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

by Natasha Thomas

  But with no leads, no witnesses, and nowhere for the investigation into the disappearance of two bikers to go, the police were forced to close the case. There is no statute of limitations for murder, so in light of new evidence the case can be reopened, but for now, it will remain an unsolved homicide. One of very few in Furnace’s history.

  Emily pats my hand with a concerned expression on her face when she takes in the two brothers arguing.

  “Do you know what that’s all about?” She asks quietly.

  “I’m not sure, but I think we’re all about to find out,” I reply, seeing Cash’s eyes flit in my direction.

  Cash’s frame is tense, as is his jaw, and his hands are clenched at his sides. Everything about him exudes to approach with caution, but even at his angriest, I know he is in complete control of his emotions.

  “By now, I’m pretty sure you’re all wondering why I asked you here,” he begins. “This is a family matter. Since I consider all of you my family and don’t want to have to repeat this shit, I figure it’s best everyone who means anything to Jump and I be part of this.”

  “Don’t do this, man,” Jump implores through gritted teeth.

  Spinning on him, Cash pins Jump with a glare that would make lesser men cower.

  “You haven’t left me much fucking choice, little brother. I told you what would happen if you didn’t stop that shit. I fucking warned you it would come to this, but like everything else, you just had to test me. Well, I was serious, and it’s about time you had to face up to facts. You’ve got a fucking problem, little brother. A problem I can’t help you with on my own.”

  Oh, God. Instantly, I know where this is going. I can almost predict Jump’s reaction to Cash’s intervention today. Because that’s what this is; an intervention. From experience, both life and through education, I know this won’t go the way Cash has planned, but I can’t say that I disagree with his decision to finally follow through with his threats.

  The little I heard and managed to piece together on my own, it’s clear that Jump’s addiction isn’t a recent development. This has been going on for months, if not years.

  Addiction of choice aside, all addicts follow a similar pattern when they’re confronted. First comes negotiation.

  “Brother, I give you my word that if you send them home, we’ll talk. I’ll listen to everything you have to say, but only if it’s just you and me.”

  Shaking his head, Cash outwardly battles to keep hold of his composure at the pleading tone in his brother's voice.

  “Not gonna happen. Not this time, little brother. You had your chance and didn’t take it. Fuck, you had hundreds of opportunities.”

  Next comes anger.

  “Fine, then I’m fucking out of here. I don’t need this shit.”

  Boss stands up from the couch and takes a step toward Jump with his hands up in a placating gesture.

  “I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, but I think it’s about time one of you started talking. Sit down, Jump,” he commands. “You’re not going anywhere until we handle whatever shit you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  Jump complies, but the look of sheer terror at being outed that crosses his face has my heart breaking for him. Rationally, I know this is the best thing for him – he’s going to need people to support him through his detox and to help him stay clean – but my emotions don’t follow the same logic.

  At the best of days, I can’t stand to see people suffer, but sadly, I’m all too aware that’s all that is in Jump’s future. Pain, anguish, and suffering physical, mental, and emotional. The path that’s going to be decided for him is full of nothing but misery while he goes through withdrawal from whatever he’s been taking, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do to ease that for him.

  Steeling himself, Cash sucks in an audible breath, hanging his head in defeat.

  “My brother’s an addict. Meth, Coke, Ecstasy, prescription meds, you name it he’ll probably test positive for it.”

  “Say again?” Boss demands on a low growl.

  “He’s a junkie. An addict. A user. Has been for the better part of thirteen years,” Cash admits.

  “How?” Gage grates out. “How the fuck has he been able to hide that shit from us for this long. Jesus, Cash. You’ve both been with Vengeance, for what? Ten, eleven years?”

  Grimacing, Cash grunts,

  “Eleven and a half.”

  “And what, he’s been using all that time?” Fury asks, remarkably calm at Cash’s revelation.

  Cash gestures to Jump, who is casting nervous glances around the room, eventually settling his eyes on his older brother.

  “It’d be better if you asked him. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Start talking,” Boss commands, sending Jump a scathing look. “You’re my brother, but I’m still your President too. This shit has all sorts of ramifications for the club if you’re caught with anything on you, so you better fucking explain yourself before I kick your ass first, and ask questions later.”

  Some of Jump’s anger subsides at Boss’ statement, and before my eyes, it’s as if he starts to deflate. His shoulders slump forward, and Jump hangs his head, running his hands through his hair.

  “It’s a long story,” he rasps.

  “We’ve got time,” Boss volleys, not giving him a choice in the matter.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ~ Patrick ‘Jump’ Collins ~

  “I want to be the reason you look down at your phone and smile then walk into my pole.”

  – Cash’s secret thoughts

  Betrayed by my own blood. This is something I never saw coming. My trust shattered, along with my heart, and what was left of my already fractured soul.

  Truthfully, I should have seen this coming. Cash had warned me dozens of times that if I didn’t get myself clean, he’d have no choice but to rat me out to the club. I didn’t take him seriously. I banked on him taking my side like he’s always done, but that was obviously my first mistake.

  Where I thought blood was thicker than water, it wasn’t enough to keep Cash from sharing my darkest, most shameful secret. Don’t get me wrong, the club – my brothers – are family to me, but they don’t share the same fucked up DNA as Cash and I. They weren’t forced to live the way we were after our mom died, and have no idea what my brother did to protect me.

  Before you judge me, you need to know that I’ve tried to get clean. Once I stopped the drugs cold turkey, but that only lasted nine hours before I was jonesing for a hit and faltered at the first hurdle. That wasn’t the only time, I tried, but in the end, every attempt ended in much the same way. Me strung out, and even more resigned to living the life of an addict with every failure.

  Gathering the remnants of my courage, fully aware I could lose my patch for this, I confess my sins.

  “I started using after my first surgery. The painkillers the doc gave me weren’t enough to take the edge off after a couple of weeks, so I found a guy who could get me something stronger. In the beginning, it was just a few pills, maybe a line here and there, but when that didn’t work anymore either, I upped it to a few pills a day, and it spiraled from there.”

  “Tell me you don’t shoot up,” Fury snarls scathingly.

  “No, never. I don’t use needles, never have and never will,” I rush out.

  “That’s fucking something, at least,” Gage mutters, refusing to look at me.

  That burns deep in the pit of my gut. I fucking knew that when this came out, their reactions were going to be variations on the same theme, which is why I never planned on telling them. The MC means everything to me, only coming second to Cash. I didn’t want to have to hear their disgust or see their scorn. I don’t want their fucking pity either.

  “Go on and tell them the rest,” my brother coaxes, when all I really want to do is run and pray this is all just a nightmare. But this isn’t a request; it’s a command in the guise of one.

  Out of anyone, I know Cash best. His fault
s. His strengths. Even his fears. In saying that, you’re probably wondering why I didn’t believe him when he said if I didn’t quit using he’d make me own the consequences of my fucked up decisions.

  The truth is blind trust. Stupid, right? After the life we’ve led, you’d think by now I’d be smart enough not to trust anyone. But this is my brother we’re talking about. The boy who taught me how to ride a bike, skateboard, and threw me my first football. Cash tutored me in math, rode my ass about picking up my room, and made my lunches when I was a kid. And later, when my health began to deteriorate, Cash made a choice no big brother should have to. He sold himself to save me.

  It’s not what you’re thinking. He didn’t go out walking the streets or work for what the discerning public call an escort agency – which is just a nice name for a stable of high-end prostitutes – nothing like that. But sometimes, I wonder if that would have been better than what he put himself through.

  The guilt over his choice, what it did to him and, in turn, me, hasn’t dulled even remotely in the years since we got out. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

  There’s nothing I can do to repay his sacrifice. Nothing I can give him. I’m at a loss, and that tears me apart from the inside out. When I’m least expecting it, I remember the moans and groans, whimpers and mewls from both men and women. The sounds skin slapping against skin, wet suctioning, and roars of completion haunt my dreams. I can clearly see the rapt expressions of ecstasy as Cash uncovered his body for those perverts – the way they would run their eyes, hands, mouths, and other body parts over him.

  Not once did he ever object. Cash didn’t tell them to stop. He didn’t run or cower. He just stood there and let them use him however they wanted until they were satisfied, only then did he turn around and throw up until he couldn’t throw up anymore.

  The firm grasp on my arm brings me back to the present. Looking down, I expect to see Cash’s hand, but the pale pink fingernails, long, slender fingers, and dainty hand softly rubbing my forearm definitely doesn’t belong to my brother.

  Kennedy smiles at me when I finally summon the courage to lift my head. Her eyes aren’t filled with disgust or pity, but support and concern. Something that I’m immensely grateful for because I don’t know what I would have done if she hated me too.

  Rising onto her toes, Kennedy speaks quietly for my ears only.

  “Everything. Tell them everything. It doesn’t seem like it, but it will be easier to completely unburden yourself now, instead of having to do it in fits and starts.” Kennedy squeezes my arm once before letting her hand fall away, reassuring me, “I’ll be here, Jump. Every step of the way, I’ll be here. They will too. They are angry and hurt right now, but trust me, that will fade. We all care about you, honey, and just want to help.”

  Letting her advice sink in, I take a deep, ragged breath. But before I can tell them anything, I have to confirm something. Something important. Because, at the end of the day, this isn’t only my story, it’s Cash’s too.

  “How much?” I ask more calmly than I feel. “How much do you want me to tell them?”

  Cash echoes Kennedy. Direct and to the point.

  “Everything.”

  “Can we keep the questions until the end? I won’t be able to get it all out otherwise,” I state, accepting of the fact that I’m about to flay my life and Cash’s secrets and the self-loathing I’ve hidden for years wide open for all to see.

  All the men in the room, Emily, and Kennedy nod, but it’s Boss who replies.

  “Take your time, but don’t leave anything out. I don’t give the first fuck how you think we’ll react; I want to hear it all. After that, we’ll see where we go from here.”

  That’s not the most ringing endorsement for support if ever I’ve heard one, but I suppose, what can I expect? I’ve lied, both by omission and directly, I put the club at risk, and I did it for years. That won’t and shouldn’t be taken lightly.

  I drop my head again and stare at my boots, not wanting to look at anyone. There’s not a hope in hell I’ll be able to get this out if I have to look into their disapproving faces. Not a fucking chance.

  “You all know I was sick as a kid. I got diagnosed when I was seven because like a lot of kids, I didn’t start showing symptoms until my heart slowed to what would be my normal rate and was more active. Mom took me to doctors for tests, and eventually, we were told I’d need to have the crappy valve causing all the problems replaced. The doctors didn’t want to operate too early, though. They said it was better to hold off as long as we could, so that hopefully, they’d only have to do the surgery once,” I explain.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, subconsciously covering the eight-inch scar over my heart, I go on.

  “I was scheduled for the operation the week after mom OD’d. I’d had all the tests, scans, they’d even taken blood from mom and Cash in case I needed a transfusion during or after the surgery. It didn’t go ahead, though. Mom was dead, the police were asking questions, and child services were a visit away from separating Cash and me, so we ran. We were kids then; we didn’t think about what we were doing other than not wanting to be shipped off to different foster or group homes.”

  And that’s the absolute unfiltered truth.

  Cash and I talked about it at length. Neither of us was willing to live without the other. Cash was and still is my best friend. He was the only male role model I’ve ever had – a father figure, mentor, someone to look up to. And I did. God, how I looked up to him.

  He’s everything I’m not. Strong, fierce, determined, and capable of loving someone so unconditionally he’d risk his life for them. And while I would do the later for him, I can’t see myself ever being that devoted and in love with another person that I’d be willing to give them my last breath.

  “We had no money and nowhere to go. Our grandparents were dead, and our dad took off when he found out our mom was pregnant with me. We moved around for a while, jumped trains, hitchhiked, did whatever we had to do to get far enough away from home that the cops would stop looking for us,” I recall, my hands clenching into fists at the memory of how scared I was.

  “Ended up squatting in an abandoned office building in Billings. Cash tried to get enough work to support us and get us out of there, but there wasn’t a lot going for an unqualified kid who didn’t graduate high school. My health got worse during the winter, so much so, I didn’t think I’d make it.”

  This is where the story becomes even more difficult for me to relive, and I’m sure it won’t be any picnic for Cash either.

  “A few hours a day, Cash worked for a woman who owned a clothing store. She was one of those women who came from money and only worked to keep herself busy. A real cold, unfeeling bitch. She introduced her friend to Cash, and that’s when shit got worse than we could ever imagine.”

  Hyperventilating almost, I tuck my head between my knees, hunched over like I’m going to be sick. Kennedy is at my side in seconds, rubbing soothing circles on my back, murmuring words of encouragement that I can barely hear over the dull roar of blood rushing to my head. Her eyes are filled with tears, but I can’t tell if they’re for me, my brother, or herself.

  And now, I want to run more now than I ever have. I want to jump on my bike and take off. Ride the highways until I forget the painful memories of our past. I can’t, though. Not because it wouldn’t be easier, but because I can’t disappoint Cash like that. He deserves more than a coward for a brother.

  When I’ve got myself together, I offer Kennedy a few words of thanks before continuing.

  “In essence, Francesca, that was her name, offered Cash, and by extension me, room and board, to cover my medical expenses, not only doctor’s visits and medication but the surgery too if he signed himself over to her for two years.”

  Kennedy gasps in outrage or is it horror, but finds herself securely wrapped in Cash’s arms with her head buried in his chest before I can find out.

  “The bitch wasn’t stupid, though. She kn
ew if she paid for my surgery, Cash and I would have figured out a way to get the fuck out of there, so she kept putting it off as long as she could. I got treatment, doctor’s visited the house and gave me pills and injections, they monitored me closely for nearly eighteen months before telling her if I didn’t get the operation soon I’d die. Not that she would have given a shit. I think if she had her way, she’d have sooner let me die than part with any of her hard earned cash.”

  I must pause for too long in between because Cash steps in, prompting,

  “Keep going,” in a gravelly rasp.

  He’s affected by this too. That is a time in his life he’d sooner forget, but he knows well enough that I can’t explain how far I fell without wading through the clusterfuck that was those two years.

  I won’t give away the details because, in the grand scheme of things, they aren’t relevant. If Cash wants to share those privately with Kennedy or our brothers, then that’s up to him, but I won’t be the one to divulge them.