A Leap in the Dark (The Assassins of Youth MC Book 2)
Layla Wolfe
Seek not to follow in the footsteps of men of old; seek what they sought.
~ Matsu Bashō
CHAPTER ONE
OAKLYN
Bountiful, Utah
Even as a seasoned nurse, I was horrified by what I saw at his house.
By the age of thirty, Levon Rockell had amassed a small fortune preying on the innocence of others.
At first, I loathed him.
I’ll tell you why.
He was a Lost Boy, one of those pitiful, heartbreaking teenagers ruthlessly dumped on the side of the road by those Cornucopia wingdings. As a Lost Boy with absolutely no idea of the outside world, he’d fallen on hard times. These Cornucopia parents, at the slightest mention from their whacked Prophet that maybe their boy had been seen wearing a short-sleeved shirt or watching a horror movie, raced to fling these misbegotten boys into their cars. With the assistance of the nearby Avalanche police, these miserable boys, children really, were driven into the desert and literally dumped by the side of the road without so much as a by-your-leave.
Allred Chiles, their demented “Prophet” of the past thirty years, would dismiss them, basically sending them to their deaths, with such heartwarming platitudes as, “I bid thee farewell.” That’s what he said to a sixteen-year-old Levon fifteen years ago when he’d dared to date the daughter of some muckety-muck. “The greatest freedom is obedience. Now you’re an outcast, an apostate, among the damned. An apostate is the darkest person on earth. You are led by your master, Lucifer.”
You’d think they’d fail to believe such nonsense. But these poor Lost Boys are trained since birth to view girls as snakes, as something fearsome and slimy, I suppose. The few boys who dare date daughters of elders are summarily thrown out, because they are surplus trash. Daughters are at a premium and need to be married off to other creepy polygamist elders. They need to be sheltered, savored. Boys are just useless sacks of flesh that need to be taken out with the garbage.
Levon called his house—somewhat tongue in cheek—Liberty Temple, and it was anything but. His luxurious abode in the swanky Stone Ridge section of Bountiful was hidden on a hill by a forest of white-barked quaking aspen. My sister Mahalia led me through an expansive living area to a backyard patio where an infinity pool perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the lush city. Peeking into a side office, I saw bookshelf-lined walls bracketing a very heavy, serious desk. Was this where Levon ran his empire of sleaze? From the beginning, he vexed me with his stubbornness and complexity. There was even a giant fluffy brown dog, an adorable creature with a smiley face who came to welcome us. Who was this man?
He was a surplus boy, consigned to hellfire by hypocrites, corrupt and twisted “elders” who only wanted the young girls to fulfill their own craven desires. And Levon was living high on the hog on the degradation of his fellow apostates.
“There he is!” cried Dingo, as though he were seeing Miley Cyrus in person. Dingo was a “prospect” in my sister’s boyfriend’s motorcycle club. A Lost Boy himself, he’d been found by Gideon Fortunati trying to steal food in a local bar like a scavenging mongrel, and he’d taken Dingo under his wing. Dingo had been doing nothing but rave about Levon Rockwell on the drive from my house in Provo to his mansion. Levon was a rock star, at least among his fellow boys.
Dingo waved furiously. “Levon! It’s me, Dingo! You might remember me as Jonah Garff, but this kind lady’s old man renamed me Dingo. It fits, doesn’t it? Long time no see. I was too young to remember when you were excommunicated. But I have heard the legends of your success from many, many mouths.”
I was floored. The shirtless man who raised himself up from the chaise longue and came toward us was utterly animalistic. It sounds corny to say, but he moved like a leopard, all sinew and intent. It may have been my imagination but it seemed he fixed me with his sharp cornflower blue eyes. I was aware his shoulder and arm were inked with some sort of Asian design, but everything other than his face seemed to blur at the outer edges of my vision. I swear, it even seemed that he moved in slow motion, like a TV detective in the opening credits, full of import and vigor. My lips watered to taste his silken, warm skin.
And then he opened his mouth.
He took Mahalia’s hand in his. “I’ve heard about the great work you’ve been doing down in—what’s the little town? Hurricane?”
“Avalanche,” said Mahalia with shining eyes. I could tell she was completely taken in by him, and I was filled with disgust. “Save Our Baby Brides runs interference between the Cornucopia elders and women who wish to leave, or who are already on the run.”
“You’re a baby bride yourself, aren’t you? I don’t remember you.” Boy, he was smooth. Smooth and slick as a sheet of oil.
Mahalia was practically fanning herself with her free hand. “Oh, I just came five years ago. You left Cornucopia fifteen years ago, right?”
He finally let go of her hand. “Right. And as you can see, I’ve built up a name for myself and my men.”
I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. “Yes! Profiting off their degradation.” I would not fall for his oily charm! He was as beautiful as a California surfer, and just as deep. I’d seen shallow *s like him in my nurse’s career. They came in with sports injuries, laughed them off, and were back in the ER the next week. Too dumb to learn.