The Dead King Read online

  “I just…I want…to see where this goes.”

  “Then you shall see.” A wicked smile flashed across his sinful lips, and then he bent his head, pressing his mouth to mine.

  I felt the heat pulse on my lips and course down my neck. It worked its way into my chest, then lower. A horrible, frightening, and fucking delicious ache stirred deep inside me.

  He slowly pulled back, a look of surprise on his face as our eyes locked. I didn’t know what his expression meant, but I knew what mine did. That kiss felt familiar. Like my body knew his.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  All signs of emotion melted from his face. “I will let you know when I find out.”

  See. There. That was what I was talking about. This man was completely in his element, dealing with the strange and inexplicable. I was drawn to his strength because he made me feel safe in a very unsafe world.

  He shook his head. “You are anything but safe; however, you have been warned.”

  OTHER WORKS BY

  MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF

  COMING SOON!

  She’s Got the Money (Book 2) ← by M.O. Mack. That’s me!

  Baby, Please (OHellNo, #7) Yummy football player with a baby, anyone?

  God of Temptation (The Immortal Matchmakers, FINALE) ← For real this time!

  THE ACCIDENTALLY YOURS SERIES

  (Paranormal Romance/Humor)

  Accidentally in Love with…a God? (Book 1)

  Accidentally Married to…a Vampire? (Book 2)

  Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? (Book 3)

  Accidentally…Evil? (Novella, Book 3.5)

  Vampires Need Not…Apply? (Book 4)

  Accidentally…Cimil? (Novella, Book 4.5)

  Accidentally…Over? (FINALE, Book 5)

  THE BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR DUET

  (New Adult/Suspense)

  The Boyfriend Collector, Part 1

  The Boyfriend Collector, Part 2

  FANGED LOVE

  (Standalone/Paranormal/Humor)

  THE FATE BOOK DUET

  (New Adult/Humor)

  Fate Book

  Fate Book Two

  THE FUGLY DUET

  (Contemporary Romance)

  fugly

  it’s a fugly life

  THE HAPPY PANTS SERIES

  (Standalones/Romantic Comedy)

  The Happy Pants Café (Prequel)

  Tailored for Trouble (Book 1)

  Leather Pants (Book 2)

  Skinny Pants (Book 3)

  IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC., SERIES

  (Standalones/Paranormal/Humor)

  The Immortal Matchmakers (Book 1)

  Tommaso (Book 2)

  God of Wine (Book 3)

  The Goddess of Forgetfulness (Book 4)

  Colel (Book 5)

  Brutus (Book 6)

  God of Temptation (FINALE) ← 2021!

  THE KING SERIES

  (Dark Fantasy/Suspense)

  King’s (Book 1)

  King for a Day (Book 2)

  King of Me (Book 3)

  Mack (Book 4)

  Ten Club (Book 5)

  The Dead King (Book 6) ← You are here.

  THE LIBRARIAN’S VAMPIRE ASSISTANT

  (Standalones/Mystery/Humor)

  The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant (Book 1)

  The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant (Book 2)

  The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant (Book 3)

  The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant (Book 4)

  The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant (Book 5)

  THE MERMEN TRILOGY

  (Dark Fantasy/Suspense)

  Mermen (Part 1)

  MerMadmen (Part 2)

  MerCiless (Part 3)

  MR. ROOK’S ISLAND TRILOGY

  (Contemporary/Suspense)

  Mr. Rook (Part 1)

  Pawn (Part 2)

  Check (Part 3)

  THE OHELLNO SERIES

  (Standalones/New Adult/Romantic Comedy)

  Smart Tass (Book 1)

  Oh Henry (Book 2)

  Digging A Hole (Book 3)

  Battle of the Bulge (Book 4)

  My Pen is Huge (Book 5)

  Wine Hard, Baby (Book 6)

  Baby, Please (Book 7) ← COMING SOON!

  SUITE #45 SERIES by M.O. MACK

  (Chick Thriller/Suspense/Action)

  She’s Got the Guns (Book 1) ← You should go here. Chick Thriller!

  She’s Got the Money (Book 2) ← Early 2021

  WISH, a Standalone Novel

  (Romantic Comedy)

  THE DEAD KING

  Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  A Mimi Boutique Novel

  Copyright © 2021 by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Design: Earthly Charms

  Developmental Editing: Stephanie Elliot

  Copyediting and Proof Reading: Pauline Nolet

  Formatting: Paul Salvette

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Other Works by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  THE DEAD KING

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Hey, Jeni. Your big tits are lookin’ fine in that sweater. When you gonna let me touch ’em?” said Randall, in his usual inarticulate way, like he was hungover or possibly still drunk.

  I stopped typing and looked up from my desk located in the mobile office of Ripley Construction. I’d only been working in this disaster zone less than a week, helping out with the crap ton of paperwork. Tampa had been hit hard by Hurricane Mia, which was bad for the locals but great for Mr. Ripley’s business. We were working under FEMA and the Army Corps of Engineers, repairing the shipping port so supplies could get in faster.

  Mr. Ripley was an old friend of my dad’s, which was how I got a position at the home office in Tallahassee about six months ago. Apparently, history degrees were about as useful in this economy as playing the accordion, so finding a good-paying job after college hadn’t been easy.

  Then my dad was in
a car accident, fractured a hip, broke both legs, and lost his job driving trucks. He lost his health insurance, too, and there I was having to park my dreams of grad school in a dark corner until further notice. Physical therapy cost a lot. So did food, the mortgage, and the lawyer he had to hire to get the insurance company to pay. They never did.

  Anyway, I wasn’t throwing in the towel on my dreams, but until my dad was back on his feet, it was up to me to pay the bills.

  “Randall, you’re a fucking pig! Leave Jeni alone,” said the office manager, Rosie, from the coffee station near the door. She was a bottle redhead in her forties and liked her nails hot pink and long. They reminded me of fluorescent chopsticks, the way she used them to grab stuff.

  She glared at Randall and his greasy blond hair. He had the smallest head ever to sit on a man’s shoulders. It reminded me of a Q-tip, except that Q-tips were sometimes useful.

  Randall grinned, displaying Skoal-stained teeth and a large gap in the bottom row. “I don’t hear Dorothy saying nothin’.”

  I didn’t say “nothin’” because there wasn’t anything to say. First off, my name was Jeni Arnold, not Dorothy. Randall only called me that because I liked to wear my long brown hair in two braids. It was practical and comfortable to keep it out of the way when I worked. Second, I didn’t say anything because I disliked confrontation. And speaking in general. And disgusting men who stare at my breasts.

  I turned my attention back to my computer and continued typing.

  “See.” Randall chuckled. “Dorothy ain’t mad.” He leaned down so only I could hear him and smell his rotten breath. “You like it when I talk about your tits. Don’t you, shy girl? But I know it’s the quiet ones who like getting fucked nice and dirty. Maybe a little cum on your face, huh?”

  Red-hot anger percolated inside my chest. I wanted to slap him but was too afraid. Afraid of him doing something back. See, I wasn’t one of those badass girls you’d find in some female-empowerment movie, unless the kickass heroine had a sidekick who always ended up alone on a Friday night. I just didn’t feel comfortable around people.

  People had killed my mother when I was little.

  People had looked the other way when my father was so lost in his grief that he forgot to buy groceries for a month, and I was forced to live off the tuna my mother had bought for the cat.

  People had come to take me away instead of helping him and keeping us together when he was all I had.

  People had let the SOB who murdered my mom with his car go free because he was wealthy and powerful.

  I. Hated. People.

  But more than that, I feared them. I feared their attention. I feared their power over my life.

  “Hey. I’m talkin’ to you,” Randall growled at me.

  “Randall.” Rosie walked over and gave his shoulder a push. “Fuck off.”

  “Just messing around.” He smiled again, a sinister gleam in his bloodshot brown eyes. “You got my number, Jeni.” He strutted out the door in his dirty jeans and bright orange vest.

  “You really shouldn’t let him talk to you like that, honey,” said Rosie.

  I ignored her and kept at my work. I had another twenty-eight forms to fill out before tonight’s deadline. That was the thing about being a government contractor; they had a form for everything—materials, payroll, overtime, insurance. They wanted everything tracked, inspected, approved, and reapproved. But I wasn’t complaining. This job was important to the community, and I was making twice the salary. I needed the money.

  Realizing I wasn’t going to get into a discussion with her, Rosie went back to her desk, just behind mine, and started clicking away with her chopsticks on her keyboard. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

  I knew she meant well, but it was humiliating enough having some asshole talk to me like that. I just wanted to pretend it never happened. Besides, if I said something to HR, Mr. Ripley would hear about it, and my dad would find out. He already felt like shit about me, his twenty-three-year-old daughter, supporting him. How much worse would he feel knowing I was getting harassed every day? With my petite frame and large breasts, I didn’t see it stopping anytime soon. Not with this crew. The guys Ripley hired tended to be macho cavemen, willing to work in conditions no one else would. For the right pay.

  Also, I was pretty sure Randall was a psycho. God only knew what he would do if he got fired. He was not a nice man. And the world, at least for me, was already a not-so-nice place. It would break you if you gave it the chance.

  “Rosie!” thundered a panicked voice from the doorway.

  Rosie and I both looked up at the foreman, Gilberto, with his husky frame halfway inside the trailer.

  “Yeah?” Rosie said.

  “You gotta come quick! You gotta see this.”

  “Gilly,” she said in her nasally tone, “I’m busy here. What is it?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” he replied.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I exited the big white trailer, lagging behind Rosie and Gilberto. I hated going outside. The stench of rotting fish hung heavy in the salty air, drawing frenzied droves of squawking, crapping seagulls. Today was also exceptionally cold and drizzly for an autumn morning in Florida. The weather just wouldn’t give us a break.

  It had been about a week since nature decided to chew up Tampa and spit it back out. Then another storm passed through yesterday, bringing with it more rain. Most of the towns along the coast were dealing with horrible flooding. Everything was a wet mess.

  Of course, our crew kept on working no matter what. The National Guard had a barge on the way, filled with food, medical supplies, generators, and everything you needed to clear heavy debris. At the moment, there was only one open road heading east.

  Shivering in my plain red T-shirt and jeans, I folded my arms and walked up behind Gilly, Rosie, and the group of workers who’d gathered along the edge of the clearing we were using as a temporary parking lot. Everyone was leaning over the seawall, watching someone below on the rocky beach. From the loud grinding sound, I guessed it was one of the crew cutting through something heavy.

  “Now use the crowbar!” Gilly yelled to whoever was down there.

  From my vantage point, I couldn’t see, but lots of things had been washing up near the shipping container yard. Two days ago, they’d found an entire playset, one of those plastic ones for toddlers. I hoped that the people it belonged to had made it out in time. Many hadn’t. Overnight, the hurricane had turned from a weakening Category 1 to a Category 2. Then the storm just stopped moving and pummeled everything for two days, dumping massive amounts of water. They said it was a fluke. Some weather system from the north had created a wall of pressure preventing the hurricane from moving inland. I’d never heard of anything like it. Neither had the history books.

  I was just about to lean over the wall for a look when Rosie screamed and turned away.

  The workers all stepped back from the wall.

  “What is it?” I asked the guy in a hard hat standing next to me.

  “A metal box washed up on shore. There’s a body inside.”

  “A body?” I had zero interest in seeing a dead person, especially if it was weeks old.

  “Oh God. I’ll call the police,” Rosie said and started toward the trailer.

  I followed her back inside, wanting to get far away from that beach.

  “Who’s in there?” I shut the door behind me, realizing what I really meant to ask was if it was a man, woman, child or what.

  “Some poor bastard. Looks like someone locked him inside that box and threw him off a boat.” She picked up her sat phone and started dialing. “Or maybe he was already dead when they put him in there. Who knows? But it was all filled with water.” She spoke into the phone. “Hello? Yeah, hi. I’m over at the container port…”

  As Rosie explained the situation to the police, my mind was drawn to the dead man in the metal box. There was something infinitely more horrifying about a murdered body versus just an unfortunate soul
who got sucked out to sea during a hurricane.

  Who had done that to him?

  Why?

  Honestly, it sounded like the sort of thing you read about happening in Miami, when the occasional body washed up in a suitcase. But here? Tampa?

  Rosie ended the call with a sigh.

  “Well?” I asked. “What’d they say?”

  “They’ll come as soon as they can, but everyone’s tied up—trying to keep people from doing stupid shit, like looting and shooting each other.”

  I guessed I understood. The man was already dead. He could wait. The living could not.

  “So are we just going to leave him out there until they come?” I asked.

  “I’m not touching him. You?”

  I couldn’t even think about touching a body.

  “Plus,” she added, “they said not to mess with anything. Don’t want us to destroy any evidence.”

  I nodded, feeling my skin crawl. The body might have to sit out there all day inside that metal container.

  I took my seat and dug out my gray cardigan from the big desk drawer where I kept my purse. I slid on my sweater, wrapping it over my midsection, feeling my stomach roll.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” said Rosie. “I’m sure they’ll take care of it soon.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Not like he’s going to start walking around and bugging us.” She shrugged. “Shoot. I gotta pee.”

  She went outside to hit the girls-only Port-O-Potty. Meanwhile, I couldn’t shake the nauseating sensation building in my stomach. Death was right outside that door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The rest of the day crept by at a lazy snail’s pace, the small round clock above the door ticking away like a countdown to my worst nightmare. Even the sky joined in, changing from a light gray to menacing storm clouds, complete with thunder and lightning. The crew had to called it an early day for safety reasons.

  As for me, it was just past six, and I was nowhere near done with my forms. It wasn’t like I could finish up back at my motel, which was an hour drive with all the detours and downed powerlines. The small motel still had no electricity. Just a generator they only ran a few times a day—to conserve fuel—for the guests to take showers and charge phones. That was it. Here at the port, we were in a little better shape fuel-wise, running generators supplied by the National Guard.