Vengeance MC Box Set - Volume 2: Gage ~ Cash ~ Knight (Vengeance MC series Book 8)

by Natasha Thomas

  “Please,” I whisper desperately. “Please don’t.”

  Ignoring my pleas, not even sparing me a glance, Meg continues.

  “Nicholas was suave, charming, and attractive in a preppy kind of way. I knew his type; I’d grown up around them. He was no better than Aislinn’s mom, just with more money and power. Nicholas didn’t even wait a month before he hit her the first time, and it went downhill from there. It got so bad Aislinn needed surgery to save her life when one of the ribs he broke punctured her lung. Do you know how it feels to watch your friend try to hide the evidence of her husband cruelty and not do anything? It’s next to fucking impossible, but I did it for her. See, my Aislinn had convinced herself that Nick the Dick was all she deserved. She refused to see what everyone else did, which is that her beauty, inside and out, surpasses all others, and she is entitled to be happy. When she told me that she was leaving the fuckwit and filing for a divorce, you can’t begin to imagine my relief. That was the day I believed there really was a God because my friend was finally going to be free. And that brings us to now, or I should say. A few weeks ago.”

  Taking a deep breath, Meg doesn’t lose momentum, and I notice that our resident sideshow freak is listening with avid interest.

  “Nick the Dick wasn’t done with Aislinn, so he made a grave mistake. He found out who her dad was and thought that would give him some type of leverage over her. What he didn’t take into account is the kind of man he was dealing with. And obviously, neither have you,” Meg smiles evilly. “Look sweet cheeks, if you thought you were only up against one MC filled with angry, heavily armed bikers, you’re sorely mistaken. Her daddy just happens to be the one and only SAA for Devil’s Spawn MC, Reaper, and he’s going to be mighty pissed off you’re waving a loaded weapon at his little girl. Not to mention, her newfound brother, VP for the same MC, Steel, is going to be none to pleased that you’ve threatened her at all, let alone plan to kill her. That there is grounds for extermination so I wouldn’t want to be you right now.”

  Finally turning to face me, Meg asks,

  “Does that cover all the major points, poppet?”

  “I think we’re good. Thanks for that,” I reply sarcastically.

  “All that really happened to you?” I hear muttered over the urge to beat Meg’s ass within an inch of her life roaring in my ears. Don’t mistake the question as one asked out of sympathy because the satisfied smirk across that face is nothing if not pleased to learn about my suffering.

  Shrugging because what more can I do, I confirm,

  “Yeah, it did. It might sound like the script for a bad soap opera, but it’s the truth,” I reassure.

  The trigger is pulled – the gun aimed scant inches to the left of my head – firing off a warning round that embeds itself in the rotting drywall behind me.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Meg screams. “You could have shot her, you psychotic bitch.”

  “I plan on doing more of that in the very near future, so be warned. Now I think it’s time for both of you to stop talking. I would hate to have to kill you so soon, but I will if you don’t do as I say,” she threatens, waving the gun at us.

  Not saying another word, she turns around and walks out of the room toward the small kitchenette located at the back of the building. I know, cliché right? Nutjob abducts women, takes them to abandoned building with the intention of killing them based on a sick, twisted belief she will win the heart of the man she loves. However, ridiculous it sounds, that is the situation we find ourselves in, though.

  “I think that went well,” Meg quips, pulling her hands-free of the tape she’s been working on since we got here.

  “I am so kicking your ass when we get out of here, I hope you know that,” I gripe still reeling from almost being shot.

  “Calm down, Zena the warrior princess. First, let’s worry about getting out of this dump before that whackjob comes back. Someone had to have heard that gunshot, we’re not far enough out of town for them not to. We’ll be okay, Linny. I promise we’ll get out of here, and get you back to your sexy hunk of man meat,” she reassures me. And oddly, it works.

  I’m not scared of dying. I’m scared of who I will be leaving behind. Dex has gone through so much in his lifetime already, and I don’t want to be another statistic of the pain he’s had to endure. There’s no question I’ll fight for him, for us, and indirectly me because the other option just doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Sighing in defeat, I rip the last strip of duct tape off, querying,

  “How long have you had use of your hands?”

  To which, Meg replies,

  “Half an hour give or take. You?”

  “About the same,” I volley, grinning at her. “Who knew when we took that self-defense course and you used your feminine wiles to convince the trainer to teach us how to escape restraints we’d actually use what we learned?”

  Meg rolls her eyes, smirking,

  “Me, obviously. I don’t sleep with ex-covert ops specialists for no reason, you know. Now, what the fuck are we going to do? I vote for shooting her and getting the hell out of dodge.”

  “You would,” I groan, hating that I forced her to come with me when I learned how to use a gun. “I think the best idea is to make a run for it. My penchant for violence and gore has lessened with old age, so making a mess is out.”

  “It’s a pity I don’t feel the same way,” Jessica laughs.

  The sound of the heavy roller door at the front of the building has Jessica swinging around to see who’s there. And that’s all the distraction I need. Diving for the kitchen knife I hid between the end to couch cushions, I commando crawl across the filthy concrete on my stomach.

  Signaling for Meg to find cover, I stop freeze solid at the sound of the voice asking if everything’s okay. Oh, fuck me! It isn’t the MC like I had expected, it’s a woman. A woman we don’t know at that. Great, just fucking fantastic. More innocent, unarmed people to worry about.

  Keeping my eyes trained on Jessica’s back, my hand fumbles to find purchase on the hilt of the knife. Where the fuck is it? I fume silently. Finally, feeling the rubber grip with the tips of my fingers, I reach in further until it’s securely in the palm of my hand.

  Jessica is muttering something inaudible to the woman standing terrified in the doorway as I slowly creep around to the other side of the coffee table, which offers me a slightly less exposed hiding spot. Not that she won’t find me in a heartbeat, she will. But I’m praying it gives me the advantage I need to get the jump on her if it comes to that. Sadly, all evidence points to the fact it will.

  Moments before emptying her fifteen round clip, Jessica releases a humorless laugh, making all of the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  What happens next is equal parts heroic and sheer stupidity, but as the world around me spins and the edges of my vision dim, I can’t help but be grateful for whoever this woman is because, without her, Meg and I would surely be dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ~ Marshall ‘Cash’ Collins ~

  “a blast from the past? Try a nuclear fucking explosion.”

  – Cash to Gage

  An hour and a half earlier at Rough Shod…

  “The usual, gorgeous?” Nadia purrs, running her nails that remind me of claws down my bicep.

  “Not tonight. Beer instead,” I grunt, shaking her off.

  Nadia’s another one of my many mistakes. I fucked her once, and I haven’t been able to shake her since. However, my biggest mistake in the women I should never have fucked twice stakes is currently striding toward me, every ounce the pissed off female I know her to be.

  Callie Stewart was supposed to be a one and done. She flirted, gave me all the signs she was interested in hooking up for a good time, I felt her up – fingering her under the table we were sitting at – and when it came time to take her back to her place, I laid it out for her.

  My rules are simple, and protect the women just as much as they do me. One nigh
t of kinky, no holes barred, straight up fucking. I’ll take them home, but never back to the house I share with my brother, Jump, and fuck them better than any man who came before or will come after me.

  I offer them toe-curling orgasms and the chance to experience things they never thought to try but deep down crave, and in return, all I want is their agreement that when we’re done, we’re done. No calling. No texts. No accidentally running into me. Just fucking done.

  My brother calls me a heartbreaking manwhore, and he’s not wrong. I earned that title, worked fucking hard to convince everyone I have no feelings, and I make no apologies for it. I am the way I am. This is me, and if people don’t like it, they can go and fuck themselves.

  There’s only one woman who ever had a chance with me, and she was only a girl when I ran into her at the precise moment she needed rescuing. Call it a twist of fate, being in the right place at the right time, kismet, the vibe; call it whatever the fuck you want, but just don’t call me a hero. I’m not that. Never that.

  Heroes are selfless, steered by a strong moral compass, dedicated to helping the downtrodden, and seriously fucking misguided. Not everyone is worth saving. Not everyone deserves a second chance. There a some sick, depraved bastards out there; oxygen thieves who shouldn’t be free to roam the Earth with the rest of us. And sadly, my brother and I have met more than our fair share of them.

  A hero would save those bastards because quite simply, to them, all life is sacred. To me, they are no more than a blight on humanity, and I wouldn’t lose sleep if every last fucking one of them were wiped out. Which is exactly what I did when I ran into the street urchin who turned my world on its head.

  *****

  Dirty, thin, with skin so pale it was almost translucent, wearing clothes which belonged in the dumpster she was cowering behind, I met the single most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

  She didn’t speak, she couldn’t. Her voice was lost to the screams of terror she’d obviously been crying out for a long while before I happened upon her. The tears streaming down her perfect, pixie-like face could have saved a drought-stricken nation, and the way her body shivered, I knew she was bordering on going into shock.

  And I could blame her for that. After all, I had just killed a man with my bare hands right in front of her, his body which still lay just a few bleeding out into the gutter as the rain soaked him and us.

  The girl wouldn’t let me touch her, and I was fucking petrified that out here in the cold with shock setting in that she wouldn’t survive the night if I didn’t help her. But the panic in her eyes and the way she held herself when I moved closer, one slow inch at a time, will forever haunt me. I’ve never seen someone look as terrified and alone as she did that night.

  All I wanted to do was wrap my arms around her, and promise to take care of her. But comfort wasn’t what she wanted; freedom was. Which is why I backed away, told her that if she came with me, my brother and I would look after her, and left the decision in her tiny hands.

  It didn’t surprise me when she shook her head, no, but the depth of disappointment I felt did. Aside from Jump, I’ve never had the urge to look after another living soul before, so the fierce desire to take this girl under my wing and protect her was as foreign to me as the memory of mother was becoming.

  I live the way I want to be remembered when my time eventually comes; with no regrets. Except for her. Only her.

  I never learned her name, where she was from, or if she had family or anyone to take care of her. I wanted to. I craved hearing her voice so I could see if it matched the fragile beauty of her outward appearance. My heart lurched at the thought of leaving her there, but it was evident I was causing her more distress than I was helping, so I did the only thing I could. I walked away.

  So you see, I’m not a hero regardless of what I did to save her, or the ache in my chest at the knowledge I wouldn’t be there if she needed someone to watch out for her again. She is and always will be my only regret.

  *****

  “Honestly, I’m surprised you had the balls to call me after last time, Cash,” Callie drawls, taking the stool next to me at the bar.

  Shrugging, I admit,

  “I wouldn’t have if I didn’t need you to run those name for me. Don’t kid yourself, Callie. What we had was good while it lasted, but it ran its course, we both know that.”

  “You really are a fucking asshole, aren’t you?” She snaps, clicking her fingers to get the bartender, Quentin’s attention. “Dirty martini, straight up with a twist,” she orders, never taking her eyes off me.

  Muttering a curse for falling into the same trap, I state,

  “Been called worse by better, babe.”

  In the beginning, one of the things I liked about Callie is that she doesn’t hesitate to call it as she sees it. Most people, both men, and women, think twice when it comes to telling me what they really think of me. But Callie, never. She could care less about the withering glares, my refusal to answer her questions, or my ability to tune her out.

  Scoffing more to herself than at me, a smile graces her lips as she says,

  “I knew I picked the wrong brother. At least, Jump pretends to make an effort with the women he takes home and fucks.”

  Little does she know how true part of that statement is. Jump isn’t who the world thinks he is. He’s the master at disguising the pain, loneliness, and anger he feels. The easy going, good old boy façade he shows others is far from the real him because my brother has a secret. A secret he’s willing to protect with his life if needs be.

  The frantic pleas of a woman who must have come in while I was lost in thought immediately draws my attention away from the woman beside me.

  “Excuse me,” she squeaks, barely audible over the noise in the bar. “Um, hey. Excuse me.”

  Her voice is like a whisper-soft caress, bringing alive all the nerve endings laying beneath the surface of my skin. There’s none of the usual depth or huskiness that comes with age, just sweet, melodic purity.

  My eyes unashamedly run the length of her incredible body, stopping and honing in at the sight of a scar peeking above the collar of her scoop neck T-shirt. I know that kind of scar all too well – where it’s from, why she has it, and what it means.

  Quentin is busy filling drinks, juggling multiple orders and hasn’t taken any notice of her as yet, which is his loss and my gain.

  “You need help beautiful?” I ask, which has her head snapping around to face me.

  The startled expression on her face is one I’m familiar with; a look I get from a lot of women due to my looks. It’s a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it gets me all the pussy I want without having to work for it, and a curse because sometimes I wish someone would bother to look deeper to what lays beneath.

  In profile this woman is sensational, but front on, she’s magnificent. Rich chestnut hair flows freely to half way down her back; thick, luscious, and perfect for a man to sink his hands into. She is probably only five-foot-two at best, maybe even shorter but the ample curves of her bust, trim waist, flat stomach, and toned thighs more than make up for what she lacks in height.

  But it’s her eyes that make me look twice. And then again for good measure. I’ve seen those eyes before. I see them every fucking night in my dreams. Hypnotizing wide gray eyes that mimic the color of a summer storm are staring back at me, blinking as if she’s seen a ghost.

  Nervously playing with the ends of her hair, she opens and closes her pouty, pink lips a few times before collecting herself and asking,

  “I’m looking for my son.”

  Her words hit me like a wrecking ball. A sharp pain radiating in my chest as if I’ve been poleaxed. This remarkable woman, a woman I would know anywhere and do even fifteen years later has a kid. A fucking kid. Worse still, he’s missing.

  “What’s his name and what’s he look like? I’ll see if I can’t round up a few boys to help look for him,” I offer.

  I’m not going to bring to her att
ention I know her, that we met a long time ago during a time she’d most likely rather forget. I’ll let her do that. In fact, I want her to. I need to know if I made as big an impression on her as she did on me. It’s fucked up, but it is what it is.

  She takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly, twisting her hands together.

  “His name is Talon. He’s fourteen, but he’s tall for his age. Brown hair like mine, green eyes, he was wearing a black hoodie and jeans when I left him at the motel ten minutes ago.” Gasping, a flood of tears rushes to her eyes as she whimpers, “Oh God, I only left to go and get him something to eat. He can’t take his medication without food, but I was only gone for a few minutes. I called the order into the nice lady who owns the diner, and she said she’d have it ready for me to pick up.”