

  "Yes, Maurice," I say, eyeing Avalon out of the corner of my eye.

  "They'll be in later. Is the penthouse ready?"

  "Of course, sir," he nods jovially. "I've already arranged everything to

  your specifications. Will you require anything else?" He hands me a black

  key card.

  "No," I say, gently moving an arm towards Avalon's back. She jumps

  when my fingers brush her nape but otherwise makes no movement. "That'll

  be all. We don't want to be disturbed."

  "Understood." Maurice steps to the side and politely bows ever so lightly

  as I gesture Ava towards the elevators. The longer she goes with her silence,

  the more anxious I grow. My heart pounds. Sweat coats the back of my neck.

  When we reach the top floor, I slam out of the elevator and turn, dragging

  her out with me. I shove her against the first surface I see and push my hands

  into the wall alongside her head.

  "Alright," I say, my voice low and hard, "what the hell is going on with

  you?" I demand.

  "Nothing." She looks to the ground.

  "Bullshit." Reaching down, I lift her chin and bring it up so that those

  blue-gray eyes of hers have to meet mine. "Baby … this silence … you're

  fucking killing me." I close my eyes and inhale a breath, and when I reopen

  them, I do the only I can think of. I lean forward until her scent is in my

  lungs, until I can’t see a damn thing else but this crazy, addictive woman in

  front of me. "Tell me what's going on, Ava … please."

  29

  AVALON

  "TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON, AVA … PLEASE."

  I stare up into Dean's face, seeing the torment there. It gives me pause,

  confuses me. "What?" I blink up at him. "What are you talking about?"

  "There's something wrong with you," he presses. "You've been quiet

  since this morning when we got in the car. You were fine last night, what

  happened?"

  I release a sigh and push away one of his arms. He doesn't try to keep me

  pinned. "Nothing," I say again and take a step further into the penthouse,

  stopping and looking around.

  It's everything I'd expected it would be. Large. Open. Expensive looking.

  There are no shadows and yet, I feel uneasy just standing here. Like I don't

  belong.

  "Ava..."

  "Fuck, Dean," I snap, whirling around as he comes up behind me. "I'm

  fine. I said I was, so just take me at my word."

  He glares at me. "Fine," he snaps. "Then you can explain your knuckles."

  Immediately, I turn my hands so that my knuckles are pressed into my

  thighs. "I don't have to tell you fucking everything that's going on with me," I

  snap back.

  "Why not?" he asks. "I tell you everything."

  At that, I roll my eyes. "Yeah, sure you do, asshole." I cross my arms.

  "Ava..." He stares at me for a moment and I can't fucking stand it. I hate

  that fucking look. I turn and start to walk away. Seconds don't even pass

  before his footsteps follow me. I make it all the way to the row of windows

  overlooking the city in the living room before his hand lands on my arm and

  stops me. "For fuck's sake," he growls. "What the hell is going on with you?"

  "It was a nightmare!" I yell. "It was fucking nothing. I had a fucking

  dream and I just want to be left alone to deal with it. What can't you get about

  that? I don't want to fucking talk about it, Dean, so leave it alone."

  "No," he replies. "I won't leave it the fuck alone."

  I gape at him. "Did you just tell me no?" I ask, shocked. "Why? It's just a

  dumb fucking dream. It's nothing to be upset about."

  "Then why are you acting like this?" he demands, gesturing wildly at me.

  "Like what?"

  He shoves a hand through his hair, grabbing a chunk of those dark brown

  locks of his and tugging hard. "Fuck—I don't know," he snaps. "Like you're

  scared of something. You wouldn't even let me fucking touch you in the car.

  Obviously, it's something strong enough to upset you. Do I..." He pauses,

  gritting his teeth and I raise my eyebrows.

  "Do you?" I repeat, waiting.

  "Do I—should I call Viks?" he grits out. "I don't fucking want to, but

  Ava, if you can't fucking talk to me about—"

  I shake my head, cutting him off. "No, don't call him, I told you—"

  "If you say you're fine one more goddamn time when I damn well know

  you're not, you're not going to like my response," he warns.

  I narrow my eyes on him, daring him with a glare. "I am fine," I snap,

  tilting my chin up in challenge.

  He doesn't fucking miss a beat. Of course he doesn't. Dean bends down

  and locks an arm around my legs, swinging me up and over. The breath in my

  chest releases abruptly as I'm thrown over his shoulder. My hands slap his

  back and indignation raises its ugly head.

  "Dean!" I shriek, punching his back. "Put me the fuck down!"

  He ignores my command and starts walking. His strides are strong and

  sure, as if he knows exactly where he's going. I continue to curse and beat at

  his back, every once in a while, throwing myself off-center and trying to

  unsettle him. Unfortunately, however, it seems he's gotten used to this. Has

  this become routine for us? It fucking feels like it.

  "If you don't stop," he tells me as he passes through a doorway of a room

  full of windows. "You're going to hurt yourself." This new room is warmer

  than the rest and the smell of chlorine is strong.

  No, I think. He wouldn't— but the second the thought enters my brain, I'm

  being upended from his shoulder and flying through the air. The water hits

  my back first and I sink like a fucking rock.

  It closes over my face and for some fucking reason ... it helps. Being

  submerged, staring up at the murky outline of Dean's angry face as he stands

  close to the edge, with his arms crossed, staring down at me, gives me

  perspective.

  The nightmare about Roger and then my mother … It'd made me feel like

  I was drowning. Like I'd been adrift and there'd been nothing and no one to

  hold onto. No anchor to ground me back to the real world.

  My head pops up above the surface and I cough, sputtering as I wipe the

  water out of my eyes. My clothes stick to my skin, giving me more resistance

  to fight against as I swim back to the edge of the pool.

  "Are you fucking done being a closed off bitch?" Dean demands.

  I huff out a breath and glare up at him. "Yeah," I snap. "But I can

  guarantee you're not done being a fucking asshole."

  "You're damn right I'm not," he replies without a second's hesitation. All

  at once, the anger and disgus
t I'd felt with myself disperse and I shake my

  head. This fucking man. How can I hate him and l—I stop that thought before

  it can fully take root. My eyes find the stone underneath Dean's feet and then

  move up to his ankles and then his legs. Dean, unaware of my budding

  revenge plans, squats down and cups my face. Even though his expression

  remains hard, his hand is gentle, almost reverent.

  I'm not alone, I remind myself. Dean's here.

  "Are you going to tell me about your nightmare?" he asks.

  I blow out a breath and close my eyes, leaning into the touch of his palm.

  "I don't want to," I admit.

  "Is it bad?" he asks.

  "As bad as it gets," I warn him.

  "I don't care," he whispers. "I want to hear it all. When it comes to you,

  Avalon, I want everything."

  Shit, I think. Why does he have to be so fucking hard to deny? It's not

  goddamn fair. I know if I were to say that aloud, though, he'd just chuckle

  and tell me that life isn't fair. As if I'm not already well fucking aware of how

  unfair life can be.

  "Then fine," I finally say. "I'll tell you ... just help me out of this damn

  pool first."

  He reaches down, offering a hand as they slip from my face. "I hope

  you're not too mad," he says with a chuckle. "You needed the cool down."

  "I don't really get mad," I tell him with a sweet smile as I take his hand

  and lock my feet against the side of the pool. "I get even," I finish just before

  I shove off and yank him forward.

  The shocked look on his face when he realizes my plan—fucking

  priceless. I grin as soon as the water closes over my head once more. I release

  him quickly and shoot for the surface, but not quick enough because a split

  second later, a strong grip attaches to my ankle and yanks me back down.

  Back and forth, the two of us fight until we can't stand not breathing a

  second longer. Together, we reach the surface, bursting through and gasping

  for air even as laughter overtakes us. With Dean at my back, I swim back to

  the side of the pool and anchor my hands up on the ledge before dragging

  myself up and out of the water.

  My back hits the stone floor as my chest pumps up and down. "You have

  a fucking private pool in your penthouse hotel room."

  A shadow falls over my face a split second before little droplets of water