Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians Book 1) Read online

  Grave Mistakes

  Ivy Asher

  Raven Kennedy

  Copyright © 2020 Ivy Asher and Raven Kennedy

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.

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

  Edited by Polished Perfection

  Cover by Sanja Balan of Sanja’s Covers

  Chapter Headings by Eerilyfair Design

  For the broke bitches. May you find hot demons at the end of your struggle.

  Contents

  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

  Hellgate Guardians Series

  Also by Ivy Asher & Raven Kennedy

  Also by Ivy Asher

  Also by Raven Kennedy

  Ivy Asher

  Raven Kennedy

  1

  The microwave chirps at me irritably, reminding me once again that it diligently heated something for me and I’m rudely ignoring it. My gray eyes don’t even glance up from where I’m scrolling through my Instagram feed. I’m too busy soaking in my daily dose of inspiration and jealousy. It goes well with caffeine.

  An email notification drops down from the top of my phone’s screen, and the words new job listing have me perking up and clicking on it with lightning-fast speed. I tamp down the desperation that courses through me as I wait for the email to open and try to activate my chill. It’s not easy, because the days are counting down until the bar that I’ve been working at for the last seven years closes its doors and hangs the Out of Business sign outside.

  I don’t make eye contact with the stack of unpaid bills that are piled up on the counter to the left of where I’m leaning in my out-of-date kitchen. Far too many of them say evil things like final notice, and I can practically feel them breathing down the back of my neck. I scoot further away from the pile of depression, and my phone suddenly starts ringing as I’m waiting for the email to open.

  I release a scared squeal-gurgle and struggle to keep my crappy phone from crashing to the cracked tile floor as I jump in alarm from the unexpected call. My heart takes off like it’s Usain Bolt, and I click buttons until my ringer is muted, and whichever collection agency is calling me gets sent to my full voicemail box.

  With that crisis averted, I click on my email again. My heart comes to the conclusion that there was no need to panic just as the latest email from the job posting site I’ve been stalking for the past month finally opens. I almost back out of it when I see the words “Security Officer” stated at the top. But then my reality gets all up in my face and keeps me from closing the emailed job listing almost as fast as I opened it.

  The memory of my boss, Sean the Shithole, sitting me down and telling me the whole we’re broke and going under news rings like an echo in my mind. He had perfect fucking timing, because I had asked to talk to him so that I could beg for more hours to try to keep from drowning in the puddle of shit that my last one-night stand left me in. Instead of more hours, I got told I needed to find a new job. Just some fucked-over frosting to go on top of my shit show sugar cookie

  I was barely scraping by before, but then my last hookup not only gave me a mediocre orgasm, but apparently, he got my bank account info too. He completely cleaned me out. The bank refused to treat it like fraud and give me my money back, saying they couldn’t prove who withdrew the money, so I was accountable. The cops told me I could report it, but there wasn’t anything I could do beyond that. I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck my whole adult life, and there was just no way I could bounce back from the financial hit. I’ve been fucked and behind on everything ever since, and now, things have become desperate.

  I stare at the job email again and sigh. I have no clue how the hell a security job snuck through my filters. I could have sworn I specifically requested notifications for bartending or waitressing listings only. I decide to scroll down anyway and see if it mentions the pay. I’m getting dangerously close to the beggars can’t be choosers cut-off date, and moonlighting as security is bound to be a better alternative to moonlighting as homeless and bankrupt.

  I mean, I could pull off hot security guard if they’re into average height chicks with electric violet hair, who only exercise when...well, never. Not unless laundry and shoddy house renovations count as exercise. I used to be able to count the occasional hookup as cardio, but since the last fucker stole every penny I had, I’ve been steering clear of that tandem activity.

  I skim past the job description quickly and then balk when I get to the pay. No way that’s right. I reload the email and scroll back down to the pay section just to be sure my phone hasn’t glitched out and started fucking with me. Nope. Eighty dollars an hour is still typed in black and flashing up at me like a fucking beacon of salvation.

  But...eighty dollars a damn hour? It’s got to be a typo, right? Oh, fuck me, they’re offering full benefits. A job with benefits! There isn’t even a probationary period. This is like the holy grail of job opportunities.

  I scroll up so I can read the job description and make sure this is legit when I spot that they’re holding interviews downtown...today. Fuck!

  I look at my microwave for the time, but all it tells me is that the water for my tea is ready and that I probably need to reheat it. I panic and back out of the email and check the time on my phone. Doublefuck! Interviews are only being held for another hour and a half, and it might just take me that long to get downtown on my grumpy moped.

  I scramble to my room and throw open my closet doors. I grab my black fitted fake-slacks and the button-down white shirt hanging next to them. I pull my pants on with hip wiggle in order to fasten them, then do a baby lunge to stretch them out a bit. God bless stretchy skinny pants that are made to look like the bottoms of a high-end suit.

  When I slide my arms through the shirt, I notice a very prominent yellow stain on the left breast. What the fuck? Where the hell did that come from? I rip the shirt off and frantically eye my mostly empty closet. My gaze trails over to the overflowing clothes hamper that’s tucked nicely into the corner and trapped by more piles of laundry all around it. I want to punch my procrastinating ass right in the boob. I should’ve done that weeks ago, but I don’t have the money to call someone out to fix my ancient washer, and having to lug it to the laundromat is such a pain in my ass.

  I grab a black tank top and black moto jacket and pull them on. It’s probably not the best outfit choice for an interview, but it has a slight special ops appeal, and the job is for a security position, so maybe they’ll appreciate that instead of side-eyeing it. Dress for the job you want, right? Hell, if it really is eighty dollars an hour, I’d show up wearing nipple pasties if that would get me this job.


  Quickly combing through my purple hair with my fingers, I pull it back and twist it into a bun. I secure it with a hair tie and a couple of bobby pins and hope my helmet doesn’t fuck it up too badly. I grab the hairspray and try to apply a helmet-proof layer as I run to the kitchen and grab my bag, keys, and helmet.

  “Wish me luck, Fern,” I shout at the plant by the door. Against all odds, it hasn’t died yet, so we’re officially family now. I hurry outside and book it to the only ride I could afford after my car was repossessed two months ago. I grumble as the moped takes a little too long to start. It’s been doing that more and more lately, and I add it to the list of shit I can’t afford to fix. I back out of my driveway and slap a smile on my face. Here’s to hoping life finally wants to work with me instead of against me. I could seriously use a break, and after the last several years of my shitty life...I’m due.

  Fuck Sandpiper traffic!

  And fuck big trucks too!

  I swear those truck-driving assholes have an official game in play, and the only rules are to try and force my ass off the road at all costs. What do they have against mopeds? Can’t they see that my life is hard enough already? I’m driving a fucking scooter, for fuck’s sake.

  I rush toward the address of an all-brick office building in Sandpiper’s industrial part of town. I thought there was nothing but factories and warehouses in this part of the city, but after taking one look at the posh-looking building in front of me, and then the metal and mortar monstrosities surrounding it, I can see why they’d want security here.

  The city’s massive skyscrapers loom in the distance, and a brown haze of pollution has the overcast day looking more sickly than usual. I brush my hand over my tight, naughty-teacher bun and try to smooth back any flyaways that my helmet might have created as I speed walk toward the front door.

  There’s a man standing right outside the pristine glass double doors, and I slow my hurried pace as I get closer and take him in. He looks like Chucky all grown up with long straight red hair, a black pair of overalls over a heather gray T-shirt, and a creepy fucking face. There’s a second lanky man with a shaved head arguing with him, and when Lanky tries to grab the door handle, Chucky stops him.

  “You know better,” Chucky tells him. “You tried this shit last time. Now get out of here before I call a Duo to deal with you. You know you aren’t qualified or welcome.”

  Lanky stares at Chucky for a moment, anger clearly tinging his features. But just when I’m certain he’s about to throw a punch, he sighs and turns to walk away instead. He shoots one more seething glare over his shoulder at Chucky and then picks up his pace, cursing under his breath as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. When he sees me, he gives me a sneer and spits right at my feet, nearly hitting my shoes.

  “What the hell?” I snap, surprised, taking a step back.

  “Fucking elitist,” he says, before stomping away.

  I glare at his retreating back, wondering if I can pull a Jack Dawson spit move from Titanic and land a nasty warning glob at his feet, but I’m not that good at spitting. I blame porn.

  I turn on my heel and walk up to Chucky, wondering if he’s going to stop me from going inside too. But he just gives me a once-over, orange brows jumping up for a moment, and then he hurries to grab the door handle and pulls it open for me. “Go on in.”

  “Thanks,” I say, breathing out in relief.

  I’m still pumped full of adrenaline from my impatient, road-rage-filled drive over here. Add to that the disrespectful prick outside, and I’m a little more flustered than I’d like to be. I quickly check the time on my phone and swallow back the panic when I see that there are only ten minutes left for the open interviews. I take a deep breath, trying to sort my shit out, and put my confident face on before stepping over the threshold.

  I pull a resume out of my bag as I approach the receptionist at the end of the empty lobby. It’s slightly crinkled, so I rush to try to smooth it out while trying to look completely nonchalant and poised. I don’t think I’m pulling it off, but luckily, the woman is on the phone, so she doesn’t notice as I iron it across my thigh.

  Satisfied that it’s a little more straightened out, I take a minute to look around at the swank industrial chic feel of the place. The inside is brick, with exposed metal ducts and sprinklers, which coordinates well with the black worn leather accents and chairs. There’s minimal decor, but what I can see looks top of the line and expensive.

  I reach the receptionist just as she hangs up her call, and she greets me with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Hi, I’m Delta Gates, I’m here to interview for the Security Officer position,” I offer, my tone friendly and professional.

  Her eyes shoot to her computer, no doubt checking the time, before they return to me with a hint of surprise in them. “You are? How wonderful!” Confusion flits through me at her words. I was expecting to see judgment in her gaze or maybe a bitchy word or two for being so late, but instead, she just looks...relieved. “Let me take you right back, Miss Gates.”

  She gets up and comes around the desk, motioning for me to follow her. I take one last look around the empty lobby, wondering why this place isn’t packed full of applicants. The tapping of the receptionist’s heels on the polished concrete floor brings my attention ahead again as she leads me further into the building. We pass by a glass-walled office that’s clearly very upscale and must’ve cost a fortune to build, but that’s empty too.

  What is this place?

  I probably should have read the job description thoroughly, but there just wasn’t time. I’m really hoping that the job site I signed up for wouldn’t have sent me anything that I wasn’t technically qualified for, but it appears that I’m about to find out. I just hope I don’t make a complete ass of myself.

  I’m guided into a back office—this one also surrounded by stunning glass walls—where a tall blonde supermodel of a woman stands and extends her hand in greeting. She smiles at me, and her teeth are so white and radiant I have to fight to keep from blinking like I’m staring into the sun. I reach out and give her a strong handshake just like my dad taught me to.

  My dad’s voice rises in my mind like steam rises off a pond on a cold day. “You have to show them your trustworthiness right from the start, Del, and nothing communicates that faster than a firm, assertive handshake.” His advice floats away like a balloon I couldn’t keep hold of, and I focus on the beautiful woman in front of me.

  “I’m Susan Atwood,” the hotter blonde version of Cindy Crawford greets me.

  I offer back my much dimmer million-dollar smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Atwood. I’m Delta Gates.”

  She gives me another megawatt smile, and an adorable giggle sneaks out of her full, flawless lips. “Delta...Gates. Well, isn’t that just perfect,” she observes, pulling her hand back and motioning for me to have a seat on the other side of the conference table.

  I, of course, have no idea what the hell that means, but I smile and fake chuckle like I get the joke. I do as instructed and claim a chair across from her. The soft leather practically swaddles me as I sit down, as if it wants to rock me to sleep with a hot cup of tea and a lullaby, and I find myself completely distracted by how good it feels.

  Holy shit, that’s a nice chair. It’s the most comfortable thing I’ve ever sat in, I think, but it’s an odd thing to be focused on since Ms. Atwood is talking and I’ve never given a fuck about a chair before. Fuck off, chair. I need to pay attention!

  I force myself to tune into Ms. Atwood’s sultry tone and smooth cadence, while trying not to lean back against the chair and let it claim me. Nope. I will not fall into its buttery soft trap. I overcompensate by lurching forward, nearly smacking my knees on the glass table separating me from my interviewer. I give Ms. Atwood a strained smile and try to look all professional and security officer-esque or some shit. I really fucking need this job.

  “So, Miss Gates, did you have any questions about
the role and what it requires?” Ms. Atwood asks.

  I cover up my panic by leaning forward and placing my clasped hands on the table. “Well...I’d love to hear more about your security needs, that way we can both get a better feel for whether or not I might be the right fit.”

  I internally high five myself for that line. I definitely came across as a security professional. Now I’ll find out all about this job and whether or not I’m even qualified.

  Score for underprepared and desperate me.

  “Certainly,” Ms. Atwood coos and leans back in her chair. I wonder if she’s ever gotten distracted by it as much as me. “As I’m sure you already know, you’d be patrolling the private Perdition Estate. More specifically, the graveyard gate on that property, of course.”

  “A gate? Well, that’s definitely within my wheelhouse,” I tell her confidently. I can guard a gate. Easy.

  I’m surprised that the security job isn’t for this building, which is what I had assumed, but honestly, it could be in an outhouse for all I care. Eighty dollars an hour is eighty dollars a fucking hour. And, hello, benefits!

  Ms. Atwood does that adorable giggle again and nods. “You’d be surprised how many just don’t pass muster, but that’s the world we live in these days,” she observes, and I nod my head in agreement.

  It’s half impossible to keep good, hard working servers staffed in the bar, and it seems the security industry suffers from the same problem.

  “As their hiring agency, the Perdition Estate is very special to us. They’re our most important clients, and we’d really like to get them set up with the perfect fit for their team. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?” she asks me cautiously.