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

by Natasha Thomas

  That said, don’t for a second think I’m the prodigal child that I’m an angel or anything because I’m not. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to bribe my Gramps friends, Conway and Malakai with a batch of my peanut butter, chocolate chunk cookies to keep my nightly escapades a secret. But I can disclose it’s been a lot. So much so, I spend most of my weekly allowance on flour and sugar to keep those men’s mouths shut.

  Dad doesn’t respond to me. Instead, he tucks his gun back into the waistband of his jeans and stomps off in the direction of the kitchen where all three of my brothers are probably eating him out of house and home.

  After he’s out of sight, mom wraps her arm around my shoulders and guides me into the living room.

  “You know he only wants what’s best for you, Fee. Your dad has a funny way of showing it, but he loves you, sweetheart,” she reassures me, using the nickname she gave me when I was born.

  “I know, mom,” I nod slowly, wiping the stray tears from my cheeks. “But I want dad to trust me too. Pierce wasn’t even really a date. He was just taking me to the movies and maybe the diner afterward.”

  “To your father, that is a date, Fee. Regardless of if you believe you’re just friends or not, it was written all over that boys’ face that he wanted more than that,” mom smiles gently. “And your dad isn’t ready for that just yet. If he could, he would keep you at home under his roof forever, and he’d be the happiest man alive. You’re his baby; his little girl.”

  “Drake dates all the time, though. And dad didn’t even bat an eye when Leo asked for money to buy Delilah a present for her birthday,” I remind her, crossing my arms over my chest petulantly. Which on second thoughts, probably isn’t a point in my favor when I’m trying to convince them I’m not the little kid anymore.

  Mom sighs heavily.

  “I’m not even going to go into the chauvinistic attitude your father and grandfather have in regards to the differences between raising girls and boys, because as far as I’m concerned, they’re both stuck in the dark ages. But honestly, Fee, there is a difference. Your brothers, even Carter at thirteen, can handle themselves. They’ve been working out, training with your dad since before they could lace their own gloves. You were different, though. You didn’t show any interest in the gym or boxing. You didn’t want to hang out and learn to fight like they did. And before you say it, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just that your dad doesn’t feel like he got to impart the necessary skills so that you can defend yourself.”

  I want to argue with her, but mom’s not wrong. I’m not interested in fighting, training, or hanging out with a bunch of sweaty, smelly boys in a gym that smells of dirty socks and moldy jock straps. But just because I don’t feel the need to risk contracting an infectious disease with a simple trip to my dad’s gym doesn’t mean that I can’t protect myself.

  “Well, I beg to differ. Pop and gramps taught me how to shoot, Conway taught me how to drive it like I stole it, Uncle Slade is still teaching me show to incapacitate a man in three moves or less, and I have Uncle Nate on speed dial,” I say with more conviction than I feel.

  One of my pet hates is when people point out the glaring difference between my brothers and me. Aside from my obvious lack of essential appendage that would define me as a male, of course. I’m acutely aware that I’m not as fast or strong as they are, and I know that I will never be able to compete with them when it comes to sports or any task that requires brute force. But in my defense, I am smart, patient, and one hell of a planner. That’s probably why my nighttime visits to my best friend haven’t been discovered yet.

  *****

  When I was three, I fell in love. I met a boy with eyes the color of molten chocolate, unruly dark hair that flops into his eyes, and a smile that made my heart ache just a little. But it was his dimples that sealed the deal for me. Two perfect divots on either side of his full lips, and I was done for.

  Since then, we have been inseparable. Although we’d known each other from the day I was born, our friendship didn’t blossom until the day I tripped and fell into a mud puddle. Dante held out his hand for me to take, smiled his cocky, self-assured smile that has half the girls in town swooning after him now, and helped me up.

  Being the son of one of my dad’s friends, Gage, who is also a member of Vengeance MC, I know my friendship with Dante will never evolve into anything else. It wouldn’t matter if Dante did feel the same way about me as I do about him, which he doesn’t, because I would never risk what we have on the off chance something might develop between us. He’s more important to me than that.

  Dante is my best friend, the only person who understands me on a deeper level. He’s the only one I’ve ever let in, that I’ve shared my hopes, dreams, and aspirations for the future with. And it isn’t a one-way street either.

  From the time he was twelve, Dante started telling me about his plans after high school. What he would do, where he will go, and how he’s going to make it happen. Dante doesn’t want to join the MC like a lot of his cousins and friends do. He wants the freedom to travel with his band, play drums and possibly make it big one day. I believe him every time he tells me that in ten years from now, he will be on stage at a huge concert with thousands of fans screaming his name. Why? Because Dante’s that good.

  He has been playing the drums since he was old enough to hold a set of sticks in his hands. Dante took to them like this was what he was born to do. As if his sole purpose in life was to make music and keep time. The problem is, time is running out.

  Time isn’t something any of us can actually keep. It’s fleeting. Moments of happiness are transitory, as are friendships which is what terrifies me most. That Dante will do exactly as he’s said; leave town, make it big with his band, and forget all about me. He says he won’t, that he could never forget his Faye, but as we get closer to our senior year of high school, I can see the excitement in his eyes at the prospect of being able to leave soon growing more intense by the day.

  *****

  “Earth to, Fee,” mom prompts, nudging my arm.

  “Oh, um, sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed that I’ve been caught daydreaming again. “What were you saying, mom?”

  Quirking her eyebrow at me, she grins.

  “All I was saying is don’t be too hard on your dad. His heart is in the right place, even if his brain isn’t firing on all cylinders all of the time. Give him some time to adjust to the fact that you’re growing up, but if he doesn’t come around soon and pull his stubborn head out of his ass, I promise that I’ll step in on your behalf. Deal?” Mom winks, sticking out her hand.

  Ignoring it, I throw myself into her arms and hug her tightly. I seriously love my mom sometimes. Especially, since she seems to be the only one capable of handling my control freak dad.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad, and most days I consider myself lucky that I ended up with him as my father. My friends have told me horror stories about some of the stuff their parents say or do. How they aren’t allowed to have friends over after school and aren’t permitted to go out on weeknights. What they wear, how they do their hair, and the type of music they listen to is closely monitored by their moms and dads. My dad is nothing like them, not even a little bit.

  Mom and dad have raised me and my brothers, Drake, Leo, and Carter to be independent, free thinking, responsible members of society, or so they say. My personal opinion is if that’s the case, they’re falling down on the job because my brothers are demonic, riot in-sighting hellions.

  With just over a year between us, which makes Drake sixteen and the second oldest, Leo fifteen, and Carter fourteen, our parents had their work cut out for them from the beginning. I don’t think they ever intended to have us so close in age, but if you ever see my parents together, you’ll quickly realize why it happened that way and question how they only ended up with the four of us.

  After nearly eighteen years of marriage, they still can’t keep their hands off each other. Public, private, fam
ily gatherings, holidays, you name it, if our parents are close enough to touch each other, they do. Mom laughs when we groan at their prolific exhibitionist behavior, and dad? Well, he just tells us to get over it and be grateful we haven’t walked in on them ‘doing it’ on the kitchen counter yet. Needless to say, I break out the industrial strength cleaner every time I have to bake after that unnecessary piece of information.

  Drying my face with the palms of her hands, mom gently kisses me on the forehead, saying,

  “You have a visitor. Oh, and Fee,” she smirks. “Your dad and gramps took the ladder to Pops house so that they can start fixing his roof tomorrow, so you might want to consider an alternative escape route when you sneak out tonight.”

  I open my mouth to say something but unfortunately no words come out, only a squeak of surprise that I’ve finally been caught. Dammit, I thought I had been stealthy, but I guess not.

  Laughing at my stricken expression, mom chuckles and mutters,

  “Amateur,” walking off to join dad and my brothers.

  A few moments later, the cushion beside me sinks and a pair of strong, calloused hands wraps around mine, pulling them away from my face. I knew it was Dante before he touched me. I can sense when he’s close. Not to mention, I can smell his cologne, which mixed with the smell of fresh cut grass and oil makes Drake’s scent one hundred percent unique.

  Brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, Dante looks at me. His eyes look darker today, which means something is bothering him. I’ve learned how to read Dante well, which wasn’t particularly easy since he mastered the carefully blank expression he usually wears at an early age. I can see past it, though. I always have.

  “Hey, why’s my Faye crying? What happened and who’s ass do I need to kick?” Dante asks with his voice laced with barely restrained anger.

  At seventeen, he’s already over six-feet tall, towering over my five-foot-two, and is incredibly blessed in the looks department. Two hundred pounds of well-developed muscle, broad shoulders, thick thighs, and the perfect V that frames his abdominals, pointing to another area in which he is also blessed – unfairly so – Dante is the epitome of what I consider to be beautiful.

  His hair is still dark and unruly, except now it’s grown long enough to tie it together at the base of his neck. Dante claims he doesn’t like facial hair but is yet to shave the small patch of hair beneath his lower lip off. The girls at school say that he calls it his ‘flavor saver,’ and every time they do, I cringe.

  I’m not stupid; I know Dante has slept his way through our high school, but that doesn’t mean I have to like hearing about all of his conquests.

  On that note, I ask,

  “Don’t worry about me, why are you here? I thought you had a date with Jessie today.”

  Dante narrows his eyes at me and clenches his jaw.

  “I canceled. Something more important came up. Now answer the question, my Faye. Who upset you, and where can I find them so I can kill them?”

  “No one. It doesn’t matter. I was just being silly,” I shrug, not wanting Dante to continue along this line of questioning.

  When I said that I have learned to read Dante, the same goes in reverse. As far as he’s concerned, I’m an open book. He knows when I’m hiding something from him, and usually, with very little effort he manages to coax it out of me before I’ve even realized what I’m saying. But not this time. This time, I want to spare myself the lecture I know Dante will give me if he finds out I was going out on a date with Pierce. They hate each other, so I can only imagine how well that will go over with Dante.

  “You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you Faye? Because I’ve got ways of getting it out of you if you are,” he warns with a hint of mischief lightening his tone.

  “Nope,” I reply, popping the P. “I prefer to look at it as reserving the right to not incriminate myself.”

  Dante

  I rake my eyes over Faye suspiciously as she feeds me a line of bullshit she knows better than to expect me to accept. I’ve known this girl for seventeen years, and not once in that time has she been able to placate my desire to protect her with half-assed answers and lies by omission.

  When I walked in and saw the tears wetting her cheeks, I felt like I had been punched in the gut. My heart aches with the knowledge that something had upset my girl enough to make her cry.

  Faye isn’t like any of the other girls I know. She doesn’t gossip, share clothes and shoes, or trade makeup tips with her friends. Faye isn’t a cheerleader, editor of the school newspaper, on the homecoming or prom committee, and she isn’t the artsy type either. No, my Faye is one of a kind. Driven, dedicated, and passionate about one thing and one thing only; music.

  Sometimes I ask myself whether or not that’s my fault. Would Faye be so into it if I weren’t always talking about, writing, and playing it? Would Faye be choosing colleges based on their management courses with a focus on entertainment if I hadn’t shared my dreams with her? But mostly I question if all of this – her college major and the career path she’s looking at – is what she really wants, or is it just the only way she thinks she can stay connected to me, in my life somehow.

  What Faye doesn’t realize is that none of that matters. My girl could be a doctor, lawyer, or a fucking florist for all I care but she’d still be mine. I’ve known since the second I saw her dressed in a pretty white dress with blue polka dots on it, covered in mud, yet still smiling brighter than the sun that Faye was meant for me.

  At three, I believed she was an angel fallen from heaven, that God had given her to me because I’d been good. I learned later that Faye isn’t an angel, she’s something far better. She’s mine. Which is why I want to know who the fuck hurt her because I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d kill the motherfucker who dared to make her cry.

  “Hey, are you okay, Dante? You don’t look so good,” Faye’s sweet, melodic voice tinkles, pulling me out from underneath the cloud of anger that’s been threatening to engulf me since I got here.

  Needing to look anywhere but at her – this girl doesn’t realize how fucking insane she drives me – I scan the family portraits hanging between the two bookcases on the far side of the living room.

  Faye’s mom, Zara has four brothers, and her dad, Knight, has one. The walls are filled with candid and posed shots taken at Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and every birthday in between. There’s even a few of me with Faye and her brother, Drake. But my favorite is a picture of the two of us that Faye’s honorary aunt, Scarlet took last year on my girls’ birthday. I didn’t know Scarlet was hiding around the corner with her camera poised, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.

  My desperation to get Faye alone so that she could open her present from me was fierce. What I bought her was for her eyes only. For months I worked hard doing odd jobs for my dad, helping the guys out at the clubhouse, and running my brothers around for my mom to earn the extra cash to buy Faye’s gift.

  It was extravagant for a seventeenth gift, I knew that, but as soon as I saw it, I just had to get it for her. My parents didn’t say anything about how much I spent on Faye. They’d known for years that I didn’t just love her as my best friend, but that I was in love with her. Dad merely quirked his eyebrow at me, patted me on the back, and wished me luck. Mom, though. Well, she smiled huge and then started to cry when I showed her Faye’s present.

  The gold heart-shaped locket has a solid backing but is designed with delicate filigree on the front. I managed to find a photo from when we were three – the same year I knew she’d be mine – that I could shrink down to size to fit inside. But that wasn’t what made it special. No, that was the engraving I had done on the back.

  Mine Forever After

  Straightforward and honest. Three words that I hoped when Faye saw them would convey everything I had so much trouble speaking aloud. I can write music, lyrics, poems, but when I try to tell the girl I gave my heart and soul to as a kid how I feel about her, I sudden
ly become mute.

  It’s not that I don’t want to, I do, desperately. However, at the same time, I’m fucking terrified Faye will turn me down, or tell me she doesn’t see me the same way I see her. It’s a long shot, I know. I’ve watched her long enough to notice the desire in her eyes when I walk around shirtless. The way Faye blushes when I hold her for a few seconds longer than is considered friendly lets me know that even if Faye doesn’t love me, she definitely feels the same chemistry and lust that I do.

  “Dante,” Faye tentatively whispers. Her voice is a mixture of thick, rich molasses and breathy innocence, and it’s one hell of a turn on.

  My cock hardens in my jeans, making it impossible for her not to notice what she does to me, and I don’t hide it. What’s the point? Eventually, my girl is going to have to get with the program and realize she belongs to me, preferably before I leave to go on tour so I can take her with me.

  Taking her small hand in mine, I rub my thumb over her wrist where I can feel her pulse beating erratically. Good, she’s affected by me too.

  “I’m better now that I know you’re all right. You weren’t answering my texts, so I came to check on you.”