Sarge: Book 8 in the Vengeance MC series

by Thomas, Natasha

  MC, Scott had no choice but to control himself.

  Before I go on to share what can only be described as the beginning of the end as it pertains to my marriage, I want to clear a few things up.

  I’m sure you are wondering why I didn’t tell my dad or Atlas what Scott had done. Especially since I had carried, delivered and raised, Atlas’ son. Well, all I can offer you by way of explanation is that fear is an incredibly powerful motivator. Not fear for myself, but that of my son, the man I loved, and my father colored every decision I made from the day I was forced to leave Tampa until the day I had no other options left but to tell all.

  Guilt, regret, remorse, pain, hatred, and disgust were all emotions I was well acquainted with. I learned to live with the guilt of keeping Atlas’ son from him if it meant they were both safe. I allowed my regret and hatred to feed my determination to survive whatever Scott saw fit to dish out. Pain became my friend, and my remorse and disgust for myself acted as my shield, helping to distance me from people who got too close to finding out the truth about what happened behind closed doors.

  That’s not to say I didn’t confide in anyone, because I did, just not completely.

  Hoss, a man I had known since the day I was born, became my confidant out of necessity, not desire. The same age as Atlas, Hoss knew my family, my dad, my mom, Scott’s parents, my husband, and eventually, when Atlas

  became a patch-wearing member of his MC, Atlas himself.

  It didn’t come as any surprise that Hoss and Atlas developed a deep friendship that superseded brotherhood. They were men cut from the same cloth. Good men. Men with morals and principals. Men who bore no resemblance to my husband.

  Hoss’ dislike of Scott ran deep. Hoss hated the man I married with a passion, and all but begged me to leave him every opportunity he got. Of which there were many. Sadly, I couldn’t make Hoss understand why I couldn’t just up and leave without divulging details I was in no position to share. I had no loyalty to Scott, but even so, I made a promise. One

  I had every intention of keeping, even if it killed me.

  Credit where credit is due, though, Hoss never gave up on me. No matter how many times I called him in tears or showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, he was always ready with a strong shoulder and a box of tissues. And I loved him for that.

  Now, when I say that I confided in Hoss, it was only to a point. He knew little of my suffering at Scott’s hands, only enough to know things weren’t all sunshine and roses in the Matthews (I refused to take Scott’s name when we married) household. In relation to Scott and my deal, Hoss knew nothing. I drew another line in the sand there. I could bring myself to put him at risk too, so I kept the details to myself, and Hoss never pushed. Sure, he asked, but when I refused to answer, that was that.

  Another topic I’d like to touch on is that of my mom. Leanne Matthews – no, she didn’t revert to her maiden name after divorcing my dad – is blind to everything that doesn’t directly affect her. While she’s actively involved in the community, raising much-needed funds for deserving charities, and helping to guide Furnace’s youth into adulthood, my mother was quick to overlook the needs of her own child.

  There’s no doubt in my mind my mom loved me, it’s just that she loved Scott and his parents more. In her eyes, they could do no wrong. June and Jim donated large sums of money to mom’s causes every year, and participated with exuberance in all of her charity fundraisers, going as far as

  to help in their planning. It may have all been a carefully constructed ruse to keep, at least, one of my family members up their sleeve if needed, but it worked. Astoundingly well, actually.

  If there was ever a time I needed my mom more, it was during the birth of my son. However, just months before Diesel was born, mom was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer, which ultimately claimed her life on the very day my miracle entered the world.

  At eighteen, almost nineteen, I had never felt more alone. My mom who was barely forty-one was gone, I couldn’t talk to my dad, I was isolated from all of the men I had come to know as my surrogate uncle’s, and the man I loved was lost to me forever. The only solace I had was my son, and even then, I knew it wasn’t fair to Diesel for my happiness to be solely based on his. But what else was there?

  The answer is so horribly complicated in its simplicity. Nothing. I had nothing. And eventually, I became nothing. I was numb.

  Back to the beginning of the end, though…

  Skidding into the kitchen, narrowly missing the edge of the kitchen counter as I came to an abrupt stop, my eyes quickly took in and assessed the situation in front of me. Diesel was panting with equal parts rage and exertion from the several blows he looks to have landed on Scott’s face. Scott was doubled over, his hands fisted on his hips as he sucked in deep breaths through his nose, yet that did nothing to hide the mounting fury coloring his face.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?” I ask, directing my question to my son.

  “Who gives a fuck if that little ingrate is okay? I’m the one bleeding on the fucking floor here, not him,” Scott snarls, pushing up off his knees until he’s once again standing to his full height of six-foot-one.

  “Jesus, just shut the fuck up, okay? For fucking once in your life, can you just speak to her with an ounce of goddamned respect?” Diesel shouts, tearing his hands through his hair that’s long overdue a trim.

  Now, at this juncture, a good mom probably would have reprimanded her child for their overly proficient use of curse words in a single sentence. But as you’ve probably

  gathered, I had bigger fish to fry so it would have to keep for another day.

  “Listen here, you piece of shit,” Scott yells, his voice rising in volume and intensity.

  Needing to do something to diffuse the situation, I scream,

  “Enough! Both of you.” Turning to Diesel, I soften my tone and tip my head in the direction of the stairs. “Pack a bag. Maggie said Ethan has been asking if you could stay at their house for the weekend for ages. I’ll call her and let her know to expect you.”

  When Diesel doesn’t move, I repeat,

  “Go. Pack. Now.”

  It’s sad that my son is able to read me just as well as I can him, but I suppose when we’re both thrust into a situation neither of us has any hope of getting out of, you come to rely on each other for everything. Including, the simplest of things like reassurance.

  With a curt nod, Diesel does as he’s told, but not without one last parting shot at Scott.

  “You touch one hair on my mom’s head, and I don’t care what rock you find to hide under, I will find you, and I’ll kill you myself.”

  An eerie silence falls over the kitchen as Diesel shuffles around upstairs. It’s only a matter of time before that is replaced with something a lot more sinister, but I’m thankful

  for the small reprieve Scott gives me to make sure my son is safe and out of harms’ way.

  However, once the front door clicks shut, my amnesty is a thing of the past.

  *****

  Dull light filters through the fog first, followed by muted sounds, and the loud thrumming of my blood rushing to my extremities. My head feels heavy like a lead brick is sitting on my shoulders. The tingling sensation in my legs is a good sign, though. It means that I can still run if I have to. I can still escape.

  Focusing all of my efforts on my sense of hearing, I listen out for the tell-tale signs Scott is still in the house. Usually, after a beating like this, he can’t bear to look at me for long, preferring to go and do whatever it is he does when he’s coming down from a particularly nasty high.

  Thanking God for small mercies, I ascertain he’s nowhere to be found, and slowly push myself up off the floor. Using the coffee table for support, my legs wobble as I unsteadily make it to my feet. If there was ever a time to employ the phrase, “Everything hurts, and I’m dying,” it would be now.

  My arms are covered from shoulder to elbow in bruises. My legs
suffering much the same fate, but from hip to knee. Scott’s always been very good at delivering maximum pain while minimizing his strike zone. Stomach, ribs, back,

  thighs, upper arms, chest, those are all safe zones. He rarely loses control enough to hit my face, neck, or forearms, since it’s far harder for me to disguise the damage, but this time, he had no such compunction.

  Testing out the sight in my left eye, I realize there’s no hope. I can hardly open it a quarter of an inch without the skin overstretching, causing a burning sensation that feels as if I’m being stung by a thousand hornets all at once. God, this is bad.

  Two or three of my ribs are exceptionally tender, and I have no doubt they are bruised, if not broken. My stomach

  is marred with multiple contusions, which cause me to wince in agony with every step I take closer toward my easiest option for escape.

  Honestly, I don’t care how painful walking is. I don’t even care if it takes several attempts whilst fighting black-out for me to crawl to the door, I am done. Scott has proved just how out of control he’s become. I can’t and won’t risk Diesel’s safety, no matter what he threatens me with. Nothing is worth my son’s life, not even those of my father or Atlas.

  Finally reaching my purse that’s propped against the hall table, I fish out my keys and grasp them tightly in my hand. Taking one last look around at the carnage that was my beautiful constructed prison, I note the overturned chairs, broken lamp, and full-length mirror laying shattered on the floor.

  With that image in mind, I pick up the phone and dial the one person who is sure to know where Scott is; Dee.

  Dee originally came into Scott’s life as the daughter of his parents’ best friends. However, after meeting her once, I knew that wouldn’t last long. And would you know it, within a matter of months, Dee was a permanent fixture in Scott’s bed and on his cock. Not that it bothered me. Like I said, as long as I wasn’t on the hook for providing that asshole with sexual gratification of any kind, I could care less where he got his dick wet.

  “Hello,” Dee’s husky voice echoes down the line.

  Not bothering with pleasantries, I rasp through a wheeze,

  “Put Scott on the phone.”

  “Oh God, Emily. Are you okay?” She shrieks, almost rupturing my eardrum.

  See, here’s the thing about, Dee. She’s not actually a bad person. Self-absorbed, yes. Blind to Scott’s faults, absolutely. But bad, no. Under different circumstances, I’d probably even find her mildly entertaining and be happy to count her as an acquaintance. However, things being as they are, fuck no.

  “Just put him on the phone,” I demand, mustering all the strength I can.

  “Sure. Hold on a second, honey,” she coos, making my

  stomach twist violently. Honey, my ass.

  A soft rustle of what I can only assume is sheets, followed by a quiet curse sounds before, Scott snaps,

  “What? You know better than to call me here. Unless it’s a fucking emergency, you never dial this number, Emily.”

  Yeah, well, fuck you too buddy.

  Snorting, which according to my mom, God rest her soul, is an obscenely unladylike trait, I scoff,

  “Thanks for the reminder, but after tonight you don’t

  have to worry about me calling you ever again.”

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? I’ll be home in the morning, so cut the shit, baby.”

  “As of ten minutes ago, when I had to drag myself off the floor, yet again it is officially none of my business where you are and when. I’m going out. To Hounds no less. By the time I get home, I want you and your shit gone. How you make that happen is your problem. Where you go is also your problem, as long as it isn’t within a five-mile radius of this house, that is. The days of you using fear to bend me to your will are done. We’re done. And just a friendly heads’ up; I know the boys at the fire department, so when I use your crap to fuel the biggest bonfire Furnace has ever seen, I doubt they’ll even bother answering the call out.” Slamming the handset down on the receiver, I huff out a long-suffering breath and slowly make my way to my car.

  I know what you’re thinking; it was idiotic of me to tell Scott where I was going. But that’s where I have to beg to differ with you. Informing the life ruining bastard where I was headed was a strategic move on my part. Especially since it’s a Friday night, and Hounds just happens to be the watering hole of choice for every single one of his brothers and their friends.

  See, not so dumb after all, am I?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ~ Sarge ~

  Finding my way back to Emily

  When my cell rang, I knew something was wrong. No one called me at one in the morning unless someone was dying or needed to be made that way, or you were Hog. So needless to say, I wasn't all fired up about taking this call, or hauling my ass out of bed for that matter.

  From my position in bed, I open my eyes and start fumbling around, searching for the bane of my existence.

  “Fuck,” I curse as my hand hits warm flesh instead of vacant mattress.

  Jesus. Now was not the time to have to evict the current tenants out of my bed. These bitches didn't take kindly to being woken up in the middle of the night, either, and I had no doubt they'd make that known loudly and obnoxiously.

  “Motherfucker,” I hiss, snatching up my cell just as it

  goes silent.

  Firing the screen up, I note the dead man in question is,

  Hoss. My best friend and brother didn't know it yet, but he was in for a world of pain if he was calling for me to come collect his drunk ass from whatever seedy fucking bar he was hanging out in tonight.

  Just as I considered turning the fucking thing off, it lit up again. And again it's Hoss.

  “What?” I snap without hesitation. “If you're drowning in puke and beer, I don't want to know. Find your own way home, and quit fucking calling me.”

  “I'm gonna ignore that because you're gonna owe me after I share this with you, but before I do, fuck you, asshole,” he grunts. Shaking my head, I swing my legs over the side of my bed and look over at the two women curled up beside me.

  The only light on in my small room at the clubhouse is the one on my side table. It wasn't bright, but what it did illuminate was enough to make my stomach roll.

  I hadn't been a monk since Emily, but I didn't usually party like this. One woman, a bottle of Jack, and the occasional joint was plenty enough to keep my occupied, for the most part, so why was tonight different?

  It could be that when I walked into the clubhouse earlier, I felt a shift in the air. Brothers were rowdier than normal, the booze was flowing, and the club girls were taking advantage of their various highly inebriated states. While none of that was uncommon for parties on Vengeance

  turf, the looks some of the boys gave me were. It was if they know something - something they weren't able to share.

  Slick, Mase, Ian, and Dixon shared matching looks of pity as they turned, tipping their chins at me. Ghost, Ratchet, and Shaddow merely shook their heads and went back to their beers. I'd like to say that was when my intuition kicked in, that I immediately knew shit was about to go down, and it would happen soon, but I didn't. Instead, I cataloged their reactions, set them aside, and promised myself I'd look into them later.

  Tonight was a chance for me to let lose; something I hadn't done for a long fucking time, and I planned to make it count. Hence, me choosing to forget about the woman who claims (falsely, I'll add) that I've been exclusive with for the last few months. Grabbing a bottle of Jack, the first two willing women I could find, and guiding them back to my room to partake in what I knew would be an all-night marathon fuck session.

  And what a session it was.

  Both of the women were unbelievable beautiful with their long brown hair, tiny waists, and huge fake tits. Albeit they weren't my type, they were my new normal. Since Emily, I haven't been able to bring myself to take a dark haired woman to bed. Because the one time I did, the re
sults had been catastrophic.

  After calling out Emily's name, no less than five times

  while I fucked some random woman into oblivion, I pulled out of her and left her laying there covered in sweat and me while I hightailed it out of the room. I didn't look back, or I would have seen the look of shock and disappointment written all over her face. And aside from once, when both of us were standing in line at Walgreen's, I haven't seen her again.

  That isn't to say I haven't heard whisperings' around town about our night together because I have. Sherri, Sharon, Sadi, whatever her name was, shared the details of our time together widely. For a time, it felt like every motherfucker within a fifty-mile radius of Furnace knew what went down in my room that night.

  Sure, I fucked up. I called her by another woman's name, and for that I'm sorry. Not because I wanted to see her again, or because I thought something might develop between us, even if it were casual, but because no woman deserved to be treated like that. Women deserve to be treated with respect and kindness; tenderness even. Now, I'm not saying that because they're the weaker sex or any such sexist bullshit, but simply because they're the fairer one.