Grave Mistakes
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 Sanja Balan of Sanja’s Covers
Chapter Headings by Eerilyfair Design
For the broke bitches. May you find hot demons at the end of your struggle.
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
Hellgate Guardians Series
Also by Ivy Asher & Raven Kennedy
Also by Ivy Asher
Also by Raven Kennedy
Ivy Asher
Raven Kennedy
1
The microwave chirps at me irritably, reminding me once again that it diligently heated something for me and I’m rudely ignoring it. My gray eyes don’t even glance up from where I’m scrolling through my Instagram feed. I’m too busy soaking in my daily dose of inspiration and jealousy. It goes well with caffeine.
An email notification drops down from the top of my phone’s screen, and the words new job listing have me perking up and clicking on it with lightning-fast speed. I tamp down the desperation that courses through me as I wait for the email to open and try to activate my chill. It’s not easy, because the days are counting down until the bar that I’ve been working at for the last seven years closes its doors and hangs the Out of Business sign outside.
I don’t make eye contact with the stack of unpaid bills that are piled up on the counter to the left of where I’m leaning in my out-of-date kitchen. Far too many of them say evil things like final notice, and I can practically feel them breathing down the back of my neck. I scoot further away from the pile of depression, and my phone suddenly starts ringing as I’m waiting for the email to open.
I release a scared squeal-gurgle and struggle to keep my crappy phone from crashing to the cracked tile floor as I jump in alarm from the unexpected call. My heart takes off like it’s Usain Bolt, and I click buttons until my ringer is muted, and whichever collection agency is calling me gets sent to my full voicemail box.
With that crisis averted, I click on my email again. My heart comes to the conclusion that there was no need to panic just as the latest email from the job posting site I’ve been stalking for the past month finally opens. I almost back out of it when I see the words “Security Officer” stated at the top. But then my reality gets all up in my face and keeps me from closing the emailed job listing almost as fast as I opened it.
The memory of my boss, Sean the Shithole, sitting me down and telling me the whole we’re broke and going under news rings like an echo in my mind. He had perfect fucking timing, because I had asked to talk to him so that I could beg for more hours to try to keep from drowning in the puddle of shit that my last one-night stand left me in. Instead of more hours, I got told I needed to find a new job. Just some fucked-over frosting to go on top of my shit show sugar cookie
I was barely scraping by before, but then my last hookup not only gave me a mediocre orgasm, but apparently, he got my bank account info too. He completely cleaned me out. The bank refused to treat it like fraud and give me my money back, saying they couldn’t prove who withdrew the money, so I was accountable. The cops told me I could report it, but there wasn’t anything I could do beyond that. I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck my whole adult life, and there was just no way I could bounce back from the financial hit. I’ve been fucked and behind on everything ever since, and now, things have become desperate.
I stare at the job email again and sigh. I have no clue how the hell a security job snuck through my filters. I could have sworn I specifically requested notifications for bartending or waitressing listings only. I decide to scroll down anyway and see if it mentions the pay. I’m getting dangerously close to the beggars can’t be choosers cut-off date, and moonlighting as security is bound to be a better alternative to moonlighting as homeless and bankrupt.
I mean, I could pull off hot security guard if they’re into average height chicks with electric violet hair, who only exercise when...well, never. Not unless laundry and shoddy house renovations count as exercise. I used to be able to count the occasional hookup as cardio, but since the last fucker stole every penny I had, I’ve been steering clear of that tandem activity.
I skim past the job description quickly and then balk when I get to the pay. No way that’s right. I reload the email and scroll back down to the pay section just to be sure my phone hasn’t glitched out and started fucking with me. Nope. Eighty dollars an hour is still typed in black and flashing up at me like a fucking beacon of salvation.
But...eighty dollars a damn hour? It’s got to be a typo, right? Oh, fuck me, they’re offering full benefits. A job with benefits! There isn’t even a probationary period. This is like the holy grail of job opportunities.
I scroll
