Iron Heart (Lords of Carnage Ironwood MC) Read online

  IRON HEART

  Lords of Carnage: Ironwood MC

  Daphne Loveling

  Copyright 2019 Daphne Loveling

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Credits

  Dedication

  1. Tori

  2. Tori

  3. Dante

  4. Tori

  5. Dante

  6. Dante

  7. Tori

  8. Dante

  9. Tori

  10. Dante

  11. Tori

  12. Dante

  13. Tori

  14. Dante

  15. Tori

  16. Dante

  17. Tori

  18. Dante

  19. Tori

  20. Tori

  21. Dante

  22. Tori

  23. Dante

  24. Tori

  25. Dante

  26. Tori

  27. Dante

  28. Tori

  29. Dante

  30. Tori

  31. Dante

  32. Tori

  33. Tori

  Epilogue

  Daphne Talks Out Her Ass About IRON HEART

  Books by Daphne Loveling

  About Daphne Loveling

  Photo by The Faces/Shutterstock.com

  Cover design by Coverlüv

  To you, dear reader.

  Your heart is made of iron.

  You just might not know it yet.

  And to Brenda Muylaert, for naming Tori.

  And to Michelle, my bestie.

  You are one badass bitch.

  1

  Tori

  “The image of Jesus in her lawn?” I explode into the phone in disbelief.

  “It’s a good story,” my editor’s soothing voice comes back at me. “Come on, Tori, lighten up. It’ll be great front page material. A real crowd pleaser.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me, Frank? It makes no sense!” I protest, pushing the covers off of me and sitting up in bed. “I mean, didn’t someone just mow the image into the damn grass? How is that a miracle?”

  “You don’t know that,” he admonishes.

  “Yes, I freaking do,” I retort, my voice rising. “Honestly, Frank, of all the stupid stories you’ve sent me out to do, this might actually be the worst one. Which is saying something, after the rooster who crows ‘God Bless America’.” I shake my head at the memory. “That was complete and utter bullshit, by the way. You’re lucky I didn’t force you to upload the video on the Post-Gazette’s website so people could hear it.”

  But Frank just ignores my words.

  “Look, just get over there, okay?” he sighs. “They’ll be expecting you. Take Jake. He can meet you there to get some photos to go with the story. I’ve already told him about it, so he knows you’ll be in touch.”

  “Does he think it’s a miracle?” I ask sarcastically.

  “Jake isn’t paid to think,” Frank shoots back, a hint of irritation coming through in his tone. “He’s paid to take pictures. And you’re paid to cover the stories I tell you to cover. Now go. And by the way, my plan is to put this story on next week’s front page, so I’ll expect you to finish it with your usual promptness.”

  I open my mouth to say something else snarky. But before I can get a word in, the click on the other end tells me Frank has hung up.

  Letting out an incredulous huff, I toss my phone back on the nightstand and wriggle out of the covers to stand up. “Unbelievable,” I announce to my bedroom — which does not agree or disagree with my assessment.

  Very unsatisfying.

  It’s barely nine o’clock on a Monday morning, and already today is turning out to be a crappy beginning to what will probably be a shitty week.

  It’s not fair, I whine in my head. I had such plans for today. I’d already gotten Frank’s okay to take a half-day off from work, knowing I’d be tired after the drive back last night from visiting my parents in Columbus. I had envisioned myself having a lazy, leisurely morning — filled with nothing but drinking coffee and finishing up a romance novel I’ve barely had time to read.

  Now my much-anticipated half-day of freedom is already ruined. Ruined by my own irritation at this stupid non-story Frank insists on sending me to cover.

  Still grumbling, I head into the hallway toward the bathroom, to pee and run a brush through my bed-tousled hair. On the way, I pass by my roommate Savannah’s bedroom. Her bed is made, I note, and looks untouched from last night. No surprise there. Savannah spends most nights at her boyfriend Jeremy’s place these days.

  Even so, I feel a flash of disappointment that she isn’t here. I could have used someone to vent to. Savannah always seems to get a kick out of the absurd stories Frank sends me out to cover.

  Pushing open the door to the bathroom, I take quick note of the pillow wrinkles on my cheek in the mirror. I make a sour face and stick out my tongue at my reflection. “I swear this is the worst reporting job in the whole world,” I mutter at her.

  Working as a features writer at the Ironwood Post-Gazette isn’t at all what I’d imagined for myself when I started journalism school, that’s for sure. All through my childhood, I had cherished dreams of becoming a foreign correspondent. Back then, I was sure that by now I’d be working for a nationally-recognized newspaper. I’d work my way up the ladder, earning a reputation as someone willing to take any risk for a story. I’d be fearless — tough as nails, the first to volunteer to go to a war zone. I’d smoke cigars and knock back shots with the sons of despots and warlords. I’d go anywhere, do anything to get the story.

  Eventually, of course, I’d be recognized for my intrepid style and hard-hitting reporting with that most prestigious of journalistic awards: a Pulitzer prize.

  But that was then.

  Back when I was still able to dream about a high-flying career. Back before I had to accept the harsh reality that it would be too risky to trot around the globe with a broken body like mine.

  Back before I was forced to admit to myself that the only journalism jobs in my future were the ones that didn’t allow me to get too stressed, and didn’t involve danger.

  In other words, the exact opposite of what I’d wanted in the first place.

  Though I think an argument can be made that being forced to do a feature story on an apparition of Jesus Christ in some old lady’s lawn is pretty stressful, too.

  I splash cold water on my face, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and yank my messy blond waves into a high knot on top of my head. When I’m done, I go back to my bedroom to grab my phone, then stumble downstairs to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Decaf, of course. I’m not supposed to have the regular kind.

  As I’m measuring the coffee to put in the filter, my phone vibrates to tell me I have a call. It’s my mom. I let out a low groan and consider not answering, but I know from experience that will just make her go into a panic. Better to just deal with it now.

  “Hi, Mom!” I say brightly.

  “Hello, Tori, dear,” comes her worried voice through the speaker. “I just wanted to call and check up that you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine,” I assure her. “Just like I told you when I texted you last night after
I got home.”

  “Well, I just wanted to make sure. You’re taking today off to rest, right?”

  “Just the morning,” I correct her. “I have to go cover a story this afternoon.”

  “Don’t tax yourself, Tori,” she frets.

  I suck in a breath, slowly, and then let it out in silence, willing my irritation not to show in my voice. I can’t really blame my mother for her concern. But even though she means well, the degree to which she worries about me getting stressed is…

  Well, stressful.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Mom. I promise. I had a good night’s sleep, I feel good. Everything’s okay. Okay?”

  “Well, all right,” my mom breathes. “I don’t suppose your father bothered to check up that you got home safely,” she adds, a familiar contemptuous tone creeping into her voice.

  Oh, boy.

  “Actually, Dad asked me to text him last night when I got back to Ironwood,” I say carefully. “So he knows I’m okay, too.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good,” Mom sniffs, sounding disappointed.

  “Okay. So we’re done worrying, right?” I don’t wait for her to respond. “Look, I’m gonna let you go, so I can grab some breakfast. Talk to you later. Love you!”

  “Love you, too!” she chimes back, cheerful but forced.

  The relief I feel when I press the button to hang up is palpable. This scenario plays out every time I go back home for a visit. I spend the whole weekend juggling my time between my two divorced parents. Then when I leave to come back home, we have to play the which parent worries more about Tori game. It gets really old, really fast. If I didn’t know they actually had a valid reason to be worried about me, I probably would have figured out a way to put a stop to it a long time ago.

  Sighing, I set the phone down and finish up prepping the coffee. Shoving some bread into the toaster to go with it, I sit down to thumb through my favorite news sites as I wait for them both to be done.

  I flick through the international news section of one paper, my eyes darting to different stories about conflicts throughout the world. Most people look at these stories and see things their instinct is to turn away from. I, on the other hand, see them as missed opportunities. I itch to be there, to be the one covering the story myself.

  I notice that one article, about something happening in Libya, has a female byline. My stomach clenches.

  That could have been me. I could have written that story.

  I wonder if there’s any chance the journalist who wrote that story wishes she was in my place as much as I wish I was in hers. Living in a small town in southern Ohio. About to cover a story on Jesus appearing in someone’s lawn.

  Doubtful.

  I’m not sure how long I spend staring at my phone, daydreaming of another life. But eventually I’m pulled out of my thoughts by the aroma of coffee.

  There’s another smell blending in with it, too. But strangely, it’s not the smell of toast.

  Frowning, I look up from my screen at the kitchen counter. The auto drip maker is making its final spurting noises, indicating the coffee’s almost done.

  The toaster, on the other hand, is sort of…

  Smoking?

  2

  Tori

  “Shit!” I screech, leaping up from the kitchen table so quickly my phone clatters to the ground. Ignoring it, I run over to the counter, where I now realize the odor I smelled is burning. But not burning bread; more like burning plastic. The bread bag is nowhere near the toaster, so it can’t be that. I reach to flip the toaster lever up manually, but then I realize it’s not the toast that’s burning, it’s the cord. My hand darts to it on instinct, yanking it out of the socket before my mind can register that maybe that’s a dumb thing to do. As the prongs leave the outlet, sparks fly out behind them.

  “Jesus!” I cry, hopping back in fear. Panicking a little, my first thought is to turn off the power, though I’m a little afraid to leave the kitchen in case a fire starts. I bolt downstairs to the fuse box as fast as I can, hoping I can see what to do. When I get down there, I grab the flashlight I keep next to it and shine it on the box, looking for the master switch. I see immediately that one of the fuses is has blown, the interior black and fogged. It must be the one connected to the toaster.

  A hint of relief courses through me. So, I guess, problem solved? If the fuse has blown, then the current is cut, right? I don’t know. I know basically nothing about this stuff. Despite owning a house with wiring that hasn’t been updated since probably World War II.

  I run back up the stairs, and when I’m back in front of the counter I see the sparks have stopped and nothing looks like it’s burning. Tentatively, I reach out a hand to touch the antique metal strike plate. It’s so hot it burns the pads of my fingers, and I yelp and quickly pull away.

  “Ouch! Shit,” I hiss again in the now-silent kitchen, shaking my hand against the receding pain in my fingertips. It’s only at this moment that I notice my heart is pounding in my chest. A tiny surge of alarm spikes in my brain, making me instantly forget everything else except calming down the beat before it starts to get worse. Putting both hands on the counter, I lean into them, stare at a fixed point on the wall, and make myself take a moment just to draw a few slow, deep breaths, counting as I go. Five, then ten. Blowing out the last breath, I notice my heart seems to be slowing again.

  Okay. Good. It’s fine. Fine. We’re all good here.

  Thank God I wasn’t on the phone with my mother when that happened, I think with a nervous bubble of laughter. She’d have called an ambulance already, and she’d be in her car racing toward Ironwood right now.

  With a final shaky sigh, I turn around and lean back against the counter. I stare at the open door that leads to the basement, the problem of my wiring issue coming back into focus. I guess calling an electrician has officially moved to the top of my home renovation and repair list.

  “Thanks, Aunt Jeanne,” I say out loud to the empty room. “I think.”

  When my Aunt Jeanne died early last year, I’m sure she thought she was doing me a favor by leaving me this old, sprawling Queen Anne-style house in her will. With the house, she also left me an entire new life. An easy, comfortable life that I only had to step into, like slipping into a warm, comfortable bath.

  I’m sure she thought she was doing me a favor with that, too. It certainly did make some things easier for me. But sometimes — like today, for example — the ready-made life I’ve been leading in Ironwood, Ohio since I moved here feels more like a prison than anything.

  I only found out that Jeanne had been diagnosed with terminal cancer after after she died. She hadn’t bothered to tell anybody in our family — which, even though it was a shock, was just the sort of behavior I would have expected out of my only aunt. Jeanne was never the kind of lady who wanted sympathy or attention. She absolutely hated people fussing over her. She would have especially it in a situation like hers, when ultimately, we found out later, there hadn’t been much to be done to help her. Her family doctor shared with us after her death that by the time they found the cancer, there was no chance of successfully curing it. The only thing that could have been done for her was potentially to give her more time — but that would also have probably involved a long, drawn-out death in a hospital bed or hospice.

  Knowing Jeanne as well as I did, I imagine she didn’t want to have to argue with family and friends about expensive and ultimately futile treatments. She probably didn’t want to spend her waning energy batting away their insistence that if anyone could beat the odds, it was her.

  Instead, my aunt Jeanne had chosen to live out the last months of her life much as she had lived the previous years: on her own terms, fiercely independent, and with no intention of sacrificing her freedom to anyone or anything.

  Jeanne lived here in Ironwood for her entire adult life. She moved here as a newlywed with her brand-new husband Jim when they were both in their early twenties. When Jim died twelve years later, the two of
them hadn’t yet had any children, so Jeanne was left alone with this house, in the town that had become her adopted home. She never remarried — never even dated again, as far as I know. She just got on with life, as was her nature.

  I always wondered if Jeanne regretted not becoming a mother. But if she did, I never heard it from her lips. Instead, my mother’s older sister treated me like the daughter she’d never had. All throughout my childhood, I would come to Ironwood and stay with Jeanne for six weeks every summer. She was a school teacher and had summers off herself, so she’d spoil me rotten with lazy days at the public pool, trips to the local Dairy Queen for my favorite hot fudge sundaes, and movie marathons complete with all the popcorn I could eat, slumped back in her overstuffed couch in front of her TV.

  As I said, Jeanne didn’t tell anybody in our family that she was sick. But she clearly wasn’t in denial about her state. In those final months, having been deprived of a future for herself, she turned to thinking of somebody else’s: Namely, mine. Jeanne wrote up a simple will with her lawyer, saying that the house and everything in it would be left to me, as well as her car and everything else on the property.

  And I’ve never been able to verify this, but I’m also pretty sure Jeanne talked to her old friend Frank Lamoine — the editor and half-owner of the Ironwood Post-Gazette — and got him to offer me the job of features writer three days after Jeanne’s funeral.