by Lake, Keri
Intrepid
A Vigilantes Novel
Keri Lake
INTREPID
Keri Lake
Copyright © 2018
All Rights Reserved.
AUTHOR’S NOTE This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Cover Art © CT Cover Creations
Photo © Rafa G. Catala
Model: Oliver Buendia
Editing by Julie Belfield
Praise For Ricochet
With Ricochet Keri Lakes creates a 5 Star action packed, adrenaline-filled, relentless display of a man driven by revenge and his quest to obtain it by any means necessary. The dark theme is uncompromising in its approach and I applaud Keri as she refuses shield her readers from the rawness of the pain felt, the suffering and the realism of hurt that stem from a horrendous act.”-Smokin’ Hot Book Blog
“It kept me on the edge of my seat, and the brilliant writing had me connected both to the story, but especially to the characters, right from the start!” -Maryse’s Book Blog
“The author draws into the bedlam of Nick and Aubree’s minds so well as a reader you feel engulfed in the beautifully tragic darkness … Keri Lake portrayed violence so perfectly, so poignantly it was hard to put this book down.” -She Reads New Adult
“Keri Lake doesn’t hold back, doesn’t make things pretty and shiny to make it easier on the reader. She writes them as they are - dirty, gritty and heart-crushing … It was extremely well-written with awe inspiring eloquence …” -The Book Enthusiast
“5 Explosive Stars … You’re going to want to pick this book up if you too enjoy reading on the edge of your seat with one hand on your kindle - the other covering your eyes a bit because you’re horrified yet riveted in the same breath … “-Totally Booked Blog
“Keri Lake’s writing style is PHENOMENAL!!! … Ricochet kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time … It was fast-paced, highly intense and the shocking twists in the story left me speechless!”-A Bookish Escape
Intrepid Playlist
Here are a few of the songs that inspired the story …
“This Thing Called Love” -NF
“Bad Intentions” -Niykee Heaton
“Calm Like A Bomb” -Rage Against The Machine
“Heat Stroke” -Black Math
“It Is What It Is” -Blood Orange
“Hold On, We’re Going Home” -Lykke Li
“Ride For Me” -Krayzie Bone
“Surrender” -Natalie Taylor
“I’ve Got No Strings” -Dickie Jones
“If You Want Love” -NF
“Heaven On Hold” -Bryce Fox
“Say My Name” -KNGDAVD
“Way Down We Go” -Kaleo
“Don’t Dwell” -Barnacle Boi
“Inside My Head” -Tribe Society
“Fox In A Box” -Gore Gore Girls
“Piece Of My Heart” -Janis Joplin
“Crying Lightning” -Arctic Monkeys
“Hatef**k” -Motionless In White
“Lullaby” -Niykee Heaton
“Fear On Fire” -Ruelle
“Electric” -Alina Baraz, Khalid
“Beat The Devil’s Tattoo” -Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
“Man In A Box” -Alice In Chains
“Kings” -Tribe Society
“Broken Bones” -Kaleo
“Missile” -Dorothy
“Send Me An Angel” -Krayzie Bone
“Blood In The Cut” -K. Flay
For The Vigilante Vixens
Contents
Praise For Ricochet
Intrepid Playlist
VIP Email List
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
It’s Not Over …
Nick & Aubree Bonus Scene
Acknowledgments
Other Books By Keri Lake
About the Author
A boy's appetite grows very fast, and in a few moments the queer, empty feeling had become hunger, and the hunger grew bigger and bigger, until soon he was as ravenous as a bear.
Carlo Collodi
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Prologue
Fire is a truly fascinating element.
The way it gives light to darkness, creates warmth in the cold. It’s a wonder such a beautiful gift of nature can be so destructive, cause so much pain at the mere touch of it. In many ways, love bears a striking resemblance to a flame, both inviting and painful, and sometimes just as easily snuffed. One minute, you’re warm and content, and in a single breath, you’re cold and lost in the dark.
Detroit has more fires than any other city in the country. They can be smelled on the air, breathed in. It’s a hard city, like old, rusted metal that somehow keeps its shape in the thick of a blaze. All forged steel and flames, with a core that just keeps burning, no matter how much heat is thrown at it. With over seventy thousand abandoned buildings, it’s like the fall of Rome—a feast for the arsonist.
And tonight, I offer it another sacrifice.
Drawing in a long inhale, I flick my cigarette onto the thick trail of gasoline, and a modest flare zips along its tragic path with fervor, catching the kindling I set at the feet of the man who wears the marks of punishment for the crimes he’s committed. Upon reaching him, it bursts into an audacious spectacle, sparing no mercy for its tinder, as it eagerly climbs the man’s body.
Pure showmanship that fails to draw a single emotion from me.
The man’s scream carries the gurgle of fluids, ones still trapped in his lungs after I intentionally filled his chest with water and then emptied it in a piss poor attempt to keep him alive a bit longer. Still, this one’s much cleaner than the others. Less blood and evidence, which means I’ve gotten better at not only hunting, but the art of disposing, as well.
The scent on the air is greasy death, with the sharp tang of charred meat that hits the back of my throat. Corrupt bastards stink when they burn.
I watch as the fire wreaks havoc
against the man’s pale skin, consuming him like a jealous lover. All ravenous and angry. Passionate and unforgiving. The flames scorch his limbs like tree branches, splitting open the skin to reach the yellow fat beneath.
I once read that the body can sustain its own fire for around seven hours, while the muscles desiccate and contract, adopting odd contortions as if posed that way.
It only takes minutes for his flesh to sizzle black, while his muscles tremble with the searing agony of the vicious flame. The same agony I imagine my father suffered when they burned him alive.
The same agony they’ll all eventually suffer for leaving me cold and trapped in darkness for so long.
A smile tugs at my lips as I step closer to the pyre and raise my hands to ward off the chill of late October.
1
Sera
intrepid
adjective: in·trep·id in-ˈtre-pəd
characterized by resolute fearlessness, fortitude, and endurance
I’d never done anything so stupid in my whole life.
Dilapidated neighborhoods along Warren Avenue slipped past my periphery, as I stared through the window of the cramped Prius. Even if I worked up the nerve to have the driver pull over and let me out, I’d be standing on Warren freakin’ Avenue, smack in the shit side of Detroit. I might’ve sported a more urban look than my yuppie peers from the suburbs, but I’d never blend in with the prostitutes and street thugs, even if I tried.
I was trapped, and hell if I didn’t know what trapped felt like.
Two hours ago, I’d been the true me. The intelligent, non-reckless me, who’d survived eight years in my father’s suffocating chokehold, only to blow it all in one stupid decision. A couple hours out of the cage, and I’d already torn my wings. I could feel his words beating against my skull: You won’t make it one year in that city. Within two hours, I’d probably proven him right.
I blamed it on what I liked to call deferential vulnerability. Sort of like peer pressure, but more academic. My version included highly persuasive variables, like moving to one of the most dangerous cities in the world by myself, and rooming with an eccentric art major, instead of the levelheaded law student my father would’ve preferred. I’d been granted permission to live off campus, too—the perk of being a ruthless prick’s daughter. Having defended some of the most loathed criminals in the city, my father carried just about the same notoriety as Kwame Kilpatrick, which meant he was rarely challenged by anyone—not even the dean.
No wonder my mom had skipped town with me when I was a baby. And had she not died unexpectedly, she’d have probably sent me to grow up in a convent, over having me return back to his iron fist.
Personally, I’d have preferred to live on campus, but my father had insisted otherwise. Not because he gave a shit about me—he just didn’t want his daughter seen going in and out of what he considered a lowly living environment. After all, what would the public think of him as a father?
Much to his dismay, I’d stumbled upon an ad for a roommate, and ended up at the Brittany. Nowhere near as luxurious as he’d have expected, but only about a mile from campus, and being the doting prick that he was, he’d refused to pay for my housing since I’d opted for the less opulent side of town. Which meant I’d need to find a job. Soon.
“Why so quiet, Kutchie?” My new roommate, Bea, peered around the passenger seat in front of me. Her eyelids had already fallen into a basset hound droop with whatever pills she’d popped just moments before we’d taken off, and the slight slur in her voice sent a little shock of panic to the back of my neck, a distress signal to my brain. Almost like a sixth sense that invariably told me something bad would happen at some point in the night.
At least she wasn’t the one driving.
At first meeting, I’d pinned her as different, sure. Although her shoulder-length jet black hair, shaved on one side, and chunky black glasses, mirrored my own unconventional style, the piercings in the bridge of her nose, her nostrils, and both cheeks set her apart. Bright red lipstick lured my eyes away from the mole at the corner of her mouth, and the tats she sported climbed up her neck to behind her ears. The bone necklace she’d paired with a ruffled red steampunk cardigan my grandma would’ve borrowed gave her a nerdy glamour-goth look. Typical inner city art student, like any other I’d anticipated meeting on campus. I admired her strangeness, having come from a prep school filled with sycophant yuppies in bland navy blue and khaki uniforms, where having any unique traits was quickly smothered in shame.
I hadn’t pegged her as a pill popper, though, and I sure as hell didn’t think she’d be dumb enough to wash them down with a pint of Jack.
Then again, I’d only met her two hours before.
“Kutscher.” I corrected my last name, swallowing back the nervous wobble in my throat.
“Right, right.” She snorted a laugh and tapped the driver, who I’d also just met.
Simone. Her girlfriend. Though Bea insisted that she, herself, was actually bisexual and willing to fuck a guy if he happened to be hot enough—another bit of personal information two hours managed to buy me. Like Bea, Simone also majored in art. Not that it took a genius to figure that out. With her long, silvery gray braids, and the paint-spattered bibs she wore, along with Bea’s flamboyant style, the two of them looked like characters off a kids TV show.
Simone passed Bea the cigarette she’d just puffed on and cranked up the Rage Against The Machine song droning in the background.
Beside me sat a dude I couldn’t bring myself to look at, mostly because he hadn’t stopped staring at me since we’d left the dorm, eyes hooded as he swayed in his seat. Like the sole rider of his own Tilt-A-Whirl. Probably high as a giraffe’s ass right then. His brain seemed to have gone satellite after two shots of Jack, and he’d acted like I’d become his source of gravity since then. Bea and Simone had introduced him, but I couldn’t remember his name. I was too busy wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
Years of living cooped up in a soul-sucking hell made a girl a little antsy for some fun, so when the two of them had suggested a party? Well, I was all in. Who better to trust than the chick I’d be living with for the next year, right?
Which went back to my feelings of being trapped. In spite of having learned her sexual and food preferences, along with why she’d opted to live with me instead of her girlfriend, I hadn’t bothered to gather whether, or not, my new roommate was the kind of person to take advantage of my newfound freedom.
“You could be a model,” the kid beside me garbled, interrupting my thoughts. A cloud of warm whiskey breath hit me before the slap of his next words: “If you didn’t have that scar. D’jou know ‘at?”
“Thanks.” I shot him a quick glance and turned back to the window. “You could be somebody’s hot date, if you didn’t smell like fried pickles from the local watering hole. Asshole,” I muttered.
Instinct begged me to thumb the deformed, imperfect skin that stretched from my ear to my chin, but he wasn’t the first to tell me that. I’d grown up in a school where perfection was bred, and plastic surgeons were on speed dial. Having a scar that extended ear to jaw and down my neck ensured that I’d never land a cozy spot on the cheerleading squad. Not that I wanted to. Didn’t matter that my father had more money than the homecoming court, or that I could’ve easily attended any one of the Ivy League colleges they pined after. Guess my scar had always made me inferior, though somehow I thought attending a public university smack in the city would’ve made it less of a marvel.
Hadn’t taken long after graduation for me to fully embrace my fuck it all attitude, adding ombre blue streaks to my boring blond hair and burning my school uniform as a show of just how much I’d given a shit about fitting in. So, as much as the guy’s comment should’ve hurt, I really just wished he’d breathe in the other direction.
“How’d it happen?”
No filter. Truly. And his breath seriously came with its own proof. I felt sickly drunk just having to breathe
it in.
“A skiing accident.” The same lie I’d told most of my high school classmates, except that I didn’t ski, and it wasn’t an accident. Just sounded better than telling them a psychopathic lunatic out to teach my father a lesson about karma had decided to use me as a human cutting board. Less questions that way. Because the last thing I wanted was to field anymore of the guy’s shameless interrogations.
“Oh, that’s too bad. See, modeling agents, they go through hundreds of photos a day and can be really harsh—”
“I’m truly not interested in modeling,” I cut in. “It’s like … not even in my galaxy of ambition.”
He biccuped—burped and hiccupped—the wet gurgle making me nervous that he’d puke all over my lap, as his head swayed back in my direction. “Love your hair. Like … fuckin’ blue ribbons hanging off your head.”
How poetic.
Sighing, I stared back out of my window and wished he’d pass out already.
