Grave Decisions (Hellgate Guardians Book 3) Read online

  Grave Decisions

  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 Covers by Julie

  Chapter Headings by Eerilyfair Design

  For Corona.

  Just kidding, fuck you, Covid-19.

  2021, this one’s for you! Don’t let us down.

  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

  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

  Epilogue

  Hellgate Guardians Series

  Also by Ivy Asher & Raven Kennedy

  Also by Ivy Asher

  Also by Raven Kennedy

  Ivy Asher

  Raven Kennedy

  1

  Medley Bell

  Sweetgreen, Georgia

  I grab the box addressed to the house I just parked in front of and jump out of my truck. The sun glares down at me the same way my boss does when I’m incapable of movin’ at inhuman speeds and deliverin’ ten packages at one time. I pull the ugly ass purple polo that’s part of my uniform away from my already sweat-sticky skin and walk up to the front door.

  I go to push the doorbell but notice a sign that says, “Please do not ring, it disturbs baby.” I pause for a moment, debatin’ if I should knock or not. The last thing I want to deal with is a pissed off mama who’s had too little sleep to realize she’s inappropriately losin’ it on someone who is just tryin’ to deliver a package.

  I look down at my power pad and sigh. Of course this little box requires a signature. I knock gently on the door, both cringin’ and holdin’ my breath, hopin’ I don’t immediately hear a wailin’ baby go off inside like a your day’s about to get a hell of a lot worse alarm.

  Luckily, no tiny child cries come out of the open windows beside the door, so when I hear footsteps approachin’, I relax a little. Only one more package to deliver after this one, and then I’m done with this shift and the stretch of torture that preceded it.

  I’ve been pullin’ doubles for ten days straight, mostly because my prick of a boss insinuated that if I didn’t, she’d make my life a livin’ hell. I’m tryin’ to save up enough to move out on my own, and Sweetgreen, Georgia, ain’t exactly teemin’ with great job opportunities, so I plastered on a smile when she practically gave me no choice, and I’ve been runnin’ myself ragged ever since.

  But I’m about to have three glorious days off in a row. I have big plans for eatin’, sleepin’, and maybe a little bar hoppin’ over in Colletville with my friends. I’m ready to dip my toe in the pool of hotties I hope exists in the city that’s about an hour away from here. It’s time to let loose and make some bad decisions in the form of drinks that taste like Kool-Aid, and dicks that know how to do a Southern woman right.

  The dirt-streaked door in front of me opens slightly, and a lined face peeks out at me through the crack. “Yes?” a frail elderly voice asks.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. I have a package for Ms. Jonay.”

  “That’s me, dear.”

  “Perfect, I’ll just need your signature here, ma’am,” I tell her as I hold the power pad out to her and point at the line that needs her John Hancock with the stylus.

  The dirty tan door opens wider as Ms. Jonay reaches for the electronic pad, and that’s when I notice the biggest damn dog I’ve ever seen in my life. Okay, maybe it’s not the tallest. I saw a wolfhound once when I was little, and that thing was tall as hell, but this dog is so ripped it has to be some mix of Rottweiler and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. I swear to hell, if this thing pulls The Rock’s signature look and raises an eyebrow at me, I wouldn’t be even the tiniest bit surprised.

  The door swings open more as Ms. Jonay takes the power pad in hand while simultaneously blockin’ her leg in front of the dog, but I can tell by the look on its face that a cryin’ baby at this house is gonna be the least of my problems. This massive four-legged beast is about to charge to the front of the line of FML problems I’m currently dealin’ with.

  I don’t know what it is about the juiced-up dog that sets off alarm bells, but I know I have fractions of a second to get out of bone-crushin’ range of those jaws, or else I’m gonna be on the five o’clock news.

  With a growl, the dog shoves past Ms. Jonay, and I chuck the package at the dog’s face just as he lunges for me. Ms. Jonay shouts out a “hey” in objection to the move, but I’m too busy spinnin’ and leapin’ off the porch to pay it any mind.

  Time slows down as though I’m in some action flick and the audience needs to see everythin’ that’s about to happen, frame by frame. I spot my work truck at the end of what now seems like an endless stretch of yard, and I just know I’m not gonna make it to the safety of that bad boy in time.

  To my right is one of those long metal dumpster trailer things that people park on the side of a house when they’re doin’ construction and have a big ol’ pile of shit to throw away. I automatically aim for that instead. If I can haul myself up and over the rim, my limbs might stay intact and there will be no conveniently recorded evidence from some neighbor’s doorbell cam of me screamin’ bloody murder as I get mauled by Dwayne “The Dog” Johnson.

  I sprint like I’m goin’ for gold and internally scream at my legs that if they like bein’ attached to my body, they better pick up the damn pace. I clear the yard faster than I thought I could, and I leap for the top edge of the dumpster just as the beast leaps for me.

  There’s no snarlin’ or warnin’ growls. The thing just comes for me like a bullet. Silent but deadly will never mean the same thing to me for as long as I live. I can feel hot, evil dog breath on the skin of my legs as I pull myself up, my arms strainin’ as I hold on for dear life and hike up my knees to my chest, hopin’ I don’t get a chunk taken out of me.

  Shit, why did I wear the uniform shorts today? Oh, right, because it’s hotter than hell’s sauna out here.

  Miraculously, teeth don’t sink into my calf, but they do catch on the heel of my sneaker, and my shoe is yanked off painfully hard, wrenchin’ me back.

  Oh hell no. Medley Bell’s not goin’ down like this!

  I hold onto the top lip of the dumpster for al
l that I’m worth and just get my legs up and over as the beast spits my shoe from its mouth and tries to leap for me again. He can jump way damn higher than I thought. My plan quickly goes from hangin’ on the side of the dumpster to droppin’ my ass right into it in order to avoid this fucker snappin’ on my limb like it’s low hangin’ fruit.

  The pile inside of the dumpster is pretty high, so I land in it with an oomph that steals the breath out of my lungs as my ass comes down hard on the pile of construction trash. Lookin’ around, it seems that whoever rented this thing is doin’ a bathroom remodel, because there’s a nasty ass brown-ringed toilet in here, pieces of moldy sheetrock, and a whole pile of who the fuck knows under all that.

  Shit. I’ll have to ask my mama if I’m up on my tetanus shot and if bathin’ in bleach is bad for the skin.

  “Baby won’t hurt you!” Ms. Jonay shouts at me as she hobbles her old ass my way.

  This is the damn baby?

  “Are you bat shit crazy?” I shout up, inwardly cringin’ as I get to my feet, my now shoeless foot steppin’ on somethin’ tepid and soggy.

  The mute evil dog continues to show off its Olympic high jumpin’ skills like the damn thing has a trampoline under it that rockets him higher and higher with each attempt. I can see the top of his head every time he jumps, like a crazy-ass kangaroo ready to fight me.

  “Mind your language,” Ms. Jonay snaps at me with more vigor than she’s shown to the fact that her rabid animal is doin’ all it can to rip me to shreds.

  “Mind your damn dog,” I snap back as I peer over the top of the dumpster, and she narrows her eyes at me with her hands on her hips.

  “If you hadn’t run, you’d be fine. You triggered Baby’s prey drive,” she defends, and I stare at the fragile lookin’ old lady, completely gobsmacked.

  Is this woman serious?

  When I press my arm over the top to hoist myself up, Dwayne “The Dog” Johnson lunges for me again, and spittle dots my arms as he snaps for me, just to remind me of how close he’s gettin’.

  “Can you just get Baby away from me?” I shout frantically.

  We can discuss the merits of victim blamin’ when this fucker’s been caged, but if it can somehow get in here with me, I’m a goner. I can see that truth plain as day in its murderous hackles.

  Ms. Jonay, who clearly has several screws loose, starts cooin’ at the dog. I have no idea what she’s even sayin’ because I’m too busy tryin’ to come up with a plan B since this dumpster may not remain a safe haven for too much longer.

  “I’ll have you know that I’m gonna call and complain. You hit my Baby, and if the porcelain doll in that package is broken, I’m demandin’ that it comes out of your paycheck,” Ms. Jonay yells at me as she finally gets a hold of the beast’s collar and tries to tug him back toward the front door.

  Her arms look like they’re gonna pop out of their sockets as she tries to wrestle with the dog. Anger builds inside of me at her callous words, and I momentarily find myself daydreamin’ about the four-legged steroid turnin’ on her and showin’ her how unfittin’ a name like Baby really is.

  I glare at her and try to calm the black that creeps into the edges of my vision as she struggles to pull Baby back into her house. Adrenaline and outrage pump through my veins, and as soon as she and her psycho dog are back in the house, I flip them both off.

  “I saw that!” she yells from the other side of the door.

  “Good, you damn loon!” I shout back, and I can practically hear her dialin’ numbers on her phone already so she can do her best to get me fired for this.

  What sucks worst of all is that my bitch of a boss just might do it. She’s a damn sadist, and it really depends on how short-handed she is when corporate reaches out to her with the complaint. I’m doin’ doubles now because she just ran off six other drivers, so maybe that will work in my favor.

  Maybe not, though.

  I shoot scathin’ looks at the house and its occupants as I wait a few minutes before I cautiously climb out of the dumpster. You’d think the lack of noise would make me feel better, but that dog moved so silently before that I keep feelin’ like it’s gonna come around a corner for round two and catch me by surprise.

  Haulin’ my ass over the side, I manage to climb down usin’ the metal niches and land ungracefully on my feet. Thankfully, the old bat dropped my power pad and stylus close to where my half-shredded shoe is, so I guess I have that to be grateful for. I scoop everythin’ up and hobble back toward my truck, doin’ my darndest to ignore the soggy sock situation. I don’t wanna know.

  I lock myself in my truck, and with shaky hands, I reach for my water and chug half of it down. I look at the house where Ms. Jonay is starin’ at me from her window with a phone pressed to her ear. I clench my teeth.

  I have some scrapes on my palms and a little blood on the back of my calf and heel, probably from a tooth, but it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. I spend exactly one second debatin’ about callin’ my boss, Patricia, before dismissin’ it. I called her for help with a flat tire a month ago, and her response was, “You have two legs, don’t ya?” She couldn’t care less about anythin’ other than our deliverin’ packages on time and the bonus she gets for it.

  I pour a little water on my leg and hands, not carin’ about the splatters that end up on the rubber floor mats of the truck, while makin’ a note to also ask my mama about when I got my last rabies shot. I should probably ask my daddy to pour some of Uncle Tim’s moonshine on everythin’ just to kill off any germs too. That damn stuff is pure alcohol. Uncle Tim says it’s why he’s in such good shape—he’s always disinfectin’ his insides.

  Spinnin’ around in the driveway, I purposely floor the gas, makin’ my tires spin and kick up dirt in her yard. I may be twenty-eight years old, but that doesn’t mean I can’t throw a respectable hissy fit every once in a while, especially when it’s deserved.

  Gettin’ back on the road, I can’t stop grindin’ my teeth for at least a couple of miles. I hate my job. I know lots of people feel the same, but damn, when I was a little girl, deliverin’ packages for Swift Shipping Services and makin’ minimum wage definitely wasn’t on my When I Grow Up poster board.

  And sure enough, just to add curdled cream to my tea, my dash lights up as my phone rings from the holder that’s mounted on the vent.

  Work Calling

  I swear inwardly before swipin’ to accept the call. I don’t even get a word in before Patricia is hollerin’ my ear off. I try not to listen too much, but her shrill voice doesn’t make that easy.

  “We had a customer call to complain, Medley! Ms. Jonay is not happy. She threatened to call corporate. Said you assaulted her and her dog. I talked her down, of course, but she was this close to speakin’ with the sheriff. You’re lucky I got her to settle for a write-up on your record.”

  My hands clench on the steerin’ wheel. “A write-up? It wasn’t my damn fault! Her crazy ass dog lunged for me, ready to take a bite out of my ass! I had to run and jump into a dumpster to get away from the thing!”

  “Medley, the customer’s always right,” Patricia reprimands, her tone not leavin’ any room to argue.

  “Yeah, except when they’re wrong,” I sass back. “It’s me who should be callin’ the sheriff. I could report the dog attack and get her ass in trouble.”

  “Ms. Jonay says you were the one who instigated it, throwin’ the package at the poor elderly woman. You made the dog attack you.”

  “That’s not true!”

  Patricia ignores me. “This is the fourth write-up on your record, Medley,” she reminds me. “Which means you’re just one more away from gettin’ fired.”

  I seethe, my vision goin’ black with anger. If I gripped the steerin’ wheel any harder, I’d break the damn thing. Automatically, one of my hands comes up to the necklace of stones around my neck.

  I’ve worn this thing since Mama gave it to me in the first grade, with a few chain replacements along the way. It’s a neckla
ce of small river stones, and Mama always encouraged me to touch the stones to help ground myself. I run my thumb and fingers over the smooth surfaces as I count out three deep breaths until the blackness recedes and I can think straight again.

  “You hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” I grit out.

  She knows damn well I need this job too much to quit. She also knows that I’m bluffin’ about callin’ the cops. Sheriff Early hates my guts, ever since he found me up in Docky Rocks dancin’ topless on the table while his sweet innocent daughter was at the bar. He thinks I’m a bad influence, even though his daughter is a grown-ass woman and hasn’t been innocent since she grew into her trainin’ bra in grade school.

  That’s the problem with small towns: people know too much shit about you. That’s why I was glad when my daddy got a job in South Carolina right before I went into middle school. It was a fresh start for a bit, and then I went off to Arkansas State University for college, which was another much needed start over. Of course, that ended with no degree, a pile of student loans, and a shitty experience, but that’s neither here nor there.

  But ever since I moved back years ago, I’ve been tryin’ to get out from under my roots in Sweetgreen and dealin’ with bitchy Patricia and Chip-on-the-Shoulder Sheriff Early. Just great.

  “You done with your packages?” Patricia asks, because the woman just can’t ever quit.