For Better or Hearse

by Ava Hunter

For the weirdos. The left out. The lone wolves. Those who found themselves in the darkness and the doubt and bloomed. You’re perfectly dreadful. For my cousin. For always matching my freak.

Sure, she ruins lives, but she ruins lives with purpose.

For many, a walk among the dead is macabre, but to her, it’s peaceful.

Tessie is where she’s supposed to be. Alaska. Getting railed daily by her bearded mountain man.

Ash is the odd-job queen.

She longed to do something unhinged and beautiful.

Clearly, Solomon Wilder has mellowed Tessie out with that extra-large dick of his.

And as you repeated numerous times on the plane, you will not save him from a shark attack, and I am banned from doing so as well, which is exactly my type of petty.”

“I will be on guard,” she says. “But I will also be on my bullshit.”

His eyes of pale-blue ice skim over her body. And not in a sexy way. In a how-you’d-look-at-someone-if-you-were-plotting-out-their-murder type of way.

it’s obvious his face card is never declining.

She turns her head with a cringe. Please, god. Delete image.

Full moons and emergency room patients have nothing on this girl.

Her big gray-green eyes and those long black lashes cause his stomach to flip. A sensation he could do the fuck without.

“I like Ash and all her fucks,” Augustus says with an adoring chuckle. “She tells it like it is. She’s macabre. She’s quirky. She’s—” “Feral,” he finishes.

“I may be a lot of things. Ill-reputed. Disheveled. A Scorpio. But I’m no con artist.”

The devil works hard, but Nathaniel Whitford works harder.

Ash wrinkles her nose and fights a shudder. “I don’t have flip-flops.” “Wise decision,” Solomon says, popping in to steal Bear away from Tessie. “Your chances of being hunted by a seagull are low, but never zero.”

Tessie nods her approval. “It’s giving big main character energy.” Ash scowls. “I don’t want to be a main character. I want to be that statue in the corner of the room that sometimes gets mistaken for a ghost and scares the shit out of people.”

It’s not trauma; it’s spicy sadness.”

“And remember: observe, do not absorb.”

She may get knocked down, but she’s like one of those creepy clown punching bags—she pops right back up.

Once again, truly fuck that man.

Her sense of self-preservation is nonexistent when he’s well within punching distance.

Oh, thank god. Food.

Lips twitching, she side-eyes Nathaniel, ready to harass this rude, unfeeling robot.

She arches a mocking brow. One she hopes makes him see red.

She’s a demon. The prettiest demon he’s ever seen.

“She looks like she bites.”

Her expression wars between interest and ugh.

Her lipstick sticks. What would it take to get it to come off?

“Oh, and Tate—” Ash slips off the stool and steps into Tate’s space. Gripping the collar of his bowling shirt, she yanks him down to eye level. Her pretty face threatening, her teeth bared, she says, “If you go this entire vacation without having a true one-on-one with your grandfather, I’ll come to your podcast and beat the fucking shit out of you with your microphone.” With that, she lets him loose. “Fuck,” Tate breathes in what Nathaniel swears is amazement.

“We need a task force that stops white men from starting podcasts for no reason.”

Nathaniel has to tear his eyes away from those blood-red lips.

Fuck. She’s even prettier when she’s stunned.

Ash hums, ignores him.

She’s certain he’s 11 percent human and 89 percent homicidal robot.

“That’s a very shameless stare, Doctor Whitford.” Instantly, his eyes snap to her face. His Adam’s apple bobs.

She’d need a chisel and a hammer to get him to smile.

Christ. His hand is the size of her face. Lucky patients.

He cranes his neck, searching for an employee. “I can’t believe they just left you alone with an arsenal of weapons,” he mutters.

She yanks off her sunglasses and whips her head to him. “Wonderful. Genuinely the exact behavior modeled by toddlers. Lack of impulse control. Tantrums.”

His attention is set on her tattooed thighs.

The one-piece black swimsuit she wears should be modest and boring. Instead, it clings to her lush curves, her soft breasts. Turns him into a teenager all over again.

“If I wanted to kill you, that’s not the way I’d do it.” Her sharp brow arches. “I’m intrigued.” “I’m certified.”

He closes his eyes briefly, exasperated.

Her husky voice gives his dick a little nudge of encouragement.

Two thin stripes run up the backs of her calves all the way to the tops of her thighs. Like the seams on pinup stockings topped with little bows. Nathaniel scrubs a hand through his hair. Christ. She just walks around with those out for anyone to see? It’s getting ridiculous. It’s the sexiest goddamn thing he’s ever seen. It’s also the moment he knows he’s fucked.

Maybe her life isn’t as together as she tells herself it is. Maybe it never will be.

That night, she got drunk and lit her wedding dress on fire in her bathtub.