My Immortal Cowboy (Hell's Cowboys Book 1) Read online

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” RC shook his head at a Hillbilly Delight magazine peeking out from under his bed. “I’m rooming with a man-child.” RC shut the door and pledged to never, and he meant never, enter frat boy territory again.

  Before he entered his room, RC rested his head on the door and prayed that it would be clean. After witnessing the horror of the last one, God only knew what he was walking into. He opened the door and was pleasantly surprised. Thank God! Right out of one of those vacation brochures advertising their five-star, upscale hotel suites, the space was too fancy for his blood.

  A black, four-poster king-sized bed took up a quarter of the area. One wall was lined with mirrors. Looking up at the ceiling, he noticed a rectangle of golden glass cubes casting a warm glow over the whole bedroom like rays of sunlight shining down. However, he knew the sun didn’t shine in places like this.

  He placed the towels on the bed, then made his way into the bathroom checking out the accommodations. The theme of black and warm gold carried through. And again, everything from the multi-spray shower to the huge black marbled garden tub and toilet, was high-end.

  He sat on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, his jaw still throbbing. Where to start? The nightmare wasn’t ending soon, in fact, it had only just begun.

  Thinking back to what Roman had said about him never being sick and healing fast… He’d known early on that he was different, but how different… he never expected half human, half vampire.

  Vampire blood raced through his veins and burned like flowing hot lava. All five senses were enhanced. He tasted the pine in the air, could feel the slightest vibrations, and he could hear the Cowboys’ heartbeats coming from the next room. His brain was going to explode from stimulus overload. Something animalistic shifted inside him.

  Frustrated, he sighed and ran his hands through his thick dark hair, then fell back into the bed. He’d never be the same again.

  Questions and thoughts shot from one scene to another as he tried to make sense of this mess. Dad is a vampire? The last memory he had of the man was when he was five years old. His father had tucked him in for the night, then sat on the edge of the bed and said something he’d never forget; “Son, your life here on Earth is nothing more than a blink of an eye. The afterlife is when your true life begins.”

  He could still hear that deep southern drawl. It was the last time he saw his dad. Maw said that he’d been hit by a drunk driver on his way to bull ride in Oklahoma. Strange thing was she’d never mentioned him again after their talk. No tears, no funeral. As an only child, he grew up quick as his mother drowned her sorrows in the bottle.

  Now none of that made sense. Was he truly dead, or alive and staying out of his life? Should he be out searching for him? Nah, the bloodsucker would be able to find him easy enough if he wanted to. For all he cared, his father had gotten his stake through the heart years ago and wasn’t coming back.

  Damn him for not telling the truth; the bastard had to have known. Damn him for leaving his maw. He tamped down his daddy issues, but then Charlee crept into his thoughts—the one person who could bring him to his knees.

  It wasn’t supposed to end like this. As he stared up into the glowing ceiling, images of Charlee rushed over him. Having so much to say and never knowing what might have been, crushed him. Charlee would never know how much he loved her or how much he missed her. Or would she? Could he stay away from her? Either way, it didn’t matter—he was dead to her.

  “Shit.” He closed his eyes. Fate was a bitch.

  3

  Two years later

  Dolls and Devils Gentlemen’s Club

  Diablo, Texas

  Charlee Brysen slammed the door of her beat up Chevy truck—her grandmother’s hand-me-down. The rain pelted as she opened her umbrella. Because of the downpour and stalling out at the last intersection, she was already an hour late. Running to the back door of the D&D, on nights like this she wished it was her truck being valet parked and that she was entering the posh covered entrance instead of dodging puddles in the back.

  The club was marketed as classy, appealing to wealthy men who paid well. Classy? That was debatable. This place catered to all types of demons and preyed on the weak. Whether drugs, fetishes, or alcohol, D&D catered to unquenchable desires and served its patrons well. That was what kept the doors open. Souls be damned.

  To an insider who saw what went down in those dark, cozy nooks and corners, Charlee knew firsthand how high-class those men were. For the right amount of cash, anything goes.

  Yet she refused to tarnish her soul. This stripping arrangement was temporary. Down on her luck two years ago, she’d stopped by the club to grab an application. She was relieved to see some of the dancers wearing masks. It was perfect. She could conceal her identity.

  Inexperienced, her innocence had been glaring the day she’d auditioned for Val, the club owner, and Delilah, the den mother. She shook her head, remembering her first striptease and how many times she’d tripped and wobbled in her stilettos. When Delilah called the next day to say she’d got the job, Charlee had been shocked.

  However, she grew more confident over the months. The pasties didn’t bother her as much now. Lap dances were a different story. Even though that was where the money was, she seldom did one. Unable to get over being so close and personal with men she didn’t know, she relied on tips from the stage the most.

  After RC’s death, the idea of grinding on a stranger just felt wrong.

  Charlee opened the back door and entered the building, giving her umbrella a good shake before she closed it, and tossed it into a bucket. After removing her raincoat and hanging it to dry, she hustled down a hallway lined with framed pictures of celebrities who had visited the club since its opening night ten years ago. Running her fingers through her wet blonde hair, she hoped she’d have time to take a blow dryer to the mess of waves before she went on stage.

  She entered the dressing room like a tornado, apologizing profusely to the other dancers. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  She rushed to her locker and shoved her purse on the top shelf, then removed her pink tee and grey yoga pants.

  “No worries, hon. Jackie took your spot. You’re on in thirty.” The redhead returned her focus to the gold-framed mirror surrounded by bright lights, freshening her makeup.

  “Thanks, Gia. The weather is horrible out there.” Charlee tossed her bra into the locker and slipped into a black spandex vest with a plunging neckline, snapping the buttons in place.

  “From what I’ve heard, it’s supposed to rain all weekend,” Gia said.

  “Wonderful. I’m working all weekend.” Charlee huffed as she pulled on hot shorts over her thong. “I should buy a boat so I can make it to work on time.”

  They both chuckled.

  As Charlee organized her makeup on the counter, she looked up at a photo hanging on her vanity and froze. It was one of RC winning his first belt buckle. She sat down. God, why does it have to hurt so bad?

  It had been two years since she said goodbye and he still haunted her. She’d reluctantly given him the break in their relationship that he’d asked for, but she’d never thought he’d leave her for good before they had a chance to work things out. She never understood his reasons, but had given him his space anyway.

  At least it wasn’t another woman; it was that damn old rodeo—bull riding fever had won his heart. She looked at herself in the mirror. If RC could see me now. She shook her head, disgusted by her reflection.

  If the stars had aligned, all she’d needed was two years, then she would have had a business degree, and could have opened the bakery she’d always wanted, keeping her grandmother’s ranch from foreclosure. But fate always had a way of kicking her in the ass.

  What would Gran think?

  Her grandmother would be disappointed that she hadn’t gone back to school. When she came home from college to go to RC’s funeral, she hadn’t expected to be hit by the news
that Gran was ill. She couldn’t leave knowing that she might not ever see her again. It had been her and Gran on their own since she was young. She owed her so much.

  Charlee applied blush to her cheeks, thinking back on simpler times when Pop Pop would be out mowing the fields on his tractor. He’d call her over and put her on his lap to take the wheel while he sat behind her drinking a beer. It was devastating that Pop Pop had died when she was ten.

  But those bittersweet memories kept her going. Even stripping couldn’t pay all the bills at the ranch now. What she brought home barely kept the vultures at bay. Whatever had to be done she’d do it to keep her home—it was all she had now that RC was gone.

  Can’t wasn’t in her vocabulary. Gran had raised a strong, confident granddaughter and fate had raised an independent woman, grabbing life by the balls and demanding to make it better.

  Picking up the black lace mask she wore every night, she adjusted it so it fit perfectly around her eyes. She scrunched her hair into place, then took a step back. Pleased with the result, she smiled. Yep, she was in control again.

  Jackie busted in from the stage like a dust devil whirling through the plains. Small and compact, she was packing a punch. “Where’s Val?” she demanded, slamming her fuzzy pink handcuffs on the vanity, and wiping the sweat from her tan skin.

  “What happened, Jackie?” Charlee asked.

  “It’s not what happened, but what’s goin’ to happen if that mother fucker doesn’t bump up security.” Jackie stomped over to her locker and threw her stilettoes inside. “Those bastards out there can’t keep their hands to themselves. I spent half my time slappin’ their grimy paws off me.” She slammed the locker door and stormed out the back.

  Charlee was so caught up in Jackie’s dilemma she jumped when Val entered the dressing room.

  “Val, honey,” Gia purred. “You better not let J catch you, she’s high on a bitch rage and you’re the fuel to the fire.” The redhead rolled her eyes.

  “Mmmm, I love me some hot cocoa,” Val smiled. “Texas, you’re up.” He pointed at Charlee.

  The electrifying guitar riff cut through the dressing room, cueing her that she was on. The bass thumped an ass-shaking beat. She grinned. This was her song; a song that turned the club buck wild. Add a half-naked blonde shaking her money maker; she’d have the crowd eating from the palm of her hand. She’d dance her ass off to The McLendon Brothers, Let Me Be the Shimmy to Your Shake. Big money tonight.

  Charlee adjusted her black Stetson, the silver sheriff star twinkling beneath the lights. There’s a new sheriff in town tonight. Tipping her hat and giving herself a wink in the mirror, she grabbed her prop, a water pistol full of whiskey. This will cool them down.

  4

  RC punched the small speed bag, alternating his fists rapidly, driven by aggression. Sweat poured down his broad back, drenching the waistband of his workout shorts. Like clockwork, he hit the Hell’s Cowboys gym right after Clay’s rigorous training drills.

  The cowboy showed no mercy and demanded loyalty and complete discipline. In the two years he’d spent in the underworld, the Cowboys had trained him in all aspects of combat, including weapons, emergency response, the lay of the underground city tunnels which were dangerous and unpredictable, and most of all, knowing his enemy inside and out.

  He’d gotten to know each Cowboy well, but nothing compared to Kit’s realm.

  A man of few words, Kit was a genius when it came to cyber technology. Located in a top secret area, the cowboy sat behind multiple computer screens like he was the commander of a spaceship sending out orders from the central control room.

  There were surveillance monitors connected to cameras that were placed throughout the city, watching their enemies’ every move. RC would bet it all on red that the cowboy could hack into Diablo City Stock Exchange with no problem. The man was the Central Intelligence Agency wrapped in Wrangler jeans and a black Stetson.

  RC continued to take his anger out on the punching bag. Even after two years, he still resented his fate. He kept his word and trained hard, yet he wasn’t any closer to becoming one of Hell’s Cowboys and the freedom he craved. In the eyes of the others, he was still a rookie and wasn’t fully trusted. He hit the bag harder and harder. He missed the sunlight, the green grass—his horses. And every damn night he missed Charlee.

  The training had been brutal, but the physical changes were just as ruthless. He had powerful strength that he was still learning to control. The throbbing in his upper jaw had intensified, until his canines turned into sharp fangs that only elongated when he was aroused. No one had warned him of this small detail. He found out the hard way when Charlee crept into his dreams and he woke up with his dick as hard as a rock, and fangs.

  “Hey!”

  It was Tibbs, he could hear that mother fucker’s boots stomping from a mile away. He kept boxing, ignoring him.

  “Hey!” Tibbs yelled louder. When RC didn’t respond, Tibbs grabbed the bag, popping it.

  “What the fuck?” RC shot him a cold glare.

  “Hold up,” Tibbs said. “We’re going topside tonight.”

  RC walked off the fatigue, catching his breath. “Topside?”

  “Yep.” Tibbs threw a towel at him. “Get showered, you stink.”

  RC wiped his face. “Where are we going?”

  Tibbs flashed his pearly whites. “You’ll see, sweet cheeks.” As Tibbs turned to go, he added, “By the way, we’re leaving in an hour.”

  The door slammed behind Tibbs.

  Flinging the towel over his shoulder, RC headed for the showers.

  Forty-five minutes later, the four cowboys stepped off the elevator and into a parking garage. He hadn’t been topside since Selene brought him to the compound. Quite frankly, it felt refreshing knowing he’d soon be breathing the night air.

  Clay lead them over to a Ram 3500 truck and unlocked the doors.

  “Shotgun!” Tibbs called out, then slid into the passenger seat.

  RC and Kit took their places in the back. Clay turned the key and the engine roared to life. RC could almost see a smile on Clay’s face as he backed the truck out. The up-ramp they were on led to another tunnel and dead-ended at a double garage door. Clay reached over Tibb’s lap and opened the glove compartment, pushing a button on a remote inside. The door lifted to pounding rain and a washed-out gravel road.

  RC looked behind him and watched the door camouflage into the side of the mountain like it had never existed. He turned back around. “So, where are we going tonight?”

  Tibbs grinned. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Tibbs needs to get his rocks off,” Clay said as he turned left onto the highway.

  “Maybe you wouldn’t be such a dick if you got laid every once in a while,” Tibbs said sarcastically.

  RC shook his head at Clay and Tibbs’s love/hate relationship. Total opposites in the personality spectrum, they fought like a married couple. It was only a matter of time until fists started to fly.

  “Did anyone remind the rookie to lock ‘n’ load?” Clay asked, changing the subject.

  “Shit,” Kit whispered under his breath.

  “The rookie has a name and yes, I’m packin’.”

  Clay slammed his palm on the wheel. “I swear I must speak another language.” He huffed. “What’s the one rule we never break?”

  “Always have a weapon on you. I know the rules, Clay. I have two pistols. I’m good,” RC reassured him.

  “No,” Clay disagreed. “You’re not good. Where’s your rope?”

  RC paused, realizing he hadn’t thought about it. He’d been attached to that damn thing like a second skin. Taking the night off from it didn’t seem like a big deal. “I didn’t think I needed it. What’s the big deal?”

  Tibbs turned around. “You gotta keep your weapon on you at all times. Especially when going topside. The undead are everywhere and they play by their own rules. That’s why we train so hard with our special weapons. These guns will only weaken those b
loodsuckers. But your personal weapon will kill ’em.” He reached under the seat. “Here, load your guns with this ammo. They’re silver bullets designed to blow the suckers’ heads off.”

  RC grabbed the box of bullets and loaded his pistols, pissed off. Having his balls busted on a regular basis was getting old. He’d let it slide—for now.

  Clay pulled into a parking lot, slushing through the puddles, careful not to splash mud on his truck. He ignored the valet trying to flag him down. “They ain’t touching my truck.” He parked sideways, taking up three spaces.

  “You’re such a dick, man,” Tibbs said as he opened the door.

  “Yep,” Clay agreed, getting out.

  They made a run for the covered entrance of the club. Tibbs removed his cowboy hat and shook his head like a wet dog. “You could have parked closer. It’s raining.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t melt.” Clay walked past him and into the club.

  RC removed his hat too, shaking off the rain. He inhaled deeply, taking in the damp night air. God, he’d forgotten the clean smell of rain and how refreshing it felt on his skin. There was something about being topside that made him feel free. It made him think about all the little things he’d taken for granted.

  From the corner of his eye, the big neon sign caught his attention. “Dolls and Devils Gentlemen’s Club.” A strip club?

  RC eyed two bouncers standing by the club door checking identifications. These guys were built like a brick shithouse. One of the burly twins waved Clay through like the Cowboys were regulars. The music thumped in his chest as he entered the club, his eyes adjusting to the purple glow in the room.

  A mixed crowd occupied the tables in front of a sparkling raised platform. A stunning woman was wrapped around the pole at center stage, giving the crowd a show. The cocktail waitresses were dressed to kill in form-fitting silver jackets that showed off their best assets. Their matching shorts showed just enough cheek to keep the patrons deep in the bottle. He had to admit this club was high on the hog; the classiest one he’d ever been in. And he’d seen his share traveling the rodeo circuit.