Vengeance MC Box Set - Volume 1: Call Me...Vengeance ~ Fury ~ Jonas

by Natasha Thomas

  “I fucking know that,” he replies in kind. “But you’ve got to see it from my point of view. My fifteen-year-old daughter was in love with a man more than a decade older than her. She didn’t know the first thing about it, but she was fucking adamant love was what she felt for you. There was no convincing her otherwise. And trust me, I tried. Her mother tried. Fuck, even my brothers tried to tell her what she was feeling was normal but it wasn’t what she thought it was.”

  Hearing that Saint actually went far enough to actively discourage Avery’s feelings for me elicits a strange reaction from me. I knew anger. I knew rage. Shit, I’ve lived with those emotions for so long they’re a part of me. But this, this was a new one. This one was my namesake; it was pure, unadulterated fury.

  “Are you fucking serious?” I bellow while clenching my jaw trying to get control over myself. “You know fucking nothing about me if you think I’d act on the feelings she had for me or in return I had for her. I might not have much of a moral code, but that’s a line I’d never cross. You say you learned a lot about me while you were watching us together, then explain why you felt the need to involve yourself, your wife, and your brothers in something that wouldn’t eventuate to anything. She was a kid, Saint. A fucking kid. I loved her then, but not even close to the way I love her now. Back then. I would have protected her with my life, thrown down for her, and done almost anything to make her happy, but even still, that had its limits. Now, all bets are off. I’d bleed and die for her. Her safety comes first, with her happiness coming a close second. If I thought walking away from her would ensure she’d be happy every day for the rest of her life, I’d do it. Something I can’t say I would have done back then.”

  Saint stands abruptly, striding over to where I’ve begun pacing across the faded, ugly ass carpet long past its replacement date. Gripping my forearm roughly, Saint pulls me into a one-armed hug, patting my back several times before taking a step back.

  “We’re good,” he states resolutely.

  I’m not sure what he’s good with, but I can assure you, I don’t share the sentiment. I’ve never been more worked up than I am right now, but for the sake of saving my limbs and walking away unscathed, I clamp my mouth shut and offer him a nod by way of response.

  Eyeing me warily, he goes on to say,

  “All I’ve ever wanted was for my girl to be happy. If the man that’s going to make that a reality is you, then so be it. I heard you when you said you’re not asking for my blessing, but you’ve got it anyway. You’ve got her Mom and sisters’ too. Just do me a favor?” He requests, quirking an eyebrow at me.

  “Not sure you’re in the position to be asking me for favors, Saint, but go ahead and ask anyway.”

  “Just for the love of God don’t knock her up before you’ve let my wife help plan the wedding, and you’ve got your rings on her finger. I’m not ready to be a Granddad yet. A wedding will give me time to ease myself into that shit,” he smirks.

  I can’t tell if he's serious, but seeing as that was already how I saw things working out I’ll give him that much.

  With the tension in the room almost dissipated, I feel it’s safe to ask,

  “Did you talk to Avery before you headed this way? I tried to get hold of her before I left, but I ended up having to call in reinforcements by way of Blaine.”

  “No. But I didn’t try either. You two get into it before you left? Have a fight or some shit?”

  Why the fuck does everyone assume that? Whatever. I don’t have time for this shit right now.

  “Nothing like that,” I groan, shaking my head. “I’m assuming she just didn’t hear it or was busy, but I would have liked to be the one to tell her I was heading out. Blaine was going home after work, so I’m sure I’ll hear from her later.”

  “Good. Let me know when she’s checked in, yeah? And tell her to call her Dad when she’s got a minute.”

  “Will do,” I return, both of us shaking hands as Saint exits the way he came.

  This might not have been the way I saw this conversation going down, but I’m not disappointed with the outcome. I’m breathing, Saint’s okay with me claiming his daughter, and I finally get to exact retribution on the motherfuckers who hurt my woman. All in all, it’s turned out better than I planned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ~ Avery ~

  “My death will probably be caused by being sarcastic at the wrong time, to the wrong person.”

  - Avery’s secret thoughts

  For a multitude of reasons, this kidnapping is vastly different from the last one I endured. The first being; these guys are stupid. I mean, dumb as a box of hammers, stupid. On second thoughts, that’s probably insulting hammers. Hammers can be useful for a variety of things, thus proving they may be inanimate objects, but they’re still good for something. These guys on the other hand, not so much.

  Let me break it down for you…

  When I answered the door this afternoon, I assumed – obviously, incorrectly – that it was Fury. I hadn’t thought, what with all the orgasms he was busy giving me, to give him a key to the apartment, so it only made sense it would be him. Wrong.

  So, doing what any other intelligent woman faced with three huge, slightly scary, steroid using men would do, I screamed like a banshee. A stark raving mad one at that. Not that it did me any good. All that earned me was a hit to my temple with the butt of a very large, very intimidating gun. Yeah, not good. And let me take the opportunity to tell you; that shit hurts.

  By the time I eventually came to – which I assume was a fair while later, the sun setting being the first clue – my hands were bound in front of me with zip ties, and I was sitting, slumped over in the corner of my couch.

  I’m sure you’re wondering why I wasn’t freaking the hell out. Especially since this of all things had the highest likelihood of triggering unwanted flashbacks. Well, the answer is simple. Not only was this kidnapping nothing like last time, but it also wasn't your average, run-of-the-mill kidnapping either.

  Aside from these guys being stupid, they also clearly forgot to read the ‘Idiots Guide to the do’s and don’ts of kidnapping.’ I can’t be certain that book has been written yet, but if it hasn’t, I highly recommend someone get on that immediately. These guys could use the tips.

  While there are a lot of people who are either ignorant, uneducated, or just plain bigoted as it pertains to the biker lifestyle. In instances such as this – not that I recommend getting taken prisoner to test the theory –the skills my Dad and his brothers, along with the men of Vengeance MC come in handy.

  Uncle Tank taught me to shoot starting at the age of five. Dad had me riding on the back of his bike at four, but able to drive one myself before I turned thirteen much to Mom’s extreme displeasure. Uncle Reaper made sure if I was ever in the position that I am now, I knew how to free myself from duct tape, rope, zip ties, and standard issue handcuffs. Sarge educated me in the ways of using a lighter, a bottle of bleach, an inch of fabric, and half a cup of baking soda to assemble a homemade explosive. And Fury saw to it that I could defend myself if the need ever arose.

  And that doesn’t take into account the skills the other men in my life imparted to me. Such as; how to shoot tequila without re-experiencing it the next day, how to clean a gun blindfolded, what to do if I get a flat and don’t have a jack with me to change it, and the list goes on. Needless to say, I’ve got skills and I intend to use every one of them to get myself free before I kick some ass.

  Wriggling until I’m semi-upright, I start by testing the tension of the zip ties. Which, thankfully, prove to be the least of my problems. They’re loose enough that I can work my way free of them if I’m given ten minutes alone.

  Next, I scan the three men huddled in the far corner of my living room, taking note of any distinguishing features, tattoos, clothing, anything that might help identify them later. Dad once told me, it’s common for victims to block out a good deal of what is happening around them in order to hone their s
urvival instinct. And while I don’t disagree with his wisdom, I’m not going to be one of them.

  Since I don’t know their names, for ease of reference I’ve named them Jackass one, two, and three. Jackass one is the biggest of the three. His shoulders barely fit through the doorways, and at a guess, he has to be six-foot-four or five. Built like a Mack truck, Jackass one has obviously been indulging in excessive steroid use because there’s no way a man is that muscularly disproportionate if his physique has been earned by way of working out.

  Jackass two is smaller, lean even. His muscles aren’t as bulky, and he’s, at least, three inches shorter than his compadre. Tattoos snake up and down both of his arms, traveling the length of his neck, finishing just beneath his ear. And the dangerous vibe he’s emanating makes him someone I wouldn’t take on in a dark alley given the choice. But, hey. I don’t have a choice so that point is moot.

  Jackass three, however, is potentially the most dangerous of them all. Six-foot at most, he only has one distinctive tattoo that I can see, isn’t as well-built as his buddies, and, on the whole, is cleaner cut. But it’s the nasty scar encircling his throat that tells me all I need to know. This man is hazardous to other peoples’ health in a way that they end up disappearing, never to be heard from again.

  Interrupting their pow-wow, I ask,

  “Ah, excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

  Three heads swing in my direction, all three pairs of eyes staring at me vacantly. Jackass two breaks away from his friends, coming close enough that I can smell the alcohol seeping from his pores making me want to gag. I don’t, but it takes an asserted effort.

  “You’ve caused some trouble for a friend of ours, we’re just here to keep an eye on you till he can get here,” he informs me. “Stay quiet, don’t do anything stupid, and you’ll make it out breathing. Decide to fuck with us, and you won’t be so lucky.”

  Not thinking, I snap,

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I haven’t caused any trouble for anyone. Just a thought, but are you sure you’ve got the right woman. I mean, there are a lot of five-foot-three, green eyed brunettes in Furnace, maybe it’s one of them and you got your wires crossed.”

  Jackass one stomps his way over to me, snatches his Glock out of the waistband of his jeans and levels it on me.

  “What my associate forgot to add to his list was for you to shut the fuck up. Avery Philips. Twenty-five years old. Works for a woman called Lottie in a day care center in town. Dad’s a member of Devil’s Spawn MC, and you’ve got to sisters, Dakota, and Neveah. That sound about right?”

  Ah, okay, so maybe they do have the right woman. Nevertheless, I decide to forge ahead.

  “Even so, I haven’t done anything wrong, so maybe you could clue me in to who it is I’ve apparently pissed off?”

  My head snaps painfully to the side as Jackass one’s fist connects with my cheek. Blood rushes to the surface, welling in the cut the ring on his middle finger made, just as quickly it spills over, and runs down my face, soaking into the color of my shirt.

  Jesus. What is it with guys and hitting women? In the last year, I’ve been kidnapped twice and both sets of men who have held me captive haven’t had a problem using their fists and feet on me.

  Grimacing when the thick, coppery taste of blood fills my mouth, I whine,

  “Seriously? Was that really necessary?”

  I know, I know; I should quit while I’m ahead, but I can’t help it. I’m sick of being labeled a victim.

  “Yeah, it fucking was. Now, keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll have to see about closing it for you. And believe me when I say; you won’t like how I’ll do it,” Jackass one snarls with a sinister grin.

  Hmm, you can say that again.

  Needing a new plan of attack, seeing as my charming personality and wit doesn’t seem to be doing the job, I lean back into the soft, squishy cushions of my couch and close my eyes.

  My cheek feels like it’s on fire. My head is pounding. I’m restrained. And I’ve got violent thugs in my house. This is not turning out to be a good day. But, I suppose it could be worse. I’m not gagged. My feet are free to land a kick to their man-parts if they think about getting frisky. And I don’t have to finish my laundry. The pros might not outweigh the cons, but it’s something at least.

  Several minutes, or it could be up to an hour later – who knows, I think I took a spontaneous Rock Star Nap – one of the Jackass’s cell phones ring.

  “Yeah,” I hear grunted after four rings. “Right, see you in five.”

  Hanging up, Jackass one narrows his eyes on me noticing I’m awake now. Turning to his buddy, Jackass two, he recounts his short but sweet conversation.

  “Said he’ll be here in five and to make ourselves scarce when he gets here. Don’t know what he plans on doing with the bitch, but I’d pay good money to stick around and watch.”

  Oh, now that does not sound promising. Not the whole head honcho being here in five-minute thing, the paying to stay and watch part is what’s got me worried.

  “What the fuck?” a new voice yells from the vicinity of the entrance to my living room. “I thought I told you assholes she wasn’t to be harmed. That means you don’t lay a fucking hand on her.”

  Double uh-oh. I know that voice, and I should. After all, I’ve heard it plenty of times in the last couple of months. Lawson freaking Highcroft. Deke’s cousin.

  A hand tenderly cups the uninjured side of my face, causing me to instinctively flinch away from his touch. Cracking my right eye open – the left one is beginning to swell making it hard to see out of – I look into a pair of dark brown eyes filled with compassion and a hint of guilt.

  At last, I sigh internally, that’s something I can work with. Guilt is a powerful motivator, so if Lawson is feeling guilty already, perhaps I can use that to my advantage. How? I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.

  “Are you okay?” He questions. “I’m sorry, Avery, I told them not to hurt you. Can you tell me which one it was, and I’ll make sure he’s punished appropriately for making you bleed?”

  Shaking my head, I reply,

  “I fell asleep. Whoever did it was only trying to wake me up, I think.”

  There’s no use in angering any of these men, which is why I won’t tell Lawson the truth. I’m not holding out any hope, Jackass one will come to my rescue or anything, it’s just that it won’t help things any if he wants to kill me for getting him in trouble.

  Lawson’s stare changes, turning stony in the blink of an eye.

  “By now, I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re here if you weren’t already. And if you’ll give me a minute to explain it to you I have no doubt you’ll understand.”

  I doubt that, but it’s not like I can tell him no. I’m trussed up like a half-prepared Thanksgiving turkey for Christ’s sake.

  Allowing myself to take my first proper look at Lawson, I notice a few things about him have changed dramatically in the last several weeks. For one, Lawson’s lost weight. Where before his muscles were lean and compact, now he resembles a bag of bones, covered by pale skin with a grayish hue to it.

  His eyes aren’t only sunken and dull, they’re cold and full of menace too. The frown lines on his forehead are deeper, as are the lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. He’s jittery and hyper-alert, leading me to believe Lawson’s on something. That something being; Meth.

  I haven’t had a lot of exposure to drugs or people that use them, but I know enough to spot the signs of an addict and Lawson is showing them all. Nervousness, anxious, weight loss, itching, the constant twitching of his hands, not to mention, the guy doesn’t look like he’s slept for a month.

  Done with my assessment of him, I shrug my shoulders, saying,

  “Sure, I’m up for story time.”

  My flippancy isn’t due to me not being frightened by what’s going on because I most definitely am. But, to me, it’
s important I don’t show these jackasses any sign of weakness. The weaker someone appears, the faster they work on trying to break you. That is something I’ve learned, and I did it the hard way.

  Lawson doesn’t hesitate in taking the seat beside me, instructing,

  “You can go now. I won’t be needing you anymore tonight.”

  “Are you sure, boss? We know who she is, and I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jackass two returns.

  “Don’t fucking question me, just do as I tell you,” Lawson fires back.

  Boots thump across my living room, and the door slams behind them, leaving me and Lawson alone together. This isn’t ideal but it’s better than the alternative. One man versus four is substantially better odds.

  Continuing to glance in his direction every so often, I begin working at the zip ties binding my wrists. When they fastened it, they didn’t make sure to fit the tie at the smallest part of my wrist. Instead, they clasped it just at the base of my hands where everyone is broadest. Mistake.

  My wrists are already stinging, but I can feel the zip tie starting to give. The trick is not to pull, but to twist your hands in opposite directions, putting tension on the plastic until it begins to weaken. Plastic reacts to heat as well. So if I can create enough friction, it should help the process along. All I need is for Lawson to get lost for a few minutes, and I’ll be able to use the edge of my coffee table to cut me loose.