Those Heartless Boys Read online

  Contents

  Also By E. M. Moore

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Pre-Order This Fearless Girl

  Facebook Group & Newsletter

  Heights Crew

  The Ballers of Rockport High

  Spring Hill Blues

  The Rockstars of Hollywood Hill Series

  Safe Haven Academy Series

  Safe Haven Academy Series Blurb

  About the Author

  Those Heartless Boys

  Saint Clary’s University

  Book One

  By

  E. M. Moore

  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, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by E. M. Moore. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact E. M. Moore at [email protected].

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition October 2020

  Edited by Heather Long

  Cover by 2nd Life Designs

  Huge thanks to my beta readers: Bibi, Ashton, Lisa, Jorden, Summer, Jennifer, Angie, and Julia!

  Also By E. M. Moore

  Saint Clary’s University

  Those Heartless Boys

  The Heights Crew Series

  Uppercut Princess

  Arm Candy Warrior

  Beautiful Soldier

  Knockout Queen

  The Ballers of Rockport High Series

  Game On

  Foul Line

  At the Buzzer

  Rockstars of Hollywood Hill

  Rock On

  Spring Hill Blue Series

  Free Fall

  Catch Me

  Ravana Clan Vampires Series

  Chosen By Darkness

  Into the Darkness

  Falling For Darkness

  Surrender To Darkness

  Ravana Clan Legacy Series

  A New Genesis

  Tracking Fate

  Cursed Gift

  Veiled History

  Fractured Vision

  Chosen Destiny

  Order of the Akasha Series

  Stripped (Prequel)

  Summoned By Magic

  Tempted By Magic

  Ravished By Magic

  Indulged By Magic

  Enraged By Magic

  Her Alien Scouts Series

  Kain Encounters

  Kain Seduction

  Rise of the Morphings Series

  Of Blood and Twisted Roots

  Safe Haven Academy Series

  A Sky So Dark

  A Dawn So Quiet

  Chronicles of Cas Series

  Reawakened

  Hidden

  Power

  Severed

  Rogue

  The Adams’ Witch Series

  Bound In Blood

  Cursed In Love

  Witchy Librarian Cozy Mystery Series

  Wicked Witchcraft

  One Wicked Sister

  Wicked Cool

  Wicked Wiccans

  Prologue

  People say when you’re drawn to the Superstitions, it’s only a matter of time before something bad happens.

  Volcanic activity formed the mountain range centuries ago. Comprised of layers of breccia and granite and melded together with lava, these rocks are as unforgiving as they are beautiful. It’s like God made a jagged fortress out of the skyline and spray painted it in rusty reds and browns.

  Most people don’t venture up here. For generations, my family hasn’t been most people. Our paths are off the beaten track. The road less traveled by. Filled with dreams, adventure, and hope. Some would call it a fool’s hope, but I’ve never felt that.

  Not until today.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Dakota?” Lionel asks. He just happens to be Clary’s Chief of Police and the head of the rescue team who’ve been searching these mountains for my father for the past three days.

  Missing. It sounds damn near impossible. Wrong in every sense of the word. No one knows these mountains better than my father. Everything he knew, he learned from his father and his grandfather who learned it from his father and so on until he passed all that knowledge onto me. We’re Wilders, after all. Searcher royalty, if there was such a thing. We’re not the go-up-into-the-mountains-and-don’t-come-back type.

  “Dakota?” Lionel asks, urging a response out of me.

  It’s funny if you think about it. My dad says Lionel is a good-for-nothing, immature novice who wouldn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, and now he’s taken point on searching for my father? It’s laughable, really. Though, my father’s thoughts on the Chief of Police are most likely skewed on account of everyone in Clary hating us. If we saw the chief’s cruiser coming up the dirt road, it was never for anything good.

  I gaze up into the chief’s light eyes. There are barely any crow’s feet maturing his features. If wisdom is determined by the number of wrinkles on someone’s face, Lionel would be a dumbass and my father would be an Einstein-level genius. “I hear what you’re saying,” I tell him calmly, even though my insides are roiling.

  Our little tête-à-tête is hidden behind a temporary, pop-up canopy tent, ground zero for the search party that committed to finding my father after he didn’t return from the mountains four days ago. Blue tarps stretch along one side and hang from ceiling to ground, shielding the interior of the tent from the sun, and right now, they’re also blocking us from the prying eyes of the media waiting on the other side. Trust me, when a renowned treasure hunter goes missing, people take notice. Reporters from local TV channels and papers have been showing up for days. One guy even said he was from The Arizona Republic. We’re big time if Phoenix’s largest newspaper is on the trail of my father’s disappearance, which also means that this story will be everywhere in a few hours.

  “I know this is tough.”

  He wouldn’t know anything, actually. I still don’t believe it. My dad, lost in the Superstitions? Dead, possibly?

  Nah. It’s just not true.

  I joined the search party myself, of course. I took them to the places we used to set up camp. I followed the trail I last knew he was on, volunteers fanning off, using sticks to move the sparse desert vegetation out of the way to cover every inch of space. Helicopters and their constant noise overhead were the anthem to our fight.

  Nothing. Not one single find in three days. Now, Lionel wants to call off the search. We can’t look forever, he’d just said. At some point, someone has to make the decision that he didn’t make it. If he’s injured and can’t move, he’ll starve to death. Or, he may have met with a venomous snake or a fall he couldn’t recover from.


  The truth is, there are hundreds of ways to die up in the Superstitions, and not all of them are natural.

  So, yes, I get what Lionel is saying. We haven’t found any trace of Dad. We didn’t even find remnants of his camp. There’s no evidence whatsoever that Dad was even in the mountains, except from what he told me and the fact that his ancient truck was parked at the trailhead we always parked at when we went searching.

  I turn to gaze upward toward the rough terrain of the mountainside. In the distance, Weavers Needle pokes out of the landscape, a distinct spire of rock that sticks out like a beacon, always calling, calling, calling.

  My stomach churns. Today, my family’s legacy feels more like a curse.

  “Do you—?”

  “No,” I say, cutting him off. I don’t want to do anything right now, but if he’s about to ask me if I want to be the one to stand in front of all of those reporters and call off the search for my dad, he’s fucking crazy. I’ll never call off the search for my dad. Not until his dead body is in my arms. Not until I see it with my own eyes.

  “That’s fine,” Lionel says, lips pulling down on his wrinkle-free face. “I’ll just go out there and give everyone the news.” He hikes up his jeans with soft hands around his belt buckle, acting more important than he is. “We did all we could, Dakota. You know how dangerous those mountains are.”

  It doesn’t seem like we did all we could. If we did all we could, we’d know where Dad is.

  Except, I’ve seen the skeletons up in the mountains. Plenty of them. Visitors go missing every year, never to be found again. The Superstitions are dangerous. But the idea that they took out my dad? No. My mind rebels against that thought. Dad was no beginner. He’s one of the most sought-after Superstition treasure hunters and trail guides around. He grew up among these rocks. He knows them better than anyone.

  Lionel places his hand on my shoulder briefly and then parts the tarps to walk back into the tent. Everyone’s still milling around, not just the media but the volunteer searchers, too. They’re expecting the announcement that’s about to come, so I don’t know why it’s such a shock to me. At each step of the process, I thought it couldn’t get any worse. When Dad didn’t come home, I went searching myself. When I couldn’t find a trace, I contacted Lionel. Then, there were the volunteers and the attention and the planning and the questions. When everyone showed up to help, I thought we’d find Dad that day. I thought that every day since, too. Even today. Right up until this very moment.

  I don’t know why I was so short-sighted. Every day we can’t find him is a nail in his coffin.

  Lionel’s voice booms over a sudden influx of questions, and I jump. Once I get my bearings, I walk around the edge of the tent, staying to the side and out of view. Lionel asks for silence like he’s giving some sort of press conference, which I guess, in reality, he is.

  Look at that, Dad. The Wilders are finally making the news. Just not in the way we wanted.

  I skim the crowd, watching over the eager-eyed reporters. I can’t blame them. Nothing big ever happens in Clary, and one person’s pain is another’s entertainment. Everyone will want to know what happened to Clark Wilder, “Superstition Mountain Treasure Hunter of Almost Forty Years.”

  While Lionel is giving what sounds like a well-practiced speech, the hair on my neck stands. My dad always told me to listen to my intuition. Intuition has helped us Wilders more times than we’d like to admit is one of his favorite sayings.

  The feeling continues as I roam my gaze over the crowd, searching for the source. It takes me three passes, but eventually, my stare collides with Stone Jacobs.

  My stomach bottoms out as his blue-gray eyes sear into mine. As usual, his face is impassive, unreadable, and he’s flanked by his friends who might as well be his brothers. Wyatt and Lucas are so far up the Jacobs’s ass, it’s not funny. I was surprised when they showed up to help search. The Wilder and Jacobs families haven’t gotten along in a century. Not since the Jacobs started searching for the Wilder treasure. Our mutual hatred has been ingrained ever since, and stoked like a fire every chance our two families get.

  I narrow my gaze at their tiny group. No doubt those three assholes are gloating right now. The Wilders just lost their patriarch—literally—and while searching for the treasure no less. In their minds, that puts them a step above us.

  Not on my fucking watch.

  Two years ago, Lance, Stone’s father, threatened to kill Dad for stealing his wife. No joke. Death threats, fights, and underhanded dealings are all a part of our families’ mutual past. Dad couldn’t help it if Marilyn preferred a Wilder, though, right? I mean, who wouldn’t?

  Sarcasm aside, I wish Dad wouldn’t have made Stone my stepbrother. That’s some disgusting shit right there. Sure, steal her away, but don’t marry her. Fuck. Even now, I hate that I’m connected to him. Hate that there’s more than just family feuds tying us together.

  However it happened, though, Dad got the girl. Whether I hate the bitch or not, it felt damn good to have taken something from someone who has stolen so much from us. A smirk parts my lips as a memory of Lance showing up at our door comes to mind. I’d never seen someone so irate. So out of his mind with jealousy and anger. We can’t compete with the Jacobs’ money, but I guess money isn’t everything, is it?

  Stone and I still haven’t looked away from each other, so I stand witness to his brows pulling in at my sudden smile. That boy doesn’t miss a thing. Always watching and calculating to the point of being creepy. He sets my teeth on edge, skin prickling under his scrutiny.

  Well, he’ll just have to wonder what’s going on inside my head. Lord knows I’m never sure. But one thing I do know with certainty, whether Dad’s here or not, things won’t change on this front. The Wilders and the Jacobs are destined to be enemies, and that means I’m on my own.

  I turn and walk away, leaving the media circus and the prying eyes of the Jacobs family behind me. The least I can do is tell the evil stepmother that they’re calling off the search before she finds out from the news—or worse, from Stone.

  I grip my hiking bag straps and take off down the trail toward the truck. The Superstitions might be behind me right now, but I’ll be back. When everyone else returns to their normal lives, I’ll be up on the trails.

  I have two things to search for now. The treasure and my dad. Neither one is going to stay lost forever.

  1

  Two Months Later…

  Finding shit in my father’s house is like looking for gold in the Superstition Mountains. No wonder my family has never been able to accomplish either task.

  “Paperwork, paperwork,” I mumble to myself as I sift through the disarray of books and journals in his study. To think this is only a miniscule portion of his stash. The War Room is something else altogether. I glance at the ticking, old-time clock on the wall. “Shit.”

  Being late is nothing new for me because if it wasn’t about the family business, it wasn’t important. However, since Pops went missing, acclimating into the real world has been a priority, even if I have failed at it so damn epically.

  I turn and run right into an open drawer. A slew of curses spit from my mouth as I rub away the pain in my hip. With more force than necessary, I slam the drawer closed, listening to the contents inside get thrown backward into the wood. If my father were still around, he’d be asking me what in the Sam hell I’m doing in here. Sam hell was one of his favorite phrases. To this day, I still don’t know what it means. Anyway, he’s not here, so I quickly shake that thought away. Dwelling on things was never a Wilder forte.

  Apparently, finding receipts and work orders for my father’s ancient truck isn’t either. They’re about as elusive as searching for treasure. I make my way out of the study, pausing in the hallway. My father’s old room is to my left. The raw wood walls that make up the house quickly dig the roots of a bygone life into me, tangling around my ankles and making me just stop and think. Just for a moment.

  A mo
ment is too much.

  I take a deep breath and start forward. I don’t have time to search for the paperwork, not if I want to make it to my first class on time. Somehow, though, I get sucked out into the garage. Beside the camping gear and the prospecting pans, shelves of rusty tools on decaying work benches decorate the century-old building. I scan the area, all the while my head telling me I need to leave or I’ll be subjected to everyone turning and looking as I make my way into my first class at Saint Clary’s this semester, History 201. It’s okay. The professor wouldn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. I lost all respect for him when he thought he was going to talk about the history of Clary back in 101. Please. The guy is a dumbass. I know more about Clary in my pinky finger than he does in his whole body.