“Good riddance,” Alex said. “Just let me know if you need a bouncer while you whip the place into shape.”
Though they were still coming to grips with the changes they were going through, Alex and Rachel already enjoyed increased strength nearly equal to my own. Even better, they had Alecto to help guide them through the changes they were experiencing. Their integration with the Furies who had bonded with each of them was progressing much more smoothly than my own had. Alex’s Fury, Megaera, had been known in ancient times as ‘the jealous one’, though she seemed to have mellowed somewhat over the centuries. Rachel’s Tisiphone—otherwise known as ‘avenging murder’—was as bloodthirsty as ever.
“You guys would give up your free time to help me open my restaurant?” I was touched.
“Of course,” Alex said. “We’re the Three Musketeers, remember?”
I smiled, thinking of the year we’d all gotten parts in our middle school production of the Alexandre Dumas classic. “You’re right. All for one and one for all.”
“It’s like Good Will Hunting,” Rachel added. “You know that part when Robin Williams says the guys from Southie would take a bat to the other guy’s head if Will asked them to?”
I nodded.
“Well, you’re our Will Hunting.”
I had to laugh. Tisiphone’s influence on Rachel’s usually peaceful disposition was becoming more and more apparent every day.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and I turned to the door in time to see Ethan Graves lean in to the already crowded room. “Got space for a few more in here?” He was accompanied by Nicky and a middle-aged woman I didn’t recognize.
“Uncle Jackson and Tara are getting married!” Ruby announced for the second time. She grabbed Nicky by the hand and dragged him into the room. “You can be in the wedding with me. Can’t he, Tara?”
The boy looked down and toed an invisible scuff mark on the floor, and my happiness was dampened by the awareness on his face. Now that the Perris family was out of the picture, he had no legal guardian and was facing an adolescence spent in foster homes. It was better than the alternative of life with the demented duo, but it still wasn’t an easy future.
“Nicky just came to say good-bye,” Graves told us. “I ran into him in the elevator.” He stepped back to admit the woman standing behind him. “This is Patricia Carlson, his social worker.”
“Where’s he going?” Ruby asked. Nicky stared steadfastly at the floor, and the social worker answered for him when it became clear that he wasn’t going to.
“Nicky is going to stay with a nice family here in the city for a little while.”
Ruby started to cry. “No! That just means you’re going to make him go live with strangers.” She hugged the boy hard. He still didn’t make a sound, but one big, wet tear plopped onto her head.
“I’ll take him,” Nora volunteered.
All eyes turned to her, and the social worker peered at Nora over her glasses. “Pardon me?”
“Nicky can come stay with us. We’d love to have him, wouldn’t we, Ruby?” Ruby nodded her head so hard she almost toppled over. “Nicky was homeschooled, right?” Nora went on. “So it’s not like he’d have to leave his friends or anything. And I own my own house…he can even have his own room.”
“As of today, she owns her own business, actually,” I put in. “We’re partners.”
Nora turned to me, eyes wide. “Do you mean it?”
I nodded. “You know the place better than anybody. It’s as much yours as it is mine.”
Nicky looked at Nora, then back at his social worker. The hope in his eyes nearly broke my heart.
“There is training you’d have to do,” the woman said. Say yes, I urged, as if my thoughts could convince her.
“Whatever it takes,” Nora answered. Nicky’s eyes pleaded with the woman.
“We do have a special need for homes for older children and teens,” Ms. Carlson said thoughtfully. “I don’t see why this couldn’t work—if you pass the physical standards and background checks, as well as complete the necessary training.”
“I’ll do it,” Nora vowed.
“Do you mean I can stay with them?” Nicky asked his social worker.
She relaxed her stern expression and smiled down at him. “You can stay with them.”
Ruby squealed in delight and squeezed Nicky harder. His grin nearly split his face in two.
Agent Graves spoke up from his position in the doorway. “I’d say this calls for a celebration. Bad coffee and vending machine brownies are on me.” He turned to Rachel. “Care to give me a hand?” Despite everything the agent had done for us, Rachel hesitated and I rolled my eyes. She still hadn’t forgiven him for suspecting me—rightfully—of having a hand in Clinton Miller’s death.
“She’d be happy to,” I spoke up on Rachel’s behalf. Go, I mouthed at her. And be nice.
When they returned a few minutes later laden with plastic-wrapped treats and coffee in steaming Styrofoam cups, I looked around, watching the family I’d found celebrate together. Apate was still out there somewhere, planning gods knew what, but I had my sisters to stand behind me and the man I loved beside me. Alex and Rachel met my eyes and an unspoken message passed between us. Whatever was coming, we would face it together.
We were Fury. We would be ready.
Dear Reader
Dear Reader,
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Nicola R. White
About
Fury Scorned
by Nicola R. White
Tattoos? Check.
Stripper heels? Check.
Ancient Greek Fury living in her head? Check.
Born on the wrong side of the tracks, Alex Hughes has always known what people think of her—and working as an exotic dancer hasn’t exactly helped her image. But since bonding with a Greek goddess of vengeance six months ago, Alex has had bigger problems. Like dealing with the Spartans, the outlaw biker gang with supernatural connections terrorizing Boston.
And then there’s Tyler Kelly…
Tall, dark, and sexy, the ex-Navy SEAL is a deadly fighter and a potential lover. But Alex is more comfortable kicking ass than facing her feelings, and none of the men or women she’s dated in the past have made her feel the way Ty does. As if her life wasn’t complicated enough, she discovers there’s no wound like a bruised ego when she takes on the goddess behind the Spartans’ reign of terror—and loses. Alex’s faith in herself is shaken as enemies turn out to be allies and friends offer betrayal. But as the saying goes…
Hell has no Fury like a woman scorned.
Chapter One
I arched my back and tossed my mane of hair as I spun around the pole mounted at the centre of the circular stage. Tonight I was a purple-haired, punk rock goddess, my own shoulder length, dyed-black hair tucked up beneath a wig. Purple light shone down from above, highlighting my curves as the men seated at the rail gazed up hungrily.
Tonight I wasn’t Alex Hughes, a white trash nobody from Hawthorne, Massachusetts. I was Alexis Diamond, star of Boston’s premiere adult entertainment destinati
on. I blew a kiss to my audience. Tonight I was queen of the Xanadu, ‘where all your pleasure dreams come true’. That was the slogan, anyway.
And whether I was Alexis or Alex, I was sure of one thing—I would never be that white trash nobody ever again. The ancient Greek Fury living inside my head was proof of that.
I dropped to my knees to crawl seductively to the edge of the stage. I prowled like a cat along the row of men waving bills at me, tucking money into my G-string as I went, but the cash wasn’t my motivation. Not tonight. Once out of the spotlight’s glare, I was able to glance out onto the floor of the club and track the movements of Tara and Rachel, my best friends and cocktail waitresses for the evening.
This grows tedious, Megaera complained in my head, voicing her frustration with the night’s activities. Usually the Fury enjoyed the nights when I—we—worked at the club. After spending thousands of years in dark oblivion, the pounding music, bright lights, and wild sights of a high-end strip club were like a drug to her. Total sensory overload, in the best way possible. But tonight we had things to focus on that were more important than shaking my moneymaker.
Like catching whoever had been supplying drugs to the girls, then pimping them out once they were hooked.
Morgan, the manager of the club, had a strict no-tolerance policy for violence and drugs, but since being promoted to oversee the opening of another location, he hadn’t been around as much as usual. Which had left the door open for the Spartans, an outlaw biker gang that had set up shop in town.
I flicked my fingers restlessly. Or so they thought.
After finding Bitsy, Xanadu’s newest and youngest dancer, crying in the washroom one night, I’d dragged the truth out of her one sniffle at a time. Then I’d gone to Morgan with news of what the gang was up to. As expected, he lost his shit. His first instinct was to go all Rambo on the bikers, but I’d convinced him to let me take a crack at handling it first, before he got himself killed.
Not that I told him that. He thought I planned for Tara’s fiancé to scare them off. Jackson was a big, bad, ex-Navy SEAL, far more intimidating than little ol’ me and my two best girlfriends.
What Morgan didn’t know, wouldn’t kill him.
So here I was, shaking my ass and scanning the club for anyone wearing leathers. A raucous chorus of male laughter directed my attention to the VIP section, and I looked over to see four huge guys giving the shooter girl a hard time. I jerked my head in their direction to signal Tara and Rachel, just as one of them reached up under the poor girl’s skirt. The club’s owner had appointed his nephew as Morgan’s stand-in, but the little shit was too cowardly to do anything, and pretended not to notice.
The way I saw it, that left me to look out for the other girls.
I gestured at the DJ to wrap up my set and finished my song with one eye on the table of bikers. As soon as I got down off the stage, I strode over to the VIP section and took the tray from the girl they’d been terrorizing. She had tears in her eyes as she hurried away, and the look of gratitude she shot me had my pulse pounding in my throat. Megaera growled, ready for a fight.
“Is there a problem here?” I looked down on the four men as they sized me up appreciatively. At six-feet-even, I’m built just like the song says—36-24-36. I’m a brick house, and with a pair of platform stripper heels on, I look positively Amazonian.
The youngest and by far the best looking of the group—ZZ Top had nothing on the other guys—gazed up at me appreciatively, hands behind his head like he didn’t have a care in the world.
The others looked a tad more resentful.
“We won’t have a problem if you shut your mouth and get your ass back onstage,” their leader warned me.
I opened my mouth to say something that probably would have resulted in me kicking their asses, but Tara and Rachel appeared to save me from myself.
“Who are your friends?” Rachel asked, pretending interest in the men. She pouted appealingly.
“You boys look like you know how to party,” Tara added. The dialogue was straight out of central casting for ‘easy blonde stripper’, but the guys ate it up.
“Well, now.” The lead asshole grinned. “This is more like it. You tell your girl to relax and we can all get to know each other better.”
“Come on, Alexis,” Tara cajoled, playing her part. “Don’t be a bitch.”
I was so going to get her for that later.
“I guess I can hang for a minute.” I sat down on the edge of the white leather-upholstered banquette, feigning reluctance. What I actually felt was revulsion.
“Does anyone have some blow, at least?” I had zero interest in snorting cocaine, but I needed to lure the dealer somewhere private so I could let him know just how unwelcome he and his friends were on my turf. When we got through with them, they’d be in no shape to move product at the Xanadu.
Or anywhere else.
“I might have a little something to share.” He leered. “If the price is right.”
Ugh. Could these guys get any more disgusting?
Repulsive, Megaera agreed. She sent me a wave of contempt so strong I had to grit my teeth to avoid visibly shuddering.
“Why don’t you all follow me backstage?” I suggested. I gestured down at my barely-there ensemble. “I obviously don’t mind an audience, but my friends are a little shyer.”
On cue, Tara and Rachel giggled vacantly. The Spartans leered harder.
As I led my entourage through the club to the dressing room, I shot a hard glare at the weaselly stand-in manager. I’m the baddest bitch in here, it said. So don’t get in my way. Wisely, he didn’t lift a finger to stop me as I blew past the ‘staff only’ sign on the dressing room door.
The room was a mess, with clothing and makeup scattered everywhere. Sequin-studded Lycra draped over the edge of a chair and glittery, bronze body powder dusted one of the makeup tables. A hair straightener had been left out, cord snaking along the floor, and an unmated Lucite heel lay on its side in one corner. The clear plastic shoe looked like a leftover prop from a slutty production of Cinderella.
I stopped just inside the doorway. “Beat it,” I snapped at Venus Love, unsurprised to see her lounging with her feet up and a magazine in her hand while the other girls hustled to make ends meet out on the floor. Venus had spun a sob story to convince some of the others she had back problems that prevented her from performing too many private dances. She even had them splitting tips with her.
“Morgan won’t be happy to hear you had guests back here.”
“So don’t tell him, Venus.” Her insistence on going by her stage name always pissed me off. As if she was too good to grace the rest of us with her real name.
She huffed angrily, but got to her feet and headed for the door. As I watched her go, I had to admit there was good reason she was a top earner—when she bothered to work. Even the unnatural glow of the fluorescent lights couldn’t hide the fact that she had smooth, golden-brown skin and wide, chocolate eyes.
Megaera bristled at the challenge. The ancient Greeks hadn’t called her the ‘jealous one’ for nothing.
Eyes on the prize, I reminded the Fury. Compared to the Spartans, Venus Love was a minor annoyance.
Once we were alone, I flipped the lock on the dressing room door, then strolled over to turn on the boom box sitting on one of the makeup tables. A pulsing beat filled the room and I turned the volume up even louder.
The music would cover any screams that might otherwise escape the room.
The men pulled up chairs and one of the bikers pulled out a plastic baggie filled with white powder. I passed him a hand mirror to use as a surface for cutting lines. He used a credit card to push the powder into thin rows on the glass, then handed it to Tara with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Ladies first.”
I suspected any of us could have taken the hit without feeling much—alcohol and over-the-counter medication had little effect on us, and there was no reason to think illegal drugs wouldn�
�t be the same. But I was getting tired of the game.
I stepped forward, planted my stripper heel squarely against the man’s chest, and shoved hard. He let out a surprised, painful grunt as his chair toppled over backward and skidded across the concrete floor. I smiled. Yeah, he’d feel that in the morning.
“Bitch!” He lumbered to his feet. “You’re going to be sorry you did that, you stupid whore.”
One of his boys took a step toward me, but stopped when he got a good look at my eyes. Now that we were behind closed doors, I’d let the cat out of the bag—literally. My eyes glowed an unnatural green as Megaera’s feline nature took over. Hunting instincts rose to the fore and I felt the urge to hunt and roar. To let my prey know there was no chance for escape.
“What the fuck?” The biker backed away slowly, eyes darting from me to his boss. Then his face paled completely and I knew he’d realized I wasn’t the only thing he had to worry about.
Tara and Rachel stepped forward to flank me and I glanced over to see that both of them looked just as scary as I did. While dusky leopard spots had risen on my skin under the designs I’d already inked into it, it tended to be Tara’s red eyes and tears of blood that got people’s attention. That, and the way her long, blonde hair danced around her head like a nest of snakes.
On the other side of me, Rachel’s eyes glowed a deep, burnished orange, burning with the desire to tear flesh from limb. Ordinarily the gentlest of our trio, she had become distinctly bloodthirsty since bonding with her Fury. In ancient times, Tisiphone had been known as ‘vengeful destruction’. I knew without looking down that Rachel’s short, manicured nails had lengthened and sharpened into talons that would have suited a bird of prey.
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