Anti-Hero (Wild Heart Ranch Book 4)

When you’re friends with serial killers, you gotta know the group chat is gonna be entertaining as fuck. The chat I’ve got going with Anders and Hopper is called Murderer’s Row, and it cracks me up every time it pops up in my notifications. I’m up on Mrs. Castlebridge’s roof helping get the Pygmy goats down—again—when the metal schling of a knife being thrown sounds off from my phone.

Handing the last goat down to my buddy, Nacho, I check the notification and laugh.

Oh, Anders.

“Oye, short stuff. Put your phone away until you’re on the ground,” Nacho grumps in Spanish.

“I’m not that short,” I huff.

I mean, yes, I kind of am, but still.

“Okay, Mr. Five Foot One.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me. I’m five-two. And a half.”

“In combat boots, maybe.”

“No,” I insist, looking over the side of the roof. “Barefoot.”

He holds up his hands. “Fine, fine. Either step all five foot two and a half of you back from the edge or come down. I don’t want to have to tell that big Norwegian I let you get hurt.”

I snort. “What the hell does my roommate care if I get hurt?”

Nacho isn’t fooled for a second. He knows I’ve been aching over that six-and-a-half-foot Norwegian—Erik—for over a year now, and Erik hasn’t shown one single hint that he returns my feelings. Sure, he’s kind, but what use is kind if he won’t split me in two?

Erik and I have been staying at the bunkhouse at Wild Heart Ranch for the last few months, and it’s been…cordial. He stays on his side of the house, and I stay on mine.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

Sure, my cock and hand are best friends at this point, but everything’s fine.

Anyway, I heed Nacho’s warning and carefully make my way to solid ground. He’s now a partial owner of the Jennings brothers’ fencing business, which means he’s my boss.

Whatever. Just this morning, I had to witness Nacho’s husband, Bram—seriously, why is everyone so hell-bent on getting married?—carefully adjust Nacho’s seat belt and fuss at him for missing his water intake yesterday. Nacho had to pull his safety vest over his lap to cover up what Bram’s little corrections did to him, and letting him drive after that was probably a mistake.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just those two stinking up the joint with all their love pheromones. Bram’s brother, Levy, and my Uncle Javier totally fell head over heels in love with each other the instant they met.

All of a sudden, we’re getting—I shit you not—an invitation from Mexico to a live-streamed double ceremony for those four idiots. I mean, it’s better than being left out, and, sure, I cried when they all said I do, but something about that whole thing just…stung.

Whatever. I can be happy for people.

I can.

Shut up. I totally can.

Anyway. People in love are just gross.

Then you must be disgusting.

Fuck, I have got to stop arguing with myself.

Thankfully, since this visit to Mrs. Castlebridge was a last-minute call at the end of the day, she rewarded us with homemade cookies for our troubles. Mrs. Castlebridge doesn’t know this, but I’d totally kill for her cookies.

For real.

With full bellies and crumbs down our shirts, we get into the truck and Nacho drives us back toward the ranch while I return to the murder chat.

Anders: Erik found out I gave you the whereabouts of everyone on your list, and he’s about to blow a vein.

Jesus Christ. I can’t wait to get home tonight because I do so love it when Erik is disappointed with me. Also, Erik and Anders are related, so it’s…complicated.

Me: He doesn’t get it, does he?

Anders: None of ’em get it.

Me: They’ll never understand the exquisite pleasure of that first plunge of the knife.

Anders: Ugh, so true.

Me: That squishy sound when a bullet passes through flesh? I could write symphonies.

Anders: For me, it’s all about the screaming. That whole “silent kill” kick Javier had us on was torture.

Hopper: I guess, for me, it’s the spiritual aspect.

I snicker, and Nacho looks over at me. “Your serial killers cracking you up again?”

“You know it. Like, everyone loves me for who I am, mostly, but there’s just something about people who get it.”

“I hear you. I’m glad you ended up with us though. Doing bad-guy shit for good.”

“Yeah, me too. I’d definitely be in jail by now.”

“Or still in the life,” Nacho says, then goes quiet. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go dark there.”

I shrug. “It’s okay.”

And it is mostly okay. Erik and his buddy Charlie rescued me from a child sex trafficking ring, which was objectively awful. But, fuck. I’m here, aren’t I? Working with my best friend, going to therapy, and working on a kill list of all the men who ever owned me or rented me for the night.

It’s called balance. Look it up.

Anyway, Nacho shouldn’t feel bad for bringing up my past. He still looks a little guilty, though, so I try to set his mind at ease.

“Look, I probably wasn’t going to be in the life for much longer because, at some point, I was going to start killing those motherfuckers. I fucking hated that last guy with a passion. I don’t know if I would’ve lost it on him or the next one, but it was going to happen.”

Nacho’s jaw tightens, and I wonder if I maybe failed at the whole setting his mind at ease thing.

Thankfully, his expression morphs into something softer. “Ant, buddy, I’m glad Charlie and Erik found you when they did.”

“Me too. And not just because they saved me from certain jail time. Javier would’ve never found me if I hadn’t started building a life here.”

I was eleven years old when I was sold by my father’s father to a local gang, who then sold me to…well, the worst kind of people on the planet. My grandfather lied and said my mother’s side of the family didn’t want me, and for years, I believed it.

That is until my Uncle Javier showed up a few months ago. Turns out, he’d spent all those years looking for me, chasing down leads, researching human trafficking, putting himself in the worst places imaginable, just for a chance to find me.

He came to investigate when I showed up on the Johnson City newspaper’s website for my part in a community cleanup. Erik and Charlie quickly verified his story, and since then, I’ve been reunited with my mother’s side of the family.

I’ve been shocked at how good things can be. Friends can become family, family can love me, and work can be meaningful and non-exploitive. Who the fuck knew that was even possible?

Clearing my throat, I say, “It’s weird to consider the difference a little over a year makes.”

“Yeah, it is.” Nacho grabs my head and kisses my temple, nearly driving us off the side of the road.

Pendejo, I think to myself, grinning. I love Nacho like a brother, and he’s one of the people I’d kill and die for.

His past isn’t great, either, but he’s really made something of himself. After spending a year in jail, he moved to the Hill Country to get away from his problematic family.

Nacho finally convinced his mom to move here, and last month, he set her up in her own little trailer on his and Bram’s property. Señora Rivera is shy and tends to enjoy her solitude, but I’m told she’s starting to make friends in the community.

As we pull up past the Wild Heart Ranch gate, Nacho whistles under his breath. Two of the guys I admire most in this world are waiting for me, and their expressions aren’t exactly happy.

“Dude, Charlie and Javier are waiting outside for you. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do nothing!” I protest, even though I’ve—secretly—definitely been up to no good.

Just as I say that, Erik joins them on the porch, and Nacho gestures at the fucking Nordic tree. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Fuck. This probably has something to do with that damn list. I’d given the list to Erik, and after his own research hit a wall, he handed it over to Anders. Anders and his black ops buddies have a lot more resources and were able to scour the web for personal data on the hundreds of men on my list.

All of them deserve to die screaming, and I’m guessing that, while Erik’s on board with the sentiment, he thought the black ops folks would take it from there. He wasn’t counting on my Murderer’s Row buddy having my back.

“Shut up,” I grump. “Just…drop me off and go home to your husband. Blech.”

I stick out my tongue to show him how disgusted I am with their schmoopy, awful love, but all he does is grin at me.

“Okay, but text me later. And, uh, go with God,” he says, cackling as he takes off.

Pen. De. Jo.

I grab my backpack and hitch it over my shoulder as I shut the truck door. I spy Nacho’s jackass smile through the window and flip him the bird. He breaks into peals of laughter as he reverses the truck and turns it around to drive to his guy next door.

Dom next door, more like it.

Ugh.

Squaring my shoulders, I make my way up the stairs and face the firing squad. Hrn. Maybe this is about the guy I took out last weekend. I was careful, and Anders helped me make it look like a tragic heart attack, but maybe I fucked up a detail.

The reasons for them to be disappointed in me are endless.

“Yes?” I ask, adding a little sass to my voice.

Charlie and Erik exchange one of their mind-reading looks, and Charlie gestures toward the front door. “Why don’t we go inside?”

“Oh, I can’t wait for this,” I crack, letting myself in.

I’m immediately swamped by Moose, Erik’s droopy search-and-rescue hound, and Bunny, the muscle-bound brindle pit bull I grabbed from one of the colonia takedowns a few months ago. Smokey, the one-eared cat, is waiting for Erik and does his usual leap into his arms so he can crawl on Erik’s tall shoulders and look down on the rest of us with judgment.

With the dogs nudging at my calves, I walk toward one of the oversized chairs flanking the modern-rustic coffee table Nacho refurbished for us. Tossing my backpack to the side, I take off my shoes, then drop into the overstuffed cushions. Crossing my legs, I press my forearms into the armrests and await their judgment.

Bunny and Moose sit on either side of me, looking like a pair of gargoyle statues.

My uncle raises his brows. “This is good news, Ant. You can call off your guard dogs and drop the attitude,” he says in Spanish.

I’m told my facial expressions leave little to the imagination. Oh, I know how to put on a mask. I simply refuse to do so with the people that I trust. Even when they’re pissing me off.

So, yeah. If it looks like I’m ready for a fight, that’s because I am, in fact, ready for a fight.

“It doesn’t look like good news,” I snipe back, though I give the down order, which my canine bodyguards immediately obey.

I’ll give Erik this—he knows how to train dogs, and them surrounding me like this is his doing. It’s meant to help me out of a bad or difficult mood and works about half the time.

Charlie and Javier sit on the couch while Erik takes the overlarge, overstuffed chair opposite me. For a beast of his size, though, it just looks like a regular chair.

When I pay closer attention, Javier and Charlie do seem happy. It’s really only Erik who looks like he’s sucked a lemon. Javier once told me he knew of Charlie and Erik before coming to the ranch to find me. Everyone in the anti-trafficking community knew who Charlie was, but nobody knew Erik’s name. They simply called him The Silent One—a nickname so inaccurate it still cracks me up.

Even without words, Erik’s looks are anything but silent.

“So,” Charlie begins, rubbing his hands on his thighs and leaning forward, “as you know, we are working more closely with the Wimberley team for these high-profile extractions.”

“Yeah. It’s why you don’t have to do the paid bounty work anymore,” I point out.

“That’s true,” Charlie says. “Though, if there’s an extreme case where someone’s in real danger, we still take it on. We just don’t need to do it for the money anymore, which is why we wanted to talk to you today. The folks at Wimberley, namely Hedy,” he says, referring to my therapist, “were shocked to find out you still work for the fencing company.”

“Why?” I ask, completely thrown. “What’s wrong with the fencing company?”

“Uh…nothing,” Charlie says, searching for the words. “Hedy was mostly surprised you were only going on weekend ops with the colonia campaign and still went to work during the week.”

Erik shifts in his chair and avoids my eyes. Like I said. Loud.

I shrug. “I still have to make money.”

“Well…that’s what we needed to discuss. You know how we gave the land next door to Nacho, Bram, and Levy?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s one of the ways Wimberley pays people for the missions. We take down an organization or a bad guy, and Wimberley takes their assets and liquidates them, then splits the profits and holdings with anyone on the mission.”

“Wait. Is that how Nacho was able to buy into the fencing company?”

Charlie nods. “It’s also how he was able to move his mom here.”

“Oh.” I drum my fingers on the armchair. “But he went on missions that made money for Wimberley. That doesn’t work for the colonias, though, because we only killed people and saved the kids. We didn’t take property.”

“When that happens, and it’s a longer plan of attack, Elijah Energy, the company that runs Wimberley’s operations, gives a monthly stipend to cover living expenses. You were overlooked because someone”—Charlie’s eyes flit to Erik, who’s examining a hangnail—“left your name off the reports back to Wimberley.”

“Isn’t a stipend like, I dunno, an allowance? I’ll take extra money, of course, but it doesn’t sound like something that’ll pay my bills.”

“It is an allowance. One that is easily three times your current wage,” Charlie explains, red touching his cheeks. “Um, so…yeah. Wimberley has since corrected the oversight and deposited the money in your account as of an hour ago.”

I fish my phone from my back pocket and pull up my banking app.

While I’m waiting for the sign-in to process, Charlie continues, “Also, since you were technically in on the raid next door, they’ve retroactively given you the value of your portion.”

“What?” Erik grumbles, looking up from his oh-so-important hangnail to glare at Charlie. “He shouldn’t get paid for sneaking onto an op.”

Meanwhile, my account looks like an accident. I hold the screen up to Charlie. “There are six digits in this number.”

“Oh, that’s right. Since your actions saved Erik’s life next door and my life at the warehouse, there’s a bonus structure for that kind of thing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Erik growls, finally turning his glare to me.

Bunny snarls, showing his teeth as a warning, and I pet his head. Good boy. I absentmindedly flip Erik the bird while trying to make this account balance make sense.

That’s when it hits me. Charlie hates paperwork.

“So…when you say I was left off the reports, you mean Erik purposefully removed my name so Wimberley wouldn’t officially know about my involvement.”

Sure, my friends from Wimberley knew about my involvement, but I’m guessing the suits didn’t.

Erik fists his huge hands, shaking his head. “Excuse me for trying to protect you. I hope you’re happy. Hedy said we can’t relegate you to the weekends anymore and threatened to sic my Aunt Anja on me if I kept blocking access to you.”

Hoo, buddy. Hedy went and pulled out the big guns. Anja and her husband, Georg—Anders’ parents—temporarily took me in after Erik and Charlie saved me, and they feel like family as much as anyone I’m actually related to.

Stifling a laugh, I hold up a finger. “Question. We’ve already had this conversation. I’m in. It’s settled. Why do you think you know better than my therapist what I can handle?”

Erik thins his lips. “I live with you, and I go on these missions with you. I know you better than she does.”

“Alright, roomie. Lay it on me then. You’ve seen me in action. What am I doing so wrong that you’re still trying to keep me in bubble wrap?”

Charlie is the one to answer. “Nothing, Ant. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Erik goes to open his mouth, but Charlie silences him with a look. “Some habits are just harder to break than others, and we’re sorry we didn’t give you the trust you’ve earned. We can’t—and won’t—keep you on the sidelines anymore.”

“Bet that hurt for you to say.”

Charlie sighs, his eyes a little sad. “Erik’s not the only one having a hard time with this. But…Hedy’s threatened to recruit you for Wimberley proper if I don’t start using you.”

I appreciate Charlie’s honesty, but damn, I love my therapist. She also happens to be a profiler and the recruiter for…whatever it is they do down the road from us and has dropped some not-so-subtle hints that she’d have a position for me.

“When should I talk to Jason and Justin?” I ask, speaking of the brothers who own the Jennings’ Fencing Supply and who I consider to be my close friends.

Erik shifts uncomfortably. “Sooner rather than later,” he grumbles. “We’ve got a mission coming up pretty quickly and a few stacked up behind that one.”

His posture is an entire sonnet to disgruntled-tude.

“You obviously don’t agree with this,” I state, annoyed that he still won’t look me in the eye.

“I’ve never agreed with this, but I am being overridden.”

“Is that why you’re so mad at me right now?”

Finally, his eyes meet mine, and…damn. He’s one hard-to-read bastard, but he’s more than just angry. He’s upset.

“I’m not mad about your promotion within our organization, per se. I worry for your safety, but I’m told that’s not a good enough excuse to hold you back. I am trying to accept that.”

“Okay, but you are mad about something. Out with it.”

One of the things Nacho taught me is if you work closely with somebody, you gotta be honest. Nacho is sober, so honesty is important to him, as is communication. Which reminds me—shit. I’m not going to be working with him every day. My throat tightens at the thought.

Spending so many of my formative years in a trafficking situation means there are many developmental things I missed out on. Nacho’s silly antics and kind words as we make our daily trips around the Central Texas Hill Country have taught me more about being a human than anything else.

I blink back emotion and refocus on the agitated tree sitting on the other side of the coffee table.

“The list, Ant,” he spits out, ever efficient in his words. “I’m mad about the fucking list.”

Oops. I’d forgotten about that.