Wrong

  Copyright © 2015 by LP Lovell and Stevie J. Cole

  All rights reserved

  This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.

  Any opinions expressed in this book or solely those of the authors.

  Wrong

  Copyright ©2015 by LP Lovell and Stevie J. Cole

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of Stevie J. Cole.

  Editing: Ashley Mac Editing Services and Ellen Widom

  Photographs and model: Uncovered Models, Drew Truckle and Hannah Nichol Photography

  Cover Design: SM Piper

  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

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  The Authors

  This won’t be the first time I’ve killed someone, and it won’t be the last, so why is my heart pounding so damn hard right now?

  Most people might say that what I’m about to do makes me one sick fucker, but when someone slaughters your family, you, in turn, kill theirs. I’m doing this for revenge, pure and simple. Merciless vengeance, it’s just how it goes in my world: you use violence and power to enforce your rules. When you make a living illegally, you learn how easy it is to prosper from others’ fear, although not all bookies are as brutal as I am. Having a conscience is where other bookies fail. Brutality is the difference between making a few dollars and making a million. You cannot be weak and survive in this profession, and the moment someone no longer fears you, you’re fucked.

  I’m not fucking weak! I’m trying to psyche myself up, slightly pissed that I’m finding this harder to swallow than I thought I would. I know the only reason I’m still standing here with my pulse banging in my ears is because this particular situation involves a woman. You’d think it would be no problem to follow through with, seeing as how I don’t really have morals—right and wrong, I don’t play by those rules, I wasn’t raised to. Hell, I grew up in a house where arsenals were kept in every room “just in case.” I witnessed my first murder when I was only twelve. So I can’t understand why I’m conflicted right now. A soft moan and the thud of the headboard hitting the wall carries down the hall, and I shake those thoughts from my head.

  Marney and I press our backs to the wall. My heart is still thrashing around like a caged gorilla. I try to regulate my breathing, but it’s nearly impossible with all the adrenaline that’s flooding my system. I stare at the door. I want to utterly destroy Joe Campbell, I want him to be so miserable death is the only thing he has left to look forward to, and if this is the way I have to do it, so be it!

  There’s only one light on at the end of the hallway, and it’s just enough that I catch Marney make eye contact with me, then nod toward the door. I push away from the wall and kick the door in, startling the man and woman fucking on the bed. She shrieks and scrambles to her feet, covering herself with the sheets.

  The man jumps up. Taking a boxing stance, he throws a punch at me. I duck and pull the gun from my belt, cocking it as I aim directly at his head. He freezes and tosses his hands in the air. I narrow my gaze and realize this is not a middle-aged man. This is not Joe, which fucks everything up.

  “Shit! Where’s Joe?” I shout at the woman now cowering in the corner.

  “He’s not here,” she sobs. Her eyes fix on me, taking in each detail of my face.

  I glare at the man still frozen in front of me.

  “Don’t hurt us, please,” he grovels.

  “The safe is in the basement. There’s over a million dollars in there,” the woman frantically offers. “Take it! Take whatever Joe owes you,” she pleads, her voice trembling.

  “Shut up,” Marney shouts.

  I clench my jaw. “Oh, you’re gonna pay, sweetheart, but this debt can’t be paid in anything but blood.” I tilt my head to the side as her eyes focus on mine. She’s shaking and crying. “Your husband took something from me, and I’m going to take something from him.”

  I swing my gaze to the naked man and stalk toward him. “Too bad for you, you chose the wrong woman to fuck around with. Wrong place, wrong time.” I stop about three feet in front of him, point the gun at his face, and pull the trigger. His body jerks backwards and collapses to the floor with a thud.

  A shrill, drawn-out scream pierces the air, falling silent when the woman pulls in a large breath only to scream some more. I turn, the gun still raised, and she runs across the room toward the door. I go to pull back on the trigger, and I can’t. I really didn’t think it would be this hard to kill a woman.

  Marney catches her and slams her onto the ground, pressing her down by her throat. “It’s not personal. This is all for your husband.”

  “Please don’t kill me. I’m a mother...my boys...please!” she weeps.

  “I’ll make it quick. I promise.” His tone is vacant of any emotion, completely monotone and matter-of-fact.

  Headlights stream through the window, bouncing around the dark room, and she lets out another tortured cry. She fights, yanking and jerking. She bites Marney’s arm and I watch an animal-like scowl shoot over his face as he pulls his gun, shoves it against her temple, and BAM. She lies completely still. Marney wipes the blood splatter from his face with his sleeve. “Now what? Not as effective since we couldn’t tie the bastard up and make him watch, huh?”

  I shrug, leaning over and pulling up the man’s body. “Put them in the fucking bed.”

  Marney grunts as he pulls the woman from the floor and tosses her onto the mattress. I step back and look at the two bodies piled on the bed. I grab the woman’s blood soaked hair, lifting her face and dropping it by the man’s limp dick. “Open her mouth,” I tell Marney, laughing.

  “You’re fucking kidding, right?”

  “See what he thinks about walking in on this shit.” I can’t help but smile. This right here is beyond fucked up.

  Marney shrugs, parts the woman’s lips, and I push the flaccid cock into her mouth.

  We make our way down the stairs and let ourselves out the back door, walking through the woods for a good two miles in silence. When we come to the edge of the tree line, Marney grips my shoulder. “You did your pops right just then. He would be proud.”

  A run-down cab sputters up, the brakes squeaking as it comes to an abrupt stop. Richard hangs his hand out the window to signal that he’s alone. W
e climb in and Richard glances back at us in the rearview mirror. “Damn. You two look like you bathed in blood. What the fuck did you do?”

  “What had to be done,” I mumble, and slump down in the seat.

  I’m fucking wrong, and I know it.

  It’s one in the morning, and I’ve been on shift for twelve hours. I’m reaching my physical and emotional limit. I’ve had a night full of heart attacks, drunken injuries, and drug overdoses.

  I’m just about to call it a night when the doors to the ER crash open. The medics rush in a stretcher, and all I can see is blood, a lot of it.

  Dr. Phillips, one of the ER doctors, is running behind the team, shouting at various staff. “Multiple gunshot wounds!”

  “Devaux!” he yells at me. “Let’s go, keep his heart going until we can get to the operating room! Let’s move!” he barks frantically. I hop onto the gurney and place a knee on either side of his body. The gurney is rushed through the hospital corridors, doors flying open in our wake as a team of doctors and nurses work frantically to keep the man alive.

  I pump his chest rhythmically, trying to keep his heart from stopping, from giving up.

  We burst into the OR I hop off the gurney and check his pulse. Nothing.

  “He’s got no pulse!” I shout while the nurses hook him up to the monitors.

  People move like clockwork, everyone knowing their place and operating like a well-oiled machine. Clothing is cut from the man’s lifeless, bloodied body as a defibrillator is wheeled next to him.

  “Clear!” Dr. Phillips shouts, and holds the paddles on the patient’s chest. His back bows off the bed, his body contorting in shock.

  I stare at the flat green line on the monitor, marking his lifeless state.

  “Clear!”

  Again they shock him, and still nothing.

  Come on, live. Just fight a little harder, I think to myself.

  The doctor shocks him three more times to no avail.

  “Time,” Dr. Phillips says.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. “One twenty-two,” I call out.

  He’s pronounced dead, and everything stops. The fight is over, and we lost. It never gets any easier. I’ve been a resident in the ER here for nine months now. I’ve seen death on a daily basis—it’s part of the job—and still, the fragility of human life always surprises me. One minute someone can be absolutely fine, living their life, working their job, having a family, and the next...it can all be over. Life itself can be so fleeting. You’re promised nothing. And that’s hard to swallow at times.

  I became a doctor to save lives. And for every one that dies, there are ten more that are saved. It’s what makes this job so rewarding. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do in life. I decided to drop everything and leave my home in England to come here and study—to make a life for myself in America.

  I am living my dream, but that doesn’t mean this is easy. I feel like every life lost takes a part of my soul with it. I worry that there will come a day when it no longer affects me, when it no longer hurts. I am terrified of not feeling this pain, of feeling nothing, because the day I can watch someone die and not feel a thing means I no longer have a soul. I’m terrified of becoming a monster.

  I turn my back on the dead man. The frantic desperation that filled the room moments ago is now replaced by a resigned calm. Doctors and nurses remove equipment as a sheet is pulled over the man’s face. Pushing through the doors of the operating theatre, I head for the locker room. As my adrenalin drops, my legs start to feel like lead. I’m exhausted. When I reach the locker room, I take a minute to collect myself. That was a rough night.

  I yank my bloodied scrubs off and throw them in the laundry bin before I pull on my jeans and a hoodie. I grab my handbag and check my phone, which has three missed calls from my sister. I swear she doesn’t understand the concept of twelve-hour shifts. I send her a quick text saying that I’ll call her in the morning. I’m almost out the hospital doors. I can practically hear little angels singing as I catch a glimpse of the outside world. I’m so close.

  “Ria!”

  At the sound of my name, I freeze. Damn it. I turn around and meet the smiling face of my boyfriend, Euan. He has that perfect smile coupled with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes.

  Euan is a surgery resident. His father is the Chief of Surgery here at the University hospital. Let’s just say, he’s guaranteed a good job when he completes his residency. He is the typical American ideal of perfection. He’s everything a girl is told she should want in a man: driven, intelligent, attractive and kind to me. I’ve worked for years to get where I am, and, I guess, I want a certain life. Euan fulfills that vision.

  That may not sound romantic, but I don’t believe in fairy tales. Euan may not set me on fire, but there are more important things in life than passion. Life is about goals, and I didn’t travel halfway around the world to find passion. I did it to be the best, to achieve my dreams, and create the life I’ve always wanted.

  I smile wearily. He looks so perfectly put together- even after a twelve-hour shift he looks immaculate, and, well…I don’t. My hair is greasy and falling out of a messy bun. I have suitcases under my eyes right now, never mind bags, and I probably have various bodily fluids all over me. Nice.

  Regardless of how disgusting I must look, he leans in and places a chaste kiss on my lips. “How was your shift?” he asks.

  “Busy,” I reply in a clipped tone.

  I really don’t want to talk right now. My bed is calling my name.

  Luckily, he seems to get the message.

  “Well, I’ll let you go, but we’re still on for tomorrow night, right?”

  “Yeah, of course.” I smile and nod. “I’ll text you when I wake up.”

  He quickly kisses my cheek again and winks before walking away.

  At two in the morning, I finally get home. I jump in the shower and wash all the blood and death from my skin.

  My job is hard, but the longer I do it the more I learn that I have to let go of each day before moving on to the next. This is my routine: to cleanse myself of the day’s events.

  The scalding hot water soothes my aching muscles and clears my mind.

  I’m starving, but the prospect of making any real food is just not appealing. I quickly eat a cereal bar in preparation for the twelve-hour hibernation I plan to now have. I’m on shift again tonight, and if Friday nights are bad, then Saturday nights are hell.

  I’m unconscious as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  “He’s not gonna pay, Jude,” Richard argues.

  I twist in my chair, drumming my fingers over the wooden desk. “Oh, no. He’ll pay. No one doesn’t pay me.” I laugh, glancing Richard over.

  He’s thick, nothing but a muscle head, and he’s dumb as shit, but I don’t need brains in my lackeys; I need brute strength and looks that will make people piss their pants. Richard is just that—a complete mongoloid. It’s a family business I run. It has to be. Money, murder, and lies are all part of this business, and my family has been at it for going on three generations.

  I suck in a quick breath. “You’ll make sure he pays, right?”

  His mouth flips into a devious, anticipatory grin. “Yeah, of course.”

  “He’s a dumb college kid, he most likely thinks he knows statistics and thought he’d outsmarted me. Dumbass,” I mumble. “He won’t have the money. Just take something for collateral. Rough him up, and don’t give him more than three days to get me my money.” I frown. “But make sure you’re smart about it.”

  “I’m not a fucking idiot. Which car do you want me to take?”

  “Go down to David’s, he’ll have a car for you. There’ll be instructions inside the console about where to trade out cars in Tennessee, okay?”

  The phone rings and he nods, then leaves. I raise the receiver to my ear. “Go ahead, partner.”

  “This is Rammer Jammer. First half bet on the underdog. Two dimes. Bottom five.”

  “First half
bet on the underdog worth two dimes on the bottom five?” I repeat back.

  “Yep.”

  I hang up and grab the smoldering cigarette from the ashtray, inhaling a large cloud of smoke as I quickly scribble the bet in red ink over my legal pad. This game is sure to pay out a shitload of cash, and I can’t help but smile as I glance over the bets I’ve taken today. Politicians, preachers, cops: they’re all my clients, and as long as they pay, there’s not a problem. I’m a businessman and I take my job very seriously.

  You fuck with me, I’ll kill you, because no one takes anything as serious as death.

  Euan smiles wide when he opens the door and sees me. “Hey.”

  I flash him a smile. “Hey.”

  He leans in and places a lingering kiss on my cheek before opening the door wider to usher me in.

  “Let me take your coat.” He moves behind me and eases my coat from my shoulders, ever the gentleman.

  “Something smells good,” I remark.

  He flashes me that blinding smile of his. “I’d love to say I cooked, but you know me...I ordered takeout.”

  I shrug. “Takeout is good.”

  I just need to eat before my next shift...which will actually end up being a twenty-hour shift, and it starts in two hours.

  Another wide grin. “I ordered Thai, your favourite.”

  We sit down to eat and Euan seems oddly quiet. Usually he has a lot to say, whether it’s talking about work, or my horrible living conditions—which he thinks are abhorrent. He usually brings up my flat because that conversation always leads to him trying to get me to move in with him, which leads to me explaining why I don’t want to move in with him.

  Tonight though, he’s quiet, distant almost.

  “Are you alright?” I ask.

  He smiles slightly and nods as he chews a mouthful of food. “Of course.”

  I chalk his lack of conversation up to the fact that he’s just got off shift. God knows I’m a miserable bitch when I’ve just done a long shift. I guess he’s allowed to feel it once in a while as well.