Bullseye Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyrighted Material

  Other Books By Monica James

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect with Monica James

  Copyrighted Material

  BULLSEYE

  (The Monsters Within Duet, Book One)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.

  Copyright © 2020 by Monica James

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express, written consent of the author.

  Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Cover Model: Andrew England

  Photographer: James Rupapara

  Editing: Editing 4 Indies

  Interior designed and formatted by:

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  Follow me on:

  authormonicajames.com

  THE I SURRENDER SERIES

  I Surrender

  Surrender to Me

  Surrendered

  White

  SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL SERIES

  Something like Normal

  Something like Redemption

  Something like Love

  A HARD LOVE ROMANCE

  Dirty Dix

  Wicked Dix

  The Hunt

  MEMORIES FROM YESTERDAY DUET

  Forgetting You, Forgetting Me

  Forgetting You, Remembering Me

  SINS OF THE HEART DUET

  Absinthe of the Heart

  Defiance of the Heart

  ALL THE PRETTY THINGS TRILOGY

  Bad Saint

  Fallen Saint

  Forever My Saint

  THE MONSTERS WITHIN DUET

  Bullseye

  STANDALONE

  Mr. Write

  Chase the Butterflies

  Elle Kennedy, I loaf you. Let’s never take a boat ride again.

  P.S. I hope our dogs never get kidnapped. And baby carrots make me bloated.

  CONTENT WARNING: BULLSEYE is a DARK ROMANCE containing mature themes that might make some readers uncomfortable. It includes strong violence, possible triggers, and some dark and disturbing scenes.

  This is the point of no return because now, it’s time you forgo what’s left of your soul…

  Bull

  “A pair of motorcycle boots, size thirteen. A Harley-Davidson T-shirt. A pair of blue jeans ripped in both knees. A black hoodie. A leather wallet containing eighty-five dollars. And a silver necklace with a St. Christopher medallion.

  “Here is two hundred and fifty dollars, a map, and three condoms. You got someone picking you up?”

  Shaking my head, I reach for my belongings spread out on the long wooden counter before me.

  “The nearest bus stop is half a mile that way.” He points over his shoulder.

  “I’ll walk,” I reply bluntly, kicking off my white sneakers and shedding myself of this uniform that has been my second skin for twelve long years. I don’t care that someone’s grandma gasps from just feet away when she sees my tighty-whities. I need to get it the fuck…off me.

  “Walk to where? Things have changed since you’ve been locked up. Folk ain’t like they used to be.”

  “I’ll figure it out.” My jeans are a little loose around the middle, which is no surprise. You wouldn’t even feed your dog the shit I’ve been eating in here. However, the T-shirt is tight across my chest and upper arms. Boots and hoodie still fit. The chain is the last thing I put on.

  Pederson cocks a disbelieving brow and shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Good luck, Bull. You’re gonna need it.”

  I nod in gratitude. He was the only guard in this hellhole who actually gave a rat’s ass if I lived or died.

  I don’t bother taking one last look at the place that has been my home for over a decade because every corner, every crevice of this shithole will be burned into my memory for as long as I live. You don’t forget Kinkora Correctional Facility, and it sure as shit doesn’t forget you. Half the crims are locked back up within six months of release because it’s easier to deal with the politics inside the walls, than on the outside.

  The rules on the inside are easy:

  Don’t trust anyone.

  Don’t show emotion.

  Don’t snitch.

  Follow these three simple rules, and you’ll do just fine.

  What’s completely foreign to me and my brothers before me are the rules on the outside. I’ve almost forgotten society’s rules, because when doing time, you abide by an entirely different law. Inside, it’s survival of the fittest, and unlike real life, the difference will cost you your life.

  Pederson presses a button behind the counter, granting me my freedom. I shoulder open the glass door and stroll toward the steel gates that swing open slowly. The guards watch me closely. I can smell their fear. They weren’t so attentive when they turned a blind eye the night I got shivved in my cell, thanks to some white supremacist assholes who didn’t appreciate me calling Hitler a mama’s boy.

  But that’s in the past because unlike my predecessors, I refuse to become a statistic. I’d rather end my own life than be trapped in a six-by-eight cell ever again.

  Once the gate is open, I take my first steps as a free man.

  Looking from left to right, I see that Detroit hasn’t changed an iota. It’s still a piece of shit wasteland where dreams go to die.

  I toss the map and condoms into the dirt and decide to head north. If I remember correctly, there’s a cheap motel a couple of miles away. The deserted road has represented my freedom for so long, so I can’t help but think I should feel something, anything, to be walking along it. But I’m dead inside, and I don’t feel a thing.

  Refer to prison rule number two.

  The farther away I walk, the more isolated things become. I’m thirty years old, and I have no idea where I’m headed. Not just literally, but figuratively as well. I have no skills, no trade, and no special talents. I was just a punk ass kid who should have studied harder in school.

  If I was more like my older brother, Damian, I could have been a fucking astronaut by now. I don’t blame my parents for the way I ended up because it wasn’t their fault. It was mine. I had idle hands and used them time and time again as the devil’s plaything.

  Blood.

  So much blood.

  I swallow down the memory that plagues me every time I close my fucking eyes. If I’m going to survive this, then I need to learn how to survive with my eyes opened and closed. It’s the only way I won’t end up back inside.

  The cool breeze has me drawing the hood over my shaved head ’cause the dark storm clouds ahead look angry as shit. Moments later, the heavens open and dump angel piss all over me. I pick up the pace to a steady run when I see the red flashing neon sign of Hudson’s Motel a few blocks ahead.

  Even though the name has changed, it’s still the same run-down dump it was twelve years ago. No amount of paint can polish this shithole
. But this shithole will be my home until I can put my plan into motion.

  So home sweet fucking home.

  The bell above the door sounds sick as I shove open the woodgrain, happy to get inside and out of this biblical weather. Behind the white reception desk sits a middle-aged woman flicking through a magazine while smoking a thin cigar.

  Her blue eyes flick up and meet mine. “Hey, sugar. You’re all wet. Did you walk here in the rain?”

  Nodding, I slip the hood off my head and wipe a hand over the short dark bristles on my skull.

  Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a hundred-dollar bill. The skull tattoo on the back of my hand catches her attention. “How many nights can I stay here with this?”

  Her red fingernails are like talons as she draws the tattered money toward her. She fingers the note and looks at me carefully. “You just get out?”

  I nod once again.

  She must be able to smell the felon all over me. “For you, sugar, this will buy you a week.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” She reaches into her low-cut neckline and produces a creased white business card. “If you’re needing anything, give me a call.”

  She leans across the counter, holding the card between two fingers. I accept it and read the name.

  Venus Bisset—Manager.

  “I appreciate it,” I say, holding up the card.

  “Oh, sugar,” she purrs. “With pretty eyes like yours, don’t hesitate to call me. Day or night.” She winks her ridiculously long fake eyelashes, which look like caterpillars have mutated on her eyelids.

  “Thanks, Venus.”

  “Thank you. I’ve never seen someone with two different eye colors before. It’s as if heaven and hell are fighting their own personal battle, wanting to conquer the other side,” she reveals, appearing in awe of my genetic anomaly.

  Her gaze darts from my left eye, which is a bright blue, to my right, which on any given day can appear green or amber. Her attention swings back to my left—the blue always seems to win.

  “Which side is winning out?” she asks as I slip my hood back over my head.

  “Ask me that next week.”

  She smirks, licking her red painted lips before shuffling through her drawer, which holds a stack of white key cards. “I’ll sign you in. What’s your name?”

  Shuffling my boots, I give her the name I’ve been known by since that night. But this name can also be comparable to who I’ve become. “Bullseye. But call me Bull.”

  “Don’t say much, do you?”

  I nod curtly because she’s right: I don’t fill the void with nonsense. I speak only when necessary.

  “I’ll make sure you’ll have no problems. I don’t want problems.” She slides the key across the surface, not asking about my nickname.

  “Neither do I.” I reach for the key card, but Venus slaps her hand over mine. My hand instantly curls into a fist, and my entire body goes into fight mode, but I take a small breath, reining in my need to inflict pain.

  “Ice machine is just around the corner, and all rooms are nonsmoking.” One wouldn’t dare pollute this upstanding establishment.

  She lets me go and smiles. “Enjoy your stay. You’re in room fourteen. You need me, you’ve got my number.”

  Instantly, I draw my hand back and unclench it slowly. Venus seems unmoved by my weird behavior.

  With the key card in hand, I thank Venus, before walking out the door. The moment I’m outside, I take two deep breaths to subdue the roaring demons within. Being touched is my hard limit. Don’t touch me, and we won’t have a problem.

  I don’t like people being all up in my grill. After being inside for so long, you forget the touch of another human, and you learn to live with it. And, after a while, I began to like it. I liked the solitude because touch connects you with another, and that’s something I’m not interested in.

  Getting my shit together, I stroll down the covered concrete walkway. My room is the second to last door on the left. I swipe the card over the sensor and wait for it to beep, permitting me entry. When I open the door, the four in my room number creaks and suddenly falls, swinging from side to side and hanging upside down. Its derelict condition reveals what I’m in for once I step inside.

  Without further delay, I enter my room, and it’s exactly what I expected—a small, simply furnished room with a private bathroom.

  Closing and locking the door behind me, I kick off my boots and turn on the wall heater. The red carpet is filthy, and the cigarette burns hint that those before me didn’t give a shit about the no smoking rule.

  I walk across the room and into the bathroom. Flicking on the dim light, I see I have a shower/bath combo, a sink, a mirror, and a toilet. Some cheap toiletries are neatly arranged on the cracked marbled counter. Looking at the small shower, I realize I’ll enjoy this the most. Being able to take a warm shower without having to look over your shoulder, worried you’ll get knifed or fucked for your bar of soap, will be nice.

  Stripping, I hang up my clothes on the silver hook and turn the water to hot. The bathroom instantly fills with steam. Not caring that the temperature burns my skin, I step under the spray, the constant chill from my bones slowly disappearing as I turn my body from side to side.

  Being robbed of the simple pleasures in life may seem unfair, but I deserve it. I deserve it all.

  When I think about how I robbed someone of simple, everyday luxuries, I suddenly feel underserving of this small piece of happiness. I don’t deserve happiness. I gave up that right when I made the biggest mistake of my life.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe through the memories as I turn the faucet to cold. Bracing my palms on the tiled wall, I drop my head between my splayed arms. The silver chain dangles like a pendulum around my neck. I pray the cold water will wash away my sins, but it never does. It just highlights that no matter whether I’m free or behind bars, I’ll forever be enslaved to the past and what I have to do to feed the demons inside me.

  I’ll forever be imprisoned to the day I picked up a gun and shot a man in cold blood. However, the only regret I have…is that I got caught.

  Thanks to my trip down misery lane, I’m left restless and not in a good headspace. Maybe I could score some pussy to help take the edge off. But I haven’t been with a woman in so long, I’d probably embarrass myself the moment she undresses. I’m not here for that though. I have a job to do.

  Wallowing in my self-pity isn’t doing me any good, so I grab my key card and slip it into the back pocket of my still damp jeans. I noticed a Goodwill store a few blocks up. I’ll walk off the heaviness and hope like hell this feeling of despair goes away.

  Not that it ever does. But maybe today is different.

  It’s dark out, and the heavy rain has turned to a light drizzle. Keeping my head down, I walk to the store, not interested in bumping into any trouble. I plan on staying hidden in the shadows because there is no way I’m going back inside.

  They say prison changes a man, and they’re right. I learned that quickly when my eighteen-year-old ass got thrown into a cesspool of the depraved and was expected to fend for myself.

  I thought I was a gangster, and my smart mouth would get me through, but all it got me was three busted ribs, two black eyes, and a different use for my smart mouth. From that day forward, ties to my past were brutalized, and I was no longer Cody Bishop. I was Bullseye. A nickname I earned from the vicious men I called my roomies when they learned my story.

  After that, the naïve wannabe gangster became the unfeeling asshole I am today. Prison taught me how to lie, cheat, and steal. I wasn’t interested in being anyone’s bitch, so I transformed from the gangly teenager to a six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound fighting machine. I worked out when we had yard time, and when we were herded back into our cells, I did what I could in my six-by-eight space.

  Training kept me sane. And it was the only thing that kept me safe. But no matter how big you are, someone is always bigger and badder.
And my big bad came in the form of a neo-Nazi by the name of Snow White. He got his name thanks to the drugs he dealt before he got caught.

  I subconsciously rub over the six-inch scar that runs from my right kidney up to my spleen. I was told that getting stabbed seventeen times and surviving was a miracle, but I don’t agree. Dying would have been the easy way out. But surviving alongside Snow and thugs just like him trained me to become who I am today. And that’s someone you don’t fuck with.

  I push open the glass door of the small, overcrowded Goodwill store and head over to the men’s apparel section. I don’t need much, so I grab the essentials. After the bored teenager rings up my haul, I pay and then shove all my belongings into the duffel I also bought.

  “Have a nice day,” she robotically says even though it’s pitch black outside. Detroit does that to people. Before long, all days blend together, becoming one long, tiresome, monotonous day.

  The store clerk’s interest is suddenly piqued, however, when I take off my thin hoodie and slip into the black leather jacket I just bought.

  She couldn’t be much older than eighteen, and I revisit the idea that maybe I could burn off some steam by scoring some pussy. But the idea falls flat on its ass when an older man comes into the store, his arms filled with goods. He stops in his tracks when he sees me.

  “Brandy, everything okay?” His gaze darts back and forth between us.

  “Yes, Dad, everything is fine,” she replies, clearing her throat, appearing embarrassed to be caught staring.

  “Okay then.” He walks past me and nods. “You got everything you need?”

  He’s doing a poor job at disguising his disgust that I’m anywhere near his beloved Brandy. But I don’t blame him. I need to get used to these side glances and being treated like the inked-up criminal that I am.

  Quickly shouldering the duffel, I nod once and exit the store, feeling even worse than when I walked in.