Grave Decisions
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 Covers by Julie
Chapter Headings by Eerilyfair Design
For Corona.
Just kidding, fuck you, Covid-19.
2021, this one’s for you! Don’t let us down.
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
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Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Hellgate Guardians Series
Also by Ivy Asher & Raven Kennedy
Also by Ivy Asher
Also by Raven Kennedy
Ivy Asher
Raven Kennedy
1
Medley Bell
Sweetgreen, Georgia
I grab the box addressed to the house I just parked in front of and jump out of my truck. The sun glares down at me the same way my boss does when I’m incapable of movin’ at inhuman speeds and deliverin’ ten packages at one time. I pull the ugly ass purple polo that’s part of my uniform away from my already sweat-sticky skin and walk up to the front door.
I go to push the doorbell but notice a sign that says, “Please do not ring, it disturbs baby.” I pause for a moment, debatin’ if I should knock or not. The last thing I want to deal with is a pissed off mama who’s had too little sleep to realize she’s inappropriately losin’ it on someone who is just tryin’ to deliver a package.
I look down at my power pad and sigh. Of course this little box requires a signature. I knock gently on the door, both cringin’ and holdin’ my breath, hopin’ I don’t immediately hear a wailin’ baby go off inside like a your day’s about to get a hell of a lot worse alarm.
Luckily, no tiny child cries come out of the open windows beside the door, so when I hear footsteps approachin’, I relax a little. Only one more package to deliver after this one, and then I’m done with this shift and the stretch of torture that preceded it.
I’ve been pullin’ doubles for ten days straight, mostly because my prick of a boss insinuated that if I didn’t, she’d make my life a livin’ hell. I’m tryin’ to save up enough to move out on my own, and Sweetgreen, Georgia, ain’t exactly teemin’ with great job opportunities, so I plastered on a smile when she practically gave me no choice, and I’ve been runnin’ myself ragged ever since.
But I’m about to have three glorious days off in a row. I have big plans for eatin’, sleepin’, and maybe a little bar hoppin’ over in Colletville with my friends. I’m ready to dip my toe in the pool of hotties I hope exists in the city that’s about an hour away from here. It’s time to let loose and make some bad decisions in the form of drinks that taste like Kool-Aid, and dicks that know how to do a Southern woman right.
The dirt-streaked door in front of me opens slightly, and a lined face peeks out at me through the crack. “Yes?” a frail elderly voice asks.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I have a package for Ms. Jonay.”
“That’s me, dear.”
“Perfect, I’ll just need your signature here, ma’am,” I tell her as I hold the power pad out to her and point at the line that needs her John Hancock with the stylus.
The dirty tan door opens wider as Ms. Jonay reaches for the electronic pad, and that’s when I notice the biggest damn dog I’ve ever seen in my life. Okay, maybe it’s not the tallest. I saw a wolfhound once when I was little, and that thing was tall as hell, but this dog is so ripped it has to be some mix of Rottweiler and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. I swear to hell, if this thing pulls The Rock’s signature look and raises an eyebrow at me, I wouldn’t be even the tiniest bit surprised.
The door swings open more as Ms. Jonay takes the power pad in hand while simultaneously blockin’ her leg in front of the dog, but I can tell by the look on its face that a cryin’ baby at this house is gonna be the least of my problems. This massive four-legged beast is about to charge to the front of the line of FML problems I’m currently dealin’ with.
I don’t know what it is about the juiced-up dog that sets off alarm bells, but I know I have fractions of a second to get out of bone-crushin’ range of those jaws, or else I’m gonna be on the five o’clock news.
With a growl, the dog shoves past Ms. Jonay, and I chuck the package at the dog’s face just as he lunges for me. Ms. Jonay shouts out a “hey” in objection to the move, but I’m too busy spinnin’ and leapin’ off the porch to pay it any mind.
Time slows down as though I’m in some action flick and the audience needs to see everythin’ that’s about to happen, frame by frame. I spot my work truck at the end of what now seems like an endless stretch of yard, and I just know I’m not gonna make it to the safety of that bad boy in time.
To my right is one of those long metal dumpster trailer things that people park on the side of a house when they’re doin’
