Misfit: A Dark Antihero Romance Read online

  Misfit. Copyright © 2020 by R. Holmes.

  Cover design: Cassie Chapman, Opulent Swag and Designs

  Editing by: Amy Briggs

  Proofreading: Portia Sumpter, Rumi Khan

  Formatting: A. Lonergan

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by and means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  To Cassie: My twin

  For bringing me over to the dark side and showing me the part of me that was always in love with villains.

  I love you forever, taco hoe.

  Contents

  Misfit

  Ivy

  Misfit

  Ivy

  Misfit

  Ivy

  Misfit

  Ivy

  Misfit

  Misfit

  Misfit

  Ivy

  Misfit

  Ivy

  Misfit

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Also by R. Holmes

  Prologue

  1. Ambrey

  2. Grey

  Creole Dictionary

  Playlist

  Misfit

  Blood splattered and soaked into my once perfectly pressed Armani button-down. It was angry, bright red and painted upon me like someone’s dark, deranged mural. I didn’t start my day knowing I’d end up pulling someone’s teeth out with pliers. Comes with the territory, though. Unlike the sweet elementary teacher, the postal worker, maybe even the hostess from the restaurant up the street, but I chose this job knowing exactly the types of sacrifices it would call for. My name is whispered like a prayer, and like the villain I am, I answer. Every time.

  “Okay, enough, enough. Please…” the short, pudgy man tied to the chair in front of me begs. His hair is black as coal and oily, coated in a dirty sheen. Smells like he hasn’t showered in fucking forever. Personal care is something I don’t take lightly, and all it does is make me want to end this even quicker. I can’t stand the stench. I stare at him blankly, my face, as always, showing no emotion. Not that I have any, anyway. My heart is as cold as a fucking table in the morgue.

  “You can end this at any time, Horace. You know what I need from you. You know how to end it.” He whimpers as I raise the pliers again and shake them in his face. Dark red blood coats his chin, his neck, his chest. So much fucking blood. Blood from an entire day of torture, just to get what I needed. Fuck, I didn’t until my job demanded I know just how much blood the human body had before you were no longer breathing. The wooden chair creaks beneath his weight as he struggles against the rope securing him to the chair.

  “Tsk tsk. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. You tell me where you’re hiding the coke, I’ll let you keep the rest of your teeth. I think that’s more than fair. Look at it this way, you can always get dentures, but you can’t sew toes back on. I did you a favor by starting with your teeth, honestly.” I grin.

  His cries echo throughout the warehouse as he begins to sob. A pathetic rouse for a man who stole from his employer and blew it all on fucking prostitutes.

  “Now, you have exactly sixty seconds to tell me where you ignorant little fuckers put the coke until I no longer feel at all generous. I assure you, this is not the route that you want to take, Horace.”

  “Please, no more, please. I’ll tell you,” he begs.

  I’ve always wondered why some of these dumb fuckers even bother with the illusion of being tight-lipped. I mean, if they thought about it, either way they’re dead. You’re either a rat, or you’re the thief. Whether it be me that tortures the answer out of them, or the people they’re betraying, this only ends one way. In a casket with no one to mourn you because you were a vile piece of shit, and anyone who once gave a shit about you is long gone. Why go through torture just to try to give the illusion that you were never going to open your mouth. I guess pride. You think that you’ll never break, never spill the vital piece of information that your tormentor is seeking, but in the end, they all do. They all break. They all beg for their lives. They all piss their pants until the stench overpowers the metallic twinge of blood and death that lingers in the air. Sometimes, I kill them. Sometimes, I leave them begging for death. Either way, I finish what I start. I’ve built my empire on the pain of those who have wronged me. Their bones, brittle and hollow, are the rungs of the ladder that I have climbed to the top.

  When his face begins to turn ashen, draining of color, I know he’s losing consciousness. I bend over until my face is mere inches from his and ask once more.

  “Where. Is. The. Product?”

  “It’s at the…lo-loading dock. Down on Marginal Way. They’ll never let you get clo—” My fist connects with his jaw so hard, I feel the bones break beneath my knuckles in a sickening crunch. His head lolls to the side. Out like a fucking light. The reprieve he was begging for all along. I reach into the pocket of my slacks and pull out the handkerchief I was saving for completion and wipe the sticky, caked blood from my fingers before reaching back to pull out my phone. Wasting no time, I dial the last number from my recent call log before tossing the handkerchief onto the floor next to dear old Horace.

  “It’s done. I’ll text you the location. For fuck’s sake…handle your shit so I don’t have to be called in the middle of the day ever again.” I hang up without waiting for a response.

  Just another fucking day in the life.

  “I can’t put my finger on it, but this shit ain’t right. How did Decayed get to that shipment?” An angry, grunt comes through the speaker of my phone. A voice that, for the past month, has been one I hear daily, sometimes twice. This is where my job gets messy. In more ways than one. I fix the unfixable. And Elijah has a problem on his hands that even I might not be able to fix. A problem that’s deep in his house.

  “Elijah, I’m telling you, your problem is stemming from inside. You got a rat. A mole. It’s someone you trust. They’re spilling your secrets, weakening your guys, one by one, to see who’s willing to trade your life for their freedom. Find your rat, find the problem. But this is your house, these are your guys and I have no place there.”

  "Man, first time I ever doubted my guys. First time I’ve had to question loyalty. Prospects aren’t the rat, been watchin’ ‘em night and day." I can hear from the sound of his voice how betrayed he feels. His voice is tense, low. One of his own men is out to make sure they bring him and everything he loves down in flames.

  "Draw them out. Averette’s your closest confidant. Talk it out with him and decide how the fuck to figure out who’s running their lips." I hear him blow out an exasperated breath. Stress has a way of making people desperate. One thing Elijah has always been is meticulous, and he's never given a fuck about anything but his guys and the club. He’s the President of the Sons of Sin MC. Seattle chapter. They also have a chapter in LA, but I only deal with Elijah. He's been a client for years, and he knows my dedication to him. We’ve seen the side of wars together that most people hear about on TV shows and movies, yet for us, it’s reality. My loyalty runs deeper than the surface—it's life or death. These types of relationships are forged in sacrifice and must be proven
by your unfaltering loyalty. I paid my dues in blood, just like everyone with a cut on their back did. Although I’m not a member, I’ve shown my loyalty by answering his calls for the past five years and finishing jobs that he couldn’t trust anyone else with. Fighting beside him when shit hit the fan.

  “I’ve got eyes on Texas. He’s the newest prospect. But damn, he’s a good kid. Follows orders, never says shit. Quiet as fuck. I just don’t trust nothin’ right now. Nobody but Averette.”

  I hear the party going on in the background, even though he’s in the chapel behind closed doors. That’s the main reason the time I spend at the clubhouse is few and far between. Not my scene. I respect the fuck out of Eli and his men, but this is business, and there has to be no pleasure in business.

  “Won’t hurt. We’ll talk soon. Keep me updated,” I say.

  I get a grunt in response, then I look down to see he’s ended the call. Fuck, it’s been a long day. Glancing down at my blood-splattered Rolex, I see that it’s just after four-thirty. Fuck, I don’t have enough time to get across town for my evening meeting.

  I dial my employee, Ford, quickly and he answers on the first ring. “Yeah?”

  “I need you to pick me up on Davis Street. I have to be in the city in less than forty-five minutes, can’t be late.”

  “Ten-Four,” he responds and hangs up.

  I spend the next five minutes answering emails, scrolling the stock market, and wasting time until Ford pulls up along the street in a blacked-out SUV. The tint is so dark, it blends in with the color of the vehicle. Can’t see in. Can’t see out. Protects us both that way.

  He climbs out, then comes around to open the door for me, and I get into the truck, unbuttoning my suit jacket. I glance down at the blood on my suit. Shit, I’m covered, and I don’t have time to go home, shower and change.

  “Fuck, do I have a new suit back here?” I ask him when he slides into the driver’s seat. He says nothing of my bloodied shirt, and that’s exactly why the fuck he’s been driving me for over five years. He sees but never says a word. He’s discreet and tight-lipped.

  “Leather bag’s behind the seat. Suit’s pressed and laid flat on the floorboard.” He nods toward the back of the car before pulling away from the curb onto the road.

  Thank fuck for small victories.

  “Got a guy in the warehouse. I need you to drop him back where I found him.”

  “Got it.”

  I retrieve the bag and suit from behind the seat and quickly change into a freshly starched white shirt and slacks, paired with a navy Brioni jacket. One thing I do give a shit about is my appearance, and by wearing four-thousand-dollar suits, most people can tell. How you carry yourself is everything. You wouldn’t look at me and know that I make people disappear for a living, but you see what women compare to as a model. I’ve always been a man that women have fawned over, even if it wasn’t reciprocated. Six-foot-three, thick, jet black hair that I wear longer, but styled and never disheveled. Put together at all times. I keep my physique by working out at least four times a week. Swimming in the Olympic-sized pool at my penthouse. When it’s late at night and insomnia hits, I exhaust myself on the treadmill and by swimming laps. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, full lips. But, people see what I want them to see. An illusion of a decent man. They see a man who’s the epitome of class, not a merciless killer with a penchant for blood. No one would ever expect my involvement with the lawless, and they never have. I’m a ghost of the night. Those men who hire me, they aren’t always criminals. They’re men hiding in plain sight. Men you’d never expect to be caught up in illicit affairs. But they are, and whenever I want to be found, the right men know exactly where to look.

  This is why I’m twenty-eight and alone. I’ve never had a serious relationship in my life. I can’t even speak the word love, let alone feel it. I have no time or patience for a wife, and heaven forbid children. I’m not capable of producing anything good. They’d probably be serial killers. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all of that nonsense.

  “Where are we headed?” Ford calls from the driver's seat. He’s driving into the city as directed, but in my haste to remove my blood-soaked suit, I didn’t even give him an actual location.

  “Shit, sorry. Canlis, on Aurora,” I apologize and finish with my cufflinks. I take a moment to straighten my jacket and make sure everything is neat and nothing is disheveled. Tonight’s meeting is important. Senator Anderson has more fucking skeletons in his closet than a felon straight out of the state penitentiary, but yet here he is a senator for the great state of Washington. You’d be surprised how many high-ranking officials are hidden behind money and power. If you have both of them, you have everything at your fingertips. That’s where appearances come in, and me of course. I’m here to fix the problem and make it all disappear. The two types of people I don’t touch? Rapists and pedophiles. Those motherfuckers aren’t worthy of the ground I walk on, and in all of the years that I’ve been in this profession, I’ve only had two contact me for assistance, and well… Let’s just say their home address is now a cemetery on the outskirts of town.

  The car lurches to a stop in front of Canlis. The most exclusive, high-end restaurant in all of Seattle. Only the best for the senator, of course. I’d like to think I’m a man who enjoys the finer things in life: cars, four-thousand-dollar suits, Rolex’s, vacation homes in the Maldives. But I’m also smart. I invest, and then I turn those thousands of dollars into millions, and that’s what makes me who I am. Born a misfit. Lost, broken, damaged. Weak. I took those flaws and turned them into something I could build an empire on. Now I’m ruthless, lawless. I can’t be touched. My skills are next to perfection and there isn’t room for errors in what I do. Mistakes cost you your life. I had eyes everywhere. Police, judges, the government—you name it. Nobody is ever untouchable…except me.

  I let Ford know I’ll call him when business is finished, but I know better than to give him a time frame. When bourbon is involved, the senator gets a little loose-lipped. By the end of the night, I’m ready to claw my fucking eyes out, but he pays more money than most people probably see in a lifetime for these drunken meetings where we “chat.” He’s a necessary evil in what I do. Not only does he have power that is only obtainable by working with the government, he assists in putting police, detectives, commissioners, mayors, all in my pocket and right where they need to be.

  The looming two-story building has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, offering a view that can’t be found from any other spot in Seattle. The maître d’ greets me at the door with a warm, welcoming smile. He holds the door open while I pass through swiftly. Inside, the lights are dimmed, setting an intimate, sensual tone throughout the restaurant. Along the walls there is a gray slate stone that reminds me of a rustic cave tucked away right in the heart of the city. The place screams of money and exclusivity. Maybe if I gave a shit about women, this would be a place I would bring one. But, I don't date. I won't buy flowers or whisper sweet nothings in anyone’s ears. I'll fuck them until their pussy is too sore to walk. I can bring a woman to places she’s only ever dreamt of with my cock. My reputation precedes me in more ways than just my ability to make grown men cry.

  I follow the average-built, mousy man into a smaller dining room off to the side of the main dining area on the second floor, and I thank fuck inwardly for a discreet area. The senator insists on these dinners in public, to cause less suspicion, I guess, but the man has no idea how to be discreet.

  “Misfit, how are you, my boy?” The senator rises from the red, velvet dining chair to shake my hand. Because of who he is, I’ll excuse the fact that he just called me “boy” and not rip his fucking vocal cords out. Looking at him, he’s nothing extraordinary, there’s nothing memorable about him. Weighing in well over two hundred and fifty pounds if I had to guess, he wears his weight totally in his stomach. A pudgy, droopy belly that hangs over his slacks. The fact that he’s all of five-eight doesn’t help him whatsoever.
I tower over him and it adds to my appeal. Men like the senator need to be fearful of guys like me. It never fails, he always has a young, fresh, busty brunette by his side. How they stomach fucking him, even if it’s just for the money, the name, the power, I’ll never understand.

  Tonight he’s with a striking woman with long, chestnut colored hair that hangs down her back, almost touching her ass. Her eyes are the deepest shade of brown I’ve ever seen. Like a piece of dark chocolate that’s pooled in her irises. So brown, they look black in the dim light. She’s wearing a skintight tube dress that makes her look like a fucking stripper, and that’s exactly his type. In any other circumstance, I may even find her slightly attractive.

  She holds her hand out for me to shake, and I do hastily. Touching people when not necessary, makes my skin crawl. I avoid contact with other people as much as I possibly can.

  Her face falls momentarily before she plasters a fake smile on. That’s right. Play your part, kitten.

  "Hi, I'm Natalia."

  "Misfit," I address her curtly. She is a mere decoration for this meeting. A power play by the senator. Always showing off his newest, most shiny toy for people to admire. I take a seat next to him and unbutton my jacket.

  "Thanks for joining me tonight." He wastes no time signaling the waiter over. When he arrives, he orders the most expensive bourbon on the menu and turns toward me.

  "You know, next year is an election year. I believe I'll be giving up my senate seat and entering the presidential race."

  His words should shock me, but I know him well enough now to know it'll never be enough for him. Power is like a drug. It turns people into the worst type of addict. Desperate. You feel it flowing through your veins and the high that it gives you. It's irreplaceable. But then, that feeling fades away and you'll never find it again no matter how hard you search. The people with real power? They're the ones who don't let it consume them. They keep it at arm’s length and play it like a hidden card.