Unholy Terrors, page 1
Table of Contents Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Join My Group
Introduction
Prologue
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
Vile Bastards Cover
Throwaway Prince Cover
Havoc at Prescott High Cover
I Was Born Ruined Cover
Keep Up With The Fun
More Books By C.M. Stunich
About the Author
Unholy Terrors
Unholy Terrors © C.M. Stunich 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.
www.cmstunich.com
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
this book is dedicated to
my inner artist child.
you show up, even when it feels fucking impossible.
~
thank you, Julia Cameron—you’re awesome.
P.S. y’all should read ‘The Artist’s Way’
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Seriously? You’re back again? It’s clear you don’t value your own life.
Look, last time, I threatened to kill you. That was rude; I’ll admit it. But you read through my story anyway, so you must be dying of curiosity.
Or maybe you’re like me, and it’s the adrenaline that gets you, the thrill. You want your foot on the throttle, the wind in your hair, and a sturdy fuckboy … or two or three.
But what if there are four? Four unholy terrors. Four men to warm your bed … or wait beneath it, watching from the shadows. And what if you had to pick one to die?
Ash Kelly. Who knew I’d be dating a dead boy? He might be wearing someone else’s skin, but it’ll always be Ash for me. Ash, the obsessive one, the one with the most to lose, the one I can’t trust. My biggest secret.
Kellin Bohnes is always there for me, but he keeps a bulldozer-turned-tank in his warehouse. He has eyes everywhere, but mostly he has eyes for me. Also, he brought me a severed head as a present. His love for me is escalating.
There’s always Adrian Lawless aka Widow to fall back on. He reads romance and strums a guitar, but he isn’t the type to give up on a woman. Not when he’s already claimed her. Not even when he has to help bury the evidence.
Did I mention my cold prince, Alexei Grove? With his father gone, he has nothing left to lose. Piece by piece, his sanity falls apart in my hands, and I love every minute of it. Touch me with your black-gloved hands, sir … Don’t stop.
And of course, you know me—Scarlett Motherfucking Force.
I’m your only friend: remember that.
Let me warn you one last time; I really don’t want to write your epitaph.
So hit the gas and get the hell out of here.
Just … remember to check the back seat first.
Someone might be waiting for you there.
Love, Me
Scarlett
Fucked by a fuckboy at the old racetrack. Nothing unusual about that unless you consider that said fuckboy is a germaphobe virgin with mob connections and a bad temper.
If I were anybody else, I might say I was in love. But hell, I’m Scarlett Force. I consider myself to be in love with a lot of boys. Four, to be exact. Four of them, even if I can’t keep them all. Even if they might kill one another to keep me to themselves.
I’m standing calf-deep in the mud, my bright red wedges soaked through, my panties torn and dangling. Widow stands nearby, wiping cum from his fingertips with a handkerchief.
“I can’t believe you just talked me into watching that,” he growls out as the sacrilegious murmurs of the Prescott High congregation drift down to us. Did anybody see what we just did? Do they know? Do any of them have a clue why Alexei Grove is rocketing out of here in his orange Lamborghini.
“How much royal ass do rich boys suck?” I whisper, yanking the torn panties from my leg, and ignoring the mess between my thighs. “Follow me. I don’t know what it is, but that Russian pissant is up to something.”
Widow groans, almost screams really, in frustration, but he tucks his dick away and slogs through the mud in his boots, yanking open the door to that pretty purple Corvette of his. Nothing like a ’69, is there?
Bohnes’ Chevy Chevelle SS. Widow’s Corvette Stingray. Alexei’s Lamborghini Miura. All from 1969.
The only person who doesn’t match the formula is our dear old friend, Ash Kelly. Oops. Aspen Kelly? Well, whatever you want to call him. He drove the ’68 Mustang Fastback which is close … but it’s also off. By a whole year. I really like the number sixty-nine, if you catch my drift. It’s lucky.
Ash isn’t exactly what I would call lucky.
What am I supposed to make of that? Is it a sign? Are we not meant to be?
Of course we’re not.
That’s what makes it fun.
I slide into the driver’s seat of my 1972 de Tomaso Pantera. Code name: the Devil. Also, who gives a shit about code names? I have a fuckboy to tail.
As soon as Widow moves his car out of my way, I jet, wheels spinning in the slick, icy mud. People scatter as I blast through the parking lot and into Springfield city proper. If I were anyone else, Alexei might be able to escape my tail.
If Widow were anyone else, I might be able to escape him.
Instead, he hugs my ass—shocker, right?—as I follow the distant glow of Alexei’s brake lights around one corner, then the next. He seems to realize that I’m following him then, and he hits the throttle. But come on, screw this guy. Who does he think he is?
Nothing but a rich boy psycho, that’s what.
I make a sudden and horrifically sharp right that causes the ‘Vette to screech and waffle behind me. Lucky for that pretty purple baby, Widow’s able to get it under control, chasing me down side streets and rocketing past trash cans so quickly that they blow over and scatter.
Hey, I’m not usually about littering, but tough times and all that.
Alexei’s good. I mean, he’s good. But he isn’t from Prescott. He doesn’t know which alleys are too narrow to pass through and which ones you can squeeze into, like a fat cock in a tight pussy, inches to spare on either side mirror.
He doesn’t know how to loop around and find someone redlining down Coburg Road toward the McKenzie View exit. He turns at the last second, sending the ass-end of that orange Lambo skidding and screaming across the road, scarring the pavement with black rubber marks that burn and reek.
But as he turns onto that winding country road, he also doesn’t know that I’ve taken a small shortcut through the nearby quarry, up the bridge, and over it. Off of it.
My car hits the ground just far enough in front of his that he’s able to slam on the brakes, spinning and careening to a violent stop in the gravel pullover. Catching air is a blessing; it’s like living for the very first time, every time. The rush of the wind, the blur of the scenery, that sick, empty, weightless feeling in your belly.
Once I skid to a stop, and Widow pulls up behind Alexei, it’s game over.
He can either hit us and knock us out of the way or get out and deal.
Trapped on this same, sad road the way he was when my crew and I robbed his OCD ass. He’s in much bigger trouble this time though since he, you know, fucked me for the first time and then bailed.
Actually … with a curse, I roll down my window and look out to see that I’m losing air in my left front tire—and fast. I slowly scoot the Pantera over to park beside the Lambo and climb out.
He’s waiting for me.
“Are you insane?!” Alexei shouts, moving close, his gloved hands squeezing into fists. He has gritted teeth, and a red face, and I can’t decide if he’s euphoric or destitute. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”
“What does that matter to you?” I snap back, and then he’s yanking me against him and staring at my lips like they’re pure and pretty poison. But even though he just had his cherry popped and gave up a little part of himself for me to keep, he won’t do it. He won’t close the distance. He still won’t kiss me.
“I’m putting my life on the line for you, Scarlett Force,” he murmurs, and then he sags back, almost as if he’s defeated. “Please move out of the way and let me get on with my business.”
“Where you’re going, driving over a hundred miles an hour down a city street, it’s not somewhere that I want you to go. It sure as shit isn’t somewhere you’re going without telling me.” I cross my arms obstinately, frustrated by the slick wetness between my legs, dutifully ignoring the raging storm cloud that is Adrian Arden Lawless as he draws up alongside us.
He’s a comforting presence, like a true king to my queen.
He could be anyway, once he gets his shit together.
For now, we’re still just a girl and her fuckboy.
“Tell her where you’re off to, rich kid,” Widow snarls, when he knows damn well he should stay quiet.
“Where I’m going …” Alexei tells me with a harsh laugh, releasing me and raking his gloved fingers through his blond hair. He looks up, his eyes the color of an old liquor bottle, washed ashore, broken to pieces and polished by an angry, churning sea. “It isn’t somewhere that I’ll be coming back from.”
I pause. Stone-still. Putting pieces together.
That’s when it clicks.
They’re here.
They found him; they found us.
Scarlett
Boyfriend - noun - some dude who’s managed to convince his girl he’s worth more than just his dick
Chiefly ‘Prescott High’ slang: a possessive term that denotes that said boy belongs to a girl with his whole body, heart, and soul; a clear and daring upgrade from fuckboy; used sparingly, if at all
Sigh.
It’s you again, isn’t it? The curious one, the foolhardy reader with a thirst for dark and twisted things.
Welcome back to Prescott, you brave, stupid motherfucker.
Last time we saw each other, I had a dead rich boy in my fuckboy’s trunk. The situation hasn’t changed—for me anyway. It’s going to get much worse for you. See, that’s the thing with the darkness: the deeper you go, the harder and faster you fall.
Before you read any further, I need you to promise that you’ll take these secrets to your grave. I know it sounds dramatic, but I have a good thing going for me, and I can’t lose it; I want my name in lights. I deserve my name in lights.
I also deserve my fuckboys turned boyfriends turned … well, whatever. What’s the opposite of Prince Charming? Oh, that’s right: psycho. Yep, that’s the word I’m looking for. They are all fucking psychos.
Ahem.
Now, here’s the clincher: by the end of this book, one of us five will be dead. The person won’t deserve it this time, but they’ll flatline. Death is a static state, but sometimes, murder moves.
Time of death: three a.m. The witching hour. An hour when all things are possible.
Two weeks before Alexei dropped a late-night bomb in my lap …
Some asshole stole my heart.
More than one asshole actually. But the current asshole in question—Ash Kelly—is holding my focus. He’s lifted me up to sit on the edge of the old picnic table, his warm, hard body between my thighs, while my hands—and my ruined manicure—rest on his firm shoulders.
His mouth is slanted across mine, hot and dirty and wrong. This is so fucking wrong. I’m covered in his twin’s blood; he lied to me; I killed the mayor’s son.
“A—” I stop myself because I want to say Ash, but I have to say Aspen. I have to, because my life depends on it. His life depends on it. “Aspen,” I murmur, our mouths still pressed close, his erection pressing against my needy cunt. I want to fuck him so bad right now. My need is this strange mix of relief, fear, and adrenaline; I know I’d come so damn hard if this Kelly brother were to screw me against the picnic table.
But I also know that we don’t have the time or the leisure for that.
“Scarlett,” he says, that hint of a British accent in the sweet and spicy sound of my name. The way it comes out of that plump mouth of his, like both a promise and a curse, heats me up even more. “Don’t worry; I know exactly how to handle this.”
“And how is that?” I inquire, cocking a brow and running my hands down Ash’s chest. I let my right palm rest over his beating heart. If I’m honest with myself—which I usually am, much as the truth sucks sometimes—I was upset when I thought he was dead. I mean, considering Aspen—the real Aspen—was a rapist in the end there, I wasn’t mourning much, but … those wild eyes, that obsession … I would’ve missed that. “Explain it to me.”
The way he smiles at me makes me wary in so many ways. First off, I like it. I like it a lot. I like his face, and the shape of his mouth, and the way his heart is beating steadily under my hand. That freaks me out a little. Especially since he lied to me. Because he did, right? With both words and omission.
Maybe I shouldn’t have texted Nisha to tell her I was heading home? Could her acerbic stare cut through my own obsessive tendencies toward this idiot fuckboy? Mm. Probably not.
“While you’re at it, you might also want to explain why you didn’t tell me you had an identical twin. What was I supposed to do? Sleuth that shit out?” Ash interrupts my tirade by cupping his hand over mine. My response? I yank it back and slam it into his shoulder hard enough to make him grunt. “Don’t get cute with me. Think about it: why would I ever guess you were a twin? A logical, rational person doesn’t assume that somebody they’ve just met is hiding their identity behind their brother’s. A logical, rational person would tell the person they like that they have an identical twin.”
Ash’s face shuts down and his dark eyes flick to one side before he draws them back to me with seemingly great effort. I’ll call him Aspen out loud, but it feels better to call him Ash inside my head. It feels right.
“If I’d told you who I really was and Aspen got word of it, he’d rape you and then kill you. He’s done worse things.” Ash sighs and reaches up a hand to play with his feathered hair. “He’s done it before, Scarlett.” I raise a brow at that, shivering as Ash puts his hands on my hips and yanks me even harder against him. “As it is, we still need to be careful. Nobody can know how I feel about you.”
He leans down and puts his forehead against mine, making me shiver. Truthfully, do I know this guy? Nah, I don’t. I don’t know him for shit. We’ve spent, what, a collective two hours together in total? Had a quickie in the rain? Those things … do not constitute a relationship.
So even though I have to trust Ash to help me with his brother’s murder, I don’t have to trust him with anything else. Bohnes, on the other hand, I might have to start trusting more.
“And how is it that you feel about me, Mr. Kelly?” I whisper, wishing I didn’t care. Knowing that I do. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. His lips—those lavish, libertine lips—part. Close. Part.
He licks them.
“I know it seems absurd, Scarlett, but I’m in—”
“I knew it,” a voice hisses from the shadows, and my blood goes cold. My gaze jerks over to the tree line as Widow steps out with a baseball bat in hand. It’s dark out, so I’m not entirely certain, but are those bloodstains on the wood?! He taps the end of the bat against his left palm, gripping the base of it with his right. “The rules of the track are sacred, my ass. You were too afraid to fuck me because of my deal with Bohnes, but this rich piece of shit gets a free pass to bend the rules?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I start, pushing at Ash and finding myself supremely annoyed when the idiot doesn’t move away from me. He’s watching Widow with open curiosity and undisguised hostility. I see it then so damn clearly, like the truth is limned in white light: if Ash needs to kill Widow to keep our secret, he’ll do it.
And he won’t lose a wink of sleep over it.
I shove at him again, finding my feet and holding two hands up, palms out in a placating gesture.
“Just, hold up, Adrian,” I start, hoping my use of his real name will stop him from doing what it looks like he might just do anyway. That is, he’s looking at Ash like he might kill him with the wooden bat in his hands.
