Deadlands Heat (Doomsday Lover Book 1) by Sienna Cole

 
    Chapter One
    Warm Bodies
     
    IT WAS EASY to pity someone once they were dead. It didn’t matter who you were in life, death turned you into a hunk of meat. These were the same men who’d murdered Danny Carver, a friend and fellow courier, and left him on the side of the road like garbage. But seeing them like this—sprawled in the dirt, surrounded by buzzing flies—it was hard to appreciate the poetic justice.
    The sun blazed in the distance, hanging low on the dusty, orange horizon. The air simmered with heat and grit. The breeze, when there was one, carried the scent of baking sand, wilted vegetation and death. I pushed the clinging blonde wisps out of my eyes and walked a slow circuit around the bloody scene. There were three bodies in the middle of the long dirt road. By the looks of it, the ambush had happened quickly, too quickly for them to take cover or return fire. The package they’d stolen was surely long gone, but I’d have to search them, just in case.
    I took a deep breath and squatted down beside the closest one—a thick, middle-aged man with a leather patch over one eye. The top of his skull had been blown off. His mouth hung open in perpetual surprise. Poor, greedy bastard.
    As suspected, he’d been picked clean. It was the same with all the others.
    “Motherfucker.” I stood, and kicked up a rusty cloud that billowed in the turgid air. The tracks in the road headed off towards the next town. I got back on my bike and said a silent prayer that it would get me that far. The engine coughed twice before finally spluttering to life. One good thing about heading out this way was that I’d finally get to settle up with Al about the piece-of-shit he’d sold me. Sonofabitch owed me a new ride.
     
    AN HOUR LATER, I chugged to a stop under a weathered sign that read Axel’s Tavern. The two-story bar and brothel slouched at the edge of a small, rutted town square. The other ‘official’ buildings were laid out in a semi-circle. There were only four of them; a general store, a post office, a small bank and a jail. There was a tiny whitewashed schoolhouse down the road that sometimes doubled as a clinic. Tumble-down shacks sprang up like weeds in the middle of wilted fields and spindly orchards. They seemed to sag into the dirt, waiting to be consumed by the ravenous red earth.
    The tavern was the only place that showed any signs of life. Light and sound poured from its wide, square windows; raucous laughter and raised voices, competing with the belligerent strains of a country ballad. I parked out front, between a beat up Chevy and a line of hogs, and pushed my way inside. The air hit me like an unwashed blanket; cloying and close, heavy with the heat of the day—thick with smoke and the pong of sweat-stained bodies.
    There were several girls around the room, each clinging like a vine to her mark. As I walked across the room, someone grabbed my ass and gave it a rough squeeze. “Hey there, Sweet-Cheeks. Wanna buck ?”
    I turned, forcing him to drop his hand. He was red faced, red eyed and tottering drunk. “No.” I said. “I don’t.”
    “Cum’on, Sugar.” He reached for me again. “Don’t be a bitch.”
    The second his hand made contact with my body, I gave the wrist a sharp twist—he hissed as I turned him around and pulled his arm up behind his back.
    I spoke into his ear. “I said no .”
    “Fine! Okay.” I let him go. He glared at me, muttered, “Fucking cock tease,” and then stumbled off into the crowd.
    I got some raised eyebrows and a few cat calls, but no one else tried to touch me as I made my way to the bar.
    The man behind the counter gave me a casual once-over. “If you’re lookin’ for a room, we’re full up. Though, I bet you could find someone willing to share.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    He nodded. “What’ll it be?”
    “Cheap and wet.”
    He snorted. “You lookin’ for a drink or a girl?”
    I chuckled with him and leaned on the bar, letting him