Natural Born Killers (Sick Boys Book 3) Read online

  NATURAL BORN KILLERS

  SICK BOYS BOOK 3

  LUCY SMOKE

  Copyright © 2021 by Lucy Smoke

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,

  including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except

  for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Heather Long and Your Editing Lounge

  Cover Design: Dee Garcia at Black Widows Designs

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  1. Avalon

  2. Dean

  3. Avalon

  4. Dean

  5. Avalon

  6. Avalon

  7. Dean

  8. Avalon

  9. Avalon

  10. Avalon

  11. Avalon

  12. Avalon

  13. Avalon

  14. Dean

  15. Avalon

  16. Avalon

  17. Dean

  18. Avalon

  19. Avalon

  20. Dean

  21. Avalon

  22. Avalon

  23. Dean

  24. Avalon

  25. Avalon

  26. Dean

  27. Avalon

  28. Dean

  29. Avalon

  30. Avalon

  31. Avalon

  32. Dean

  33. Avalon

  34. Dean

  35. Avalon

  36. Avalon

  37. Avalon

  38. Dean

  39. Avalon

  40. Avalon

  41. Dean

  42. Avalon

  43. Dean

  44. Dean

  45. Avalon

  46. Avalon

  47. Avalon

  48. Avalon

  49. Dean

  50. Avalon

  Epilogue

  THANK YOU FOR READING

  About the Author

  Also By Lucy Smoke / Lucinda Dark

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Hey friend! Welcome back to the world of the Sick Boys. If you’ve made it

  this far then you know what to expect in this little note—a warning.

  As in the previous books in this series, Natural Born Killers is a Dark

  Romance. That means that if events, actions, and themes common in dark

  romance are triggering for you then this may not be the book for you. NBK is

  just as dark, if not more so, than the previous books in the Sick Boys series.

  This book may be a little more psychologically fucked up, so if that’s

  something that upsets or triggers you, again, this may not be the book for

  you.

  This is the last book in Avalon and Dean’s story and I want to thank

  everyone for coming along with me on this ride. These two assholes have

  been a major turning point in my life and in my career. They’re violent and

  fucked up and I love them very much because of that. I hope you enjoy

  Avalon’s journey of revenge and romance.

  LAST WARNING: If you are sensitive to or offended by any such themes

  that are common in dark romances or you are easily triggered, this book may

  not be the best fit for you. Please keep that in mind and read responsibly.

  “I threw myself to the wolves, only to learn the tenderness of their howl, and

  loyalty in their blood.”

  Isra Al-Thibeh

  PROLOGUE

  AVALON

  The soft whirring of tires turning over pavement lifts me out of the darkness.

  It feels like several tons of concrete are sitting over my eyes as I fight to open

  them. Once I do, I find that my forehead is pressed against the cool glass of a

  car window. Blinking rapidly, I sit up. The world is foggy; I can't seem to

  bring anything directly into focus even with my eyes wide open. Trees fly past

  outside and I look to see who the driver is.

  "Dean?"

  His head turns. "Hey," he says, his voice deep and familiar and yet, at the

  same time—strange. "You're awake."

  "Where are we?" A hard pounding ricochets through my skull. I put a

  palm to the side of my head and groan. "What happened?"

  "Don't worry," he replies, looking back through the windshield. "It's

  going to be okay. We're almost there."

  "There?" I repeat, confused. "Where are we going?"

  He doesn't answer, and that doesn’t sit right with me.

  "Dean?" Something hits me. We’re in the Mustang, but Abel isn’t here. I

  feel around, my hands cold and shaking. The aching in my skull isn't going

  away. Instead, it’s getting worse. It feels like red hot spikes are being shoved

  through my ear holes and into my brain. "Ugh." I lower my face to my knees,

  breathing rapidly through my mouth and nose as I try to bear through the

  pain. What’s wrong with me? Why can't I remember getting in the car? Why

  does everything still feel so fuzzy?

  "Dean," I say through clenched teeth, "where are we going? Why are we

  in Abel's Mustang? Where is Abel? Where's everyone else?"

  Dean turns his head towards me, though his hands remain gripping the

  wheel. "It's going to be okay," he repeats.

  A chill rushes down my spine and irritation flares to life. I slam my fist

  against the dashboard. "Stop fucking saying that,” I snap. "Just answer me!"

  "You're hurt, Avalon," he says, cool faced. Not Ava. Not baby. Avalon. I

  turn my head and stare at him for a long moment, but he doesn’t look at me.

  I’m in pain—it’s obvious—and he’s not asking me if I’m okay. No, he’s not

  asking—he’s telling me that I will be. Maybe I’d believe it if his voice shook,

  if he showed some sort of emotion, but he seems as cool as ever. And that's

  when I know. This isn't real. He isn't real. Whoever this man is, he most

  certainly is not Dean Carter.

  My hand shoots for the glove compartment and I rip it open, reaching in

  for the gun I know is always stashed there. My hand meets empty air. I jerk

  my head down. There’s nothing in there, not even papers or old receipts like

  there normally is. It’s just … empty. Slowly, I lift my head and stare at the

  man driving the car. "Who the hell are you?"

  He glances my way finally and sighs. "I thought you would feel more

  comfortable with this face," the man says.

  Chills chase down my spine. "That's not an answer," I reply.

  "You should get comfortable," he says, ignoring me. "We'll be there

  soon."

  "You still haven't told me where we're going," I grit out.

  "I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet, Avalon."

  I hate it when he says my name with that face. Whoever this man is, he

  isn't right. There is not a single ounce of emotion in him. No fear. No anger.

  No concern. Just a stillness, a coldness I’ve only ever experienced from one

  other human being before.

  His body is like a puppet. His movements are jerky as if he’s being played

  and pulled around by strings. I want to cut them. I want to shoot him in the

  head and see what comes out. Will it be blood? Or will he be as hollow
and

  empty as his words?

  My breath comes faster. The pain grows fiercer. My eyes dart to the door

  handle. I reach for it.

  "Don't," he warns.

  "Don't what?" I ask sharply. "I want out. Get me the hell out of here."

  As I fight through the agony in my head, a new one spreads through my

  chest. Breathing becomes harder. My heart squeezes, pumping so slowly it’s

  as if it’s moving tar through my veins and arteries instead of blood. What’s

  happening to me? Where the hell am I? Is this a dream?

  "It's not a dream," the man says. Had he read my mind or had I asked that

  question aloud? I don't know. I can't even hear myself think anymore.

  "Fuck," I whimper. It hurts. I want it to stop. Stop hurting. Stop tearing

  me apart inside. I want it to stop. Stop. STOP!

  "It will," the man assures me.

  "Stop doing that!" I yell. My lungs squeeze with my panic. "Let me out!" I

  grab onto the door handle and yank. It doesn't move. I release it and punch

  the window. My bones feel like they've broken, but the glass remains

  unfractured. I’m not going to stop, though—not until I get out of this fucking

  car.

  "Avalon, you’ll hurt yourself before we even arrive. I recommend that you

  don't."

  "Shut the fuck up!" I scream. "I don't know who you are. I don't trust you

  and I hate that fucking face you're wearing!" I rear back and punch him.

  " Fuck !" I double over, cradling my fist in my hand. His face is like granite

  beneath the facade of human skin. Certainly harder than the glass.

  "Calm down," he says.

  I work through the pain. Unbuckling my seatbelt and sliding down in the

  passenger seat. I turn and put my feet against the window and start kicking.

  "Dean!" I scream his name. "Dean, get me out!"

  Suddenly, the dark trees outside begin to grow lighter. Sunlight peeks in

  through the branches. I shudder inside. The warmth in the car turns cold—

  like ice in my veins. The fake Dean turns his head towards me and stares in

  what appears to be shock. "Interesting," he murmurs.

  "What?" I look back at him, trying not to panic, but that’s all I feel right

  now. Panic. Horror. Fear. True fear. Where is the real Dean? Why isn’t he

  here? "What's interesting? What does that mean?"

  He looks down at me. "I thought you were ready," he says. "I guess not."

  I gape at him. "No fucking shit, Sherlock! Now, let me out."

  He hums and I feel the car decelerate. "It's time for you to wake up,

  Avalon."

  “What?” I blurt. I sit up straighter as something hard hits my back, like a

  hard metal surface, but when I glance at the seat, it’s normal—just a regular

  car seat. Nothing metal about it. I refocus on the fake Dean.

  The car rolls to a stop as more sunlight pours in through the trees on

  either side of us, and he turns to face me fully. "Wake. Up."

  I’m propelled out of the car by a force I can't see. My eyes slam shut and

  when I open them again, I’m not in the Mustang anymore. Instead, I’m on a

  rolling table. The hard metal surface, I absently realize. A bright light shines

  down on my face—not sunlight but a manufactured light—straight into my

  eyes. What the fuck? Memories come rushing back to me. Corina. Patricia.

  Them. The gun. Dean’s blood. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I’m not

  with Dean. Where is he?

  "She's awake!" someone yells, distracting me.

  "Increase the dose and put her back under,” someone else replies. “We're

  not done."

  The black fog that I'd fought my way free of before begins to seep into

  my mind once more. My lips part and I can feel how dry and cracked they

  are. "No..." I can't go back. I won't.

  "Shhh." Someone's fingers brush over my hair, smoothing it back from

  my face. "It's okay, Avalon," they say. "This is a good thing. You're awake,

  honey. You woke up. You'll wake up again."

  That’s the last I hear before the darkness rips me back into oblivion.

  Right back into hell.

  1

  AVALON

  15 YEARS OLD …

  “High or drunk?" The sound of Micki's voice causes me to lift my head

  and look her way. She stands at the end of the cracked driveway of Patricia's

  single wide in a pair of cut off shorts, a baggy t-shirt, and dollar store flip-

  flops that look one wrong step from snapping even under her slight stature.

  Has she lost weight? I wonder. If I comment, she'll just blow me off. It’s

  what she does. Hell, I can’t even be mad about it; I would too.

  "Neither," I tell her. "She's with Roger and a couple of his guys—fucking,

  probably."

  "Ah, well, guess that’s the life of an adult,” she says lightly.

  I snort and lower my head back to my knees, breathing deeply as I do so.

  I’m so fucking tired and hungry. Some ‘life’ Patricia leads. I have to believe

  that not every ‘adult’—if that’s even a term I’d use for my mother—is like

  her. Micki rolls her shoulders back and shoves her hands into the pockets on

  her ass before turning away. She takes two steps down the street, pauses, and

  glances over. "You coming or what?"

  I thought she'd never ask. I jump up from my spot and follow after her,

  knowing whatever she's got cooked up in that crazy brain of hers will be a

  welcome relief to waiting out Patricia's disgusting payment method. I kind of

  hope whatever Roger gives her will kill her this time. Sooner or later,

  something or someone will.

  Micki heads off down the road and I trail her, walking slower as I stare at

  the back of her head. It's only been a few months since I met the strange girl

  who lives a couple of miles up the road from the trailer park. Since then,

  we've formed a sort of distant friendship.

  From the night we met, she knows about my mom and my life. I know

  that she lives alone in a ranch house that's ten times nicer than the trailer. But

  it's weird— she's weird. She's always alone. No mention of any parents. I've

  never seen her at school—though I suppose since she's eighteen, she could

  have already graduated. Or maybe she’s just in one of the schools I’ve

  already been kicked out of.

  The fact is, I don't know anything about Micki except that she doesn't

  seem to mind my attitude. She doesn't judge me about Patricia when most

  would take one look at the drug-addicted stripper’s daughter and see nothing

  but the same. She’s pretty handy at teaching me to fight—far better than

  learning on my own, which has only gotten me a few cracked teeth, several

  bloody noses, and a few close calls with a broken limb—arm, leg, finger,

  didn’t matter. Street fighters went after everything they could get and they

  fought dirty. There is one thing that does bother me about Micki, though.

  She’s cool, older, and easy to hang with, but she’s got secrets. Weird ones.

  When we make it to her place, she hops up the back porch steps, and

  heads for the rear door, twisting the knob and swinging it open to head into

  the older kitchen with its cracked tiles and dated design. "Want something to

  eat?" she asks.

  I shrug and turn back to close the door. "Did you really leave your door
>
  unlocked?" I ask with a scoff. "You know someone might just break into your

  house and steal your shit. This isn't a great area."

  Micki snickers as she pops open the fridge and reaches inside. "It's not

  really breaking and entering if I left the door open," she replies. "And I don't

  care if they do."

  "You don't care if they take your stuff?" I scowl at her, wondering why

  the hell I spend my time with such a fucking weirdo. Who the hell just openly

  wants people to steal from them?

  Micki pulls a casserole dish out of the fridge and lifts the tinfoil over it

  before sniffing the contents. She wrinkles her nose and pivots towards the

  trash can, dumping it inside—glass pan and all. Like I said, a motherfucking

  weirdo. Next, she grabs a loaf of bread, yanks out a couple of pieces, and

  proceeds to make a PB&J—two, one for her and one for me. My stomach

  rumbles, telling me to keep my mouth shut about her strange habits and

  complete disregard for shit—as if none of it actually belongs to her and

  therefore, it doesn't warrant even a modicum of interest or care—and let her

  feed me. It might be the only thing I eat for a while.

  "Listen," Micki starts, "it's just stuff. Ain't nothing super special about it.

  Whatever gets broke or thrown away will be fixed or replaced … eventually."

  "Yeah, but what if you need it before that ‘eventually’ comes?" I can't

  help but ask.

  At the countertop, her movements still until she stops what she's doing

  completely and turns around to face me. "I don't need anything," she says.

  "And neither do you."

  I frown. Of course, we need shit, I think. We need to sleep and eat or else

  we'll die.

  As if she senses the direction of my thoughts, she smiles and waves the

  butter knife in her hand through the air before turning back to spread jelly

  over the bread slices. "I mean, sure we need the basic necessities," she says.

  "Water. Food. Sleep. But everything else is just window dressing. Everything

  else comes and goes. It was here before we came along for the most part and

  it’ll be here when we’re gone. Other than what we need for pure survival—

  everything else is just … dangerous.”

  Dangerous? I eye the back of her head. What the hell is going on in that

  strange mind of hers? What the hell does she mean?

  She continues working for a moment, reaching into the cabinets and