Grave Decisions (Hellgate Guardians Book 3) Read online

  “I got one more.”

  She hums. “Hurry up with your shift. You get a package out late, and I’ll have no choice but to give you that last write-up, Medley.”

  I swear, this woman is the devil. She’s perfectly happy to overlook that I’m doin’ her and her hateful mouth a favor by workin’ this shift today. If she fires me, no packages are gettin’ delivered on time, but that seems to have slipped her mind. Again.

  I take a deep breath, because as much as I’d like to call her bluff and tell her she can kick rocks, I need the money. “Yes, ma’am,” I concede, hatin’ myself a little more every day that I put up with this crap.

  She hangs up without another word, and I let out a string of curses includin’ what she could stick up her ass and pull out on Sunday. Spoiler, it ain’t a Bible.

  I realize, in my haste to get the hell out of dodge, I haven’t checked the address of my last package of the day. Usually, I wait a bit in the warehouse and map out all my destinations for the day so I can be as efficient as possible, but today, Patricia was moanin’ at me to get goin’, so I didn’t have the time to plan it all out.

  I park on the side of the road real quick and scrabble to the back of my truck to grab the last package. It’s a big damn box, but luckily, it ain’t too heavy. I shift it over so I can read the address, and then frown at the unfamiliar road. I know all the streets around Sweetgreen—it’s one of the only boons to havin’ this job. I know all the shortcuts and every location around, but I’ve never heard of this place.

  Snaggin’ my phone from the holder, I pop in the address to my GPS, and my jaw drops at the location. It’s way out in BFE, on some street I’ve never even heard of. It’s about a spit’s toss away from the Okefenokee Swamp, and the recipient is someplace called Hairy Dog Tavern. I thought I knew every bar in town, but I guess not.

  Accordin’ to my GPS, it’s gonna take me thirty-four minutes to get there, and this package is due in...thirty-two minutes.

  “Well, that most certainly puts me up shit creek without a paddle, and Lord knows I’m not a good swimmer.”

  Peachy. Just peachy.

  2

  I haul ass back up to the driver’s seat and hit the pedal to the metal. There’s a damn governor on this truck that makes it so it can’t go over sixty, which means I’m gonna be cuttin’ it real damn close to deliverin’ this package on time.

  I really can’t afford to tempt fate with this whole firin’ thing, so I can’t be even a minute late gettin’ this package dropped off and scanned before the time’s up. Swift Shipping Services doesn’t give a Georgia peach about anythin’ other than deliverin’ packages on time.

  Patricia has had it out for me since our company’s mechanic, Bob Grace, winked at me one day. It’s common knowledge that Patricia has had a lady boner for him for years, and she doesn’t take kindly to competition. Not that I’d ever touch the pot-bellied, gapped-tooth misogynist. Not in a million years.

  I race down the highway, cuttin’ off cars and takin’ as many shortcuts that I know about, pushin’ the truck and its speed restrictor all the way to the max.

  Good thing I don’t have any more packages in the back because I have to make some jerky turns and tire-squealin’ stops that would definitely send boxes slidin’ all over the damn place.

  I take a quick moment to curse Ms. Jonay to a future filled with nothin’ but broken porcelain dolls as I wipe sweat from my brow. I turn the vent in the truck on high, but it just blows more hot air, and I quickly shut it off.

  SSS may value on-time delivery, but they certainly don’t value human life as they do their best to cook drivers to a crispy well-done on a regular basis thanks to the lack of air-conditionin’ in their trucks. So from seven a.m. until whenever I get done deliverin’ hundreds of packages every night, I’m sweatin’ worse than a hooker in church, because this thing only has a vent.

  Luckily for me, their hideous dark purple uniforms are fairly good at hidin’ the sweat spots I regularly sport. I reach over and let my door slide open. A strand of my mint green hair is pulled out of my messy bun by the whippin’ wind that fills the cab of the truck. It’s technically illegal to drive with it open, but since I prefer not to know what it feels like to be bacon cookin’ in the skillet, I ignore that little rule.

  I tuck the piece back into the elastic that tames my windblown strands. I can’t wait to get home tonight and pull this tousled bun out. I have hair down to my butt, and between the heavy bun and the sweatin’, I usually end my shifts with a headache that’s immediately made better when I let my hair down so my scalp ain’t screamin’ at me.

  I try not to think about the way I’ll style it to go out this weekend. Or the way I hope some charmer will wrap it around his hand as he does me right and makes sure I have at least two orgasms before he passes out on top of me. I’m gonna make sure I enjoy my three-day break. But first, I gotta take care of this package.

  My gray eyes constantly dart over to the clock on the dash as I speed down the highway, and I watch as I run closer and closer to the cut-off delivery time.

  Twenty minutes left.

  Ten.

  Five.

  By the time I hit the dirt road with Okefenokee ahead, the heavy swamp air is flowin’ around me and the sun has already dipped down to kiss the earth, givin’ my drop-off time a run for its money.

  I don’t even give myself time to look at the run-down, dank bar ahead. I slam to a jerky stop, dirt kickin’ up from under the tires, and jump out of the truck as soon as I throw the gear into park, grab the big box, and double check my power pad is still in the holder on my belt.

  It’s not until I’m sprintin’ toward the bar’s door that I remember I’m still missin’ a shoe. A fact that becomes woefully apparent when I run up the wooden stairs and suffer my second attack of the day.

  This time, it’s not a dog, but a random stick that suddenly falls for no good reason from where it was leanin’ against the dilapidated exterior wall of the bar entrance. Unable to dodge the surprise ambush, my foot lands right on it. I’m not as lucky as I was with Baby, and what appears to be a detached, segmented broom handle somehow slices into my tender arch.

  I hiss and struggle to keep my ass from kissin’ the ground. I barely catch myself on the wall of the bar, somehow not droppin’ the large package in my arms, and glare down at my assailant. It rolls toward me as though it’s comin’ for more, and I bend down and snatch it up.

  First the dog and now some mop reject is startin’ shit. Today is not my day.

  I ignore the twinge of pain in my poor foot and shove the bar door open, unwillin’ to spend precious minutes I don’t have assessin’ the damage. I limp as I make my way into the bar, and I have to use the broom handle to help me walk as I balance the package in my other arm. The dimness inside forces me to squint around to see. As soon as I spot the bar, I make a beeline for it, hobblin’ worse than Ms. Jonay.

  The bar is full, and I hear the rumble of voices, but I ignore them all as I weave my way through the tables until I squeeze my butt between two patrons sittin’ on stools at the bar.

  “’Scuse me!” I call, wavin’ over the bartender like a crazy person.

  The gruff man looks over at me from where he’s wipin’ glasses with a dishrag. “Yeah?”

  I heft up the large package in my arms to show him. “Got a delivery. Who can sign for me?”

  He narrows his eyes on me. “In the back,” he says after a long pause before givin’ me a dismissive jerk of his head.

  “Can’t you just sign?” I ask, exasperated.

  He looks me dead in the eye. “No.”

  I huff out a breath and whirl around, hurryin’ as fast I can in the direction he indicated. I look down worriedly at the watch on my wrist. One minute left. “Shit.”

  “’Scuse me, pardon me,” I repeat as I rush past customers and make it to the back. In a shadowed hallway, I find a closed door that reads Office, and I rush inside, not even botherin’ to knock.
/>
  “Pardon for the intrusion, can you sign this?” I blurt out as soon as I open the door, my momentum not stoppin’ as my knees hit the desk, and I drop the package on top.

  I already have my power pad whipped out and the stylus outstretched, ready for the man sittin’ behind the desk to sign.

  He blinks at me, like he can’t quite believe I just burst into his office.

  “So sorry, but I’m real late. Can you please?”

  The man pauses and purses his lips, but after I wiggle the power pad at him some more, he finally drops the pen that he was holdin’ and takes the stylus from me. He signs the damn thing slower than a grandma with a wooden leg. I’m so worked up that I’m hoppin’ a bit from foot to foot, only to realize that this move hurts and also makes it look like I have to pee, so I stop immediately. And he’s still signin’.

  “You done yet?” I ask in a rush.

  This just makes him look up at me all imperial like. “I have a long name,” he says with a slight curve of his mouth before goin’ back to sign some more.

  Lord have mercy.

  I blow out a breath, tossin’ sweaty hair strands away from my face as I do my best not to tap my foot with impatience.

  Finally, he finishes. “Here,” he says as he hands the stylus and power pad back to me.

  “Thank you so much,” I say with a relieved sigh.

  That was a damn close one. I thought for sure that I—

  “Shit on a piss paddle,” I curse as I look down at the time recorded on my power pad.

  My blood pounds in my ears as I read the time. I’m two minutes too late.

  Two bloomin’ minutes.

  I don’t know if the man at the desk was tryin’ to get my attention for very long, but by the time my mind can register the fact that he’s speakin’, I look up at him numbly. “Huh?”

  The man cocks his head like he’s studyin’ me or somethin’. I notice for the first time that he has sunny blond hair, and he’s covered in black and gray floral tattoos over the exposed expanses of his toned arms. I’m a sucker for tattoos. And toned bodies. And that stern face he’s givin’ me right about now. Yep, he’s definitely my type. Too bad I’m not meetin’ him under better circumstances, or I’d for sure be puttin’ on the moves.

  “I said, do you normally barge into people’s offices without knocking?” he asks with an annoyed glare.

  “Oh, uh, no,” I say, but then I sit down in the chair behind me, completely ignorin’ the fact that I wasn’t invited to do so at all. One look from him tells me that he’s not too happy about this, but I don’t care so much about my manners right now. My foot hurts, and my mind is whirlin’ faster than a tornado.

  I’m gonna be fired.

  “Fired?”

  My eyes swing over to the man again, because I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken aloud. I hold up the power pad still in my hand and wiggle it back and forth. “I’m two minutes late with the delivery. My boss already told me, one more write-up and I’m done for.”

  “Ah.”

  He doesn’t say more, and I feel hot tears well up in my stormy eyes. “I really needed this job, you know?” I tell him on a sniff as though we’re good friends and not the complete strangers that we really are.

  His own eyes widen, which I realize are the exact shade of butterscotch—my favorite candy. “What is happening right now?” he mumbles, both annoyed and wary.

  The first tear leaks down my cheek. “It’s that damn bitch, Patricia!” I say, and I plop both the stick and the power pad onto the edge of his desk. His gaze follows the movement before flickin’ back up to me. I drag my injured foot up onto my opposite knee and yank off my sock to find a small gash where the stick cut into my skin.

  Takin’ the top part of my sock, which still looks relatively blood and muck free, I wipe at the blood. Across from me, the man leans over so he can see.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I tripped over your damn stick out front,” I say, still tryin’ to clean myself up as much as one can with only the fabric of a dirty sock. “Damn, that’s a lot of blood.”

  “Stop that,” he snaps before I hear him yank open a drawer. In the next second, he shoves a box of tissues and a flask toward me.

  “Thanks,” I say, pickin’ up the flask with my free hand and poppin’ the top off with my thumb. I tip it back and chug.

  The taste hits me, and the stuff is so bitter and rancid that I nearly spit it all out. Luckily, I’m a lady who knows how to swallow the bitter pills that life hands her.

  “Ugh, that stuff tastes like it’s been chewed up and spit out,” I say with a grimace.

  He cocks a blond brow. “It’s an acquired taste, but I meant that for your wound,” he drawls. “The alcohol will help sterilize it.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Sheepishly, I tip the clear liquid onto my foot, immediately lettin’ out a hiss as it meets the cut. I put the flask on the desk and grab one of the tissues, and I use it to dab at my foot until I get all the blood cleaned off. It’s not so bad to look at now.

  “You cut it open on your heel as well,” he says, still leanin’ over to give his large, well-muscled self a better vantage point.

  “No, that’s not from the stick. That’s from The Rock. He bit me on the delivery before this.”

  “Someone bit you?”

  “Yeah. Well, no. It was a dog,” I explain as I clean up the small puncture wound on my heel too. Once that’s done, I debate about whether or not to put my mostly defiled sock back on. I suppose I can’t just walk around barefoot though. There’s no tellin’ what bacteria is hangin’ around on the floors of this dingy bar, but the sock ain’t lookin’ much more sanitary.

  “So a dog named Rock bit you on your prior delivery, and then you came here and tripped on a stick, wounding that same foot, and now you’re going to be fired because you delivered this package late,” he says, like he needs to summarize my shitty day.

  “Yep.”

  I hold up the bloodied and alcohol-dampened tissue, waggin’ it around a bit until he sighs like he’s put out and then grabs the small waste basket from under his desk. I toss the tissue into it and then decide to just pull my now holey sock back on before I get to my feet.

  “Sorry for intrudin’,” I say as I get up. “It’s been a day.”

  “I can see that,” he says, his eyes softenin’ slightly. I do an internal sigh. He really is handsome. I glance down at his finger and see that it’s weddin’ band free, and I’m shocked that someone hasn’t scooped him up yet.

  Gatherin’ myself up, I grab the power pad and stylus, shovin’ them back into the holster before I pick up the long stick. “I’m keepin’ this,” I say sternly, because it’s not up for debate. “I tripped over this thing and came to bodily harm, so it’s only fair.”

  His eyebrow arches again, and I swear I see the corner of his lip twitch. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, that’s so,” I say with one hand on my cocked hip. “You’re lucky I’m not makin’ threats to sue.”

  “We have insurance,” he says drily.

  “Well...still. I’m sure I’m savin’ you mountains of paperwork and such.”

  There’s that lip twitch again. It makes my stomach do a little flip, because a hot, stern man with a teasin’ smirk really gets me. “Of course,” he says smoothly.

  I nod primly and then turn to go, stick in hand. I should want to burn this thing in a campfire since it not only tripped me and cut my foot, but also added to me bein’ late. Yet I feel attached to it, like it’s a hard-won battle trophy that left me wounded but stronger. Well, I don’t know about the stronger part, but wounded is right.

  I don’t even know how I got a damn cut from it to begin with. The wood is charcoal gray, with some silvery metal bands and caps on each end. There’s no jagged pieces in sight. I take in the details of the thing, now that I’m not in such a hurry. It looks too fancy to be part of some mundane cleanin’ apparatus like I originally thought. Definitely
not a broken mop.

  I pause at the doorway to look over my shoulder, and I give my new stick a friendly stroke. “Have a nice evenin’, Mister…”

  “Alder,” he replies as his eyes move from my rather inappropriate stick gesture and then back up to my face. Heat banks in his honey depths, and a little thrill shoots through me.

  “Well, you have a nice evenin’, Mr. Alder,” I say demurely as I walk out the door of his office. It’s not his fault I was fired, even if he does have a long name and his bar did leave this stick outside, just ready to trip up passersby. Besides, he’s hot. I don’t burn my bridges with the hot ones. My mama didn’t raise a fool.

  The further I get from the man’s office, the further my mood sinks. I’m gonna get fired. Sure enough, like she’s got some kind of radar, I feel the phone in my pocket vibrate.

  I pull it out and balance on one foot as I stop to see Work Calling blink on my screen. That’ll be Patricia ready to fire my ass. She’ll probably do it with a smile in her voice, too.

  I purse my lips as I send the call to voicemail. The reality of my new situation settles on my shoulders like a heavy weight. With a sigh, I start to head out, but I only take about five more steps toward the exit when I stop.

  Where am I goin’?

  I’m gonna hobble out to my truck, return it to the warehouse, get fired, and then what? Go home to cry in my pillow? Maybe go try to drown my sorrows somewhere? I look around at the strange bar I’m standin’ in sans one shoe.

  Maybe a cold one and a little more time in this nicely air-conditioned establishment is exactly what I need to face the oncomin’ crap that I have waitin’ for me as soon as I walk out the door of this place.

  So instead of hobblin’ out to face the world and its shit, I turn on my uninjured heel and limp right up to the bar. I plop my butt down on the only open stool before I raise a finger to the bartender. “Gimme a mint julep, my man.” I pause for a moment. “You know what? And keep ’em comin’.”

  Screw Patricia. She can come get the truck if she wants it. I’m done, and I’m ready for lots and lots of alcohol to wash the taste of this day right out of my mouth.