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

by Natasha Thomas

  I love my job. I love the people I work with. But I especially love my kids.

  As a high school gym teacher, I see kids at their best and their worst. Some of the students I teach are extraordinarily gifted, and others struggle to tie their own shoelaces, their coordination all but non-existent. However, the most enjoyable part of my job isn’t watching my kids excel, learn something new, or conquer an obstacle that’s bested them time and time again; it’s the rare occasion I’m blessed to meet that one, or possibly handful, of kids who are exceptional.

  Other teachers may have the opportunity to experience this more often than I will, but to me, that only makes it more special when I recognize the kind of raw talent that will end in a full-ride scholarship, at least.

  The truth is, that while more than a hundred and forty thousand sports scholarships are offered each year, there are twenty times that amount who play high school sports. In the four years I’ve been teaching, I hadn’t met a student that I thought had that something exceptional, not until this year at Blackwater High. James Colton changed all that, though.

  I met James the second day of the new school year and automatically wrote him off as your typical jock. I have to admit, tall, built, and absolutely full of himself, James didn’t make the greatest first impression.

  He was unapologetically late to class, unmotivated, and quietly rebellious. James glared at the other students and kept himself removed from the group as best he could. At first, I thought he was just rude, but after weeks of this behavior, I confronted him one day after class.

  “James, I need you to stay back for a few minutes please,” I called out as the other kids were making their way to the locker rooms to change.

  Shrugging his ascent, James sat down on the bleachers in the gym and waited until we were the last two remaining.

  I sat down next to him, asking,

  “Is everything alright, James?”

  “Sure,” he shrugged again. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

  Shaking his head, James wouldn’t look at me as he said,

  “Like I said, nothing’s wrong.”

  “I have to disagree,” I countered. “It’s obvious you’re an incredibly talented athlete, James. You wouldn’t be a starter for the varsity football team if you weren’t. I’ve read your file, and your coaches all sing your praises, the baseball team has been trying to poach you for years, and word has it, you’re on the shortlist of no less than five division one colleges. Your grades are good, and all your teachers say you’re bright, never failing to turn your work in on time. Yet every time you walk through those doors,” I say gesturing to the gym’s double doors, “you put in the minimum amount of effort, and look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  Long minutes pass making me think he’s going to refuse to acknowledge me when he grumbles,

  “It’s a lot of pressure, you know.”

  “What is?” I prompt.

  “This, sports,” he confesses hesitantly. “My Dad was the star quarterback here twenty-five years ago. My Mom was the head cheerleader and homecoming queen. My brother graduated three years ago, but before he left, he set an all-time passing yard record for the school. And my sister, only a freshman, already looks like she’s gonna be following in our Mom’s footsteps.”

  “It sounds like you come from a genuinely talented family,” I offer gently.

  “Yeah, they are that alright,” he rasps sadly.

  “You’re going to have to explain it to me, James, because I’m not sure what any of that means in relation to the issues you’re having in my class.”

  After a pause, he admits,

  “My parents expect me to get a scholarship. A full ride preferably to their alma mater, Purdue. Not saying I don’t want to go to college because I do, it’s just I don’t know if I want to play football when I do.”

  I was taken back by his admission. Shocked, actually. Because if there was one student I anticipated having an exceptional college football career, possibly going as far as the pro’s; it would be James Colton. Fast and amazingly talented at reading the field, James has everything it takes to achieve great things.

  “What do you want then?” I question.

  “I want to get a degree in engineering. Structural engineering.”

  “You know nothing is stopping you from doing that as well as playing football. A lot of college players undertake a full course load and manage to do both well,” I inform him.

  “Yeah, I know, just not me,” he says.

  “Again, I’m not sure how this translates to what I’ve read about you, James. Your records tell a different story. A three point five grade point average says that you are absolutely capable of doing both.”

  Shuffling his feet, James looks to his knees when he states,

  “Can’t keep that up forever. Between school, homework, football practice, and helping my Dad out at work after school and on weekends, I’m only getting a few hours sleep a night. It’s been hard enough keeping my grades up now, let alone what it’ll be like when I have to do college coursework.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that. If you had asked me yesterday if the boy sitting in front of me was close to burning out, I would have told you you were wrong. Now that I look at him, really look at him, I can see the fatigue in his eyes and in the slump of his body.

  He goes on to say,

  “I figured if I sucked in gym class, my Mom and Dad wouldn’t push as hard for me to keep applying for a football scholarship.”

  Well, that explains a lot.

  “James,” I sigh. “I’m not going to pretend to understand your family dynamic, but I do know it would be a terrible waste of a God given talent if you stopped playing. I’ve been lucky enough to watch you play, and you are a genuinely outstanding player. In fact, I haven’t seen a better high school tight end in all the years I’ve been attending games. My brothers all played, so I went to every one of their games, and a few after just for fun, and still, you are far and away the most exceptional player I’ve had the privilege to watch. In saying that, the choice to play is yours, but I urge you to really think about what this will mean for your future if you decided to go down that path.”

  Shifting to face him, I go on to say,

  “Most college freshmen don’t start games. In fact, most aren’t elevated to a starting position until their junior year. That would give you two years to focus on your course work until the extra training and commitment of being on the team take effect. Sure, you’d have to participate in one-a-day’s, team events, and be present for games, home and away, but you wouldn’t be training half as much as some. A lot can change in two years, James. Heaps.”

  “But if I accept a football scholarship, that means I’m contracted to play. I can’t just say after two years I don’t want to be on the team anymore,” he mutters.

  “No, you can’t. You can rescind your scholarship and take out student loans to cover your tuition and living expenses, though,” I propose. “It wouldn’t be easy, but plenty of people do it. You might even have to work and go to school to cover your costs, but it’s doable.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Think about it. Don’t make any rash decisions before exploring all the possibilities, though, James. While I’d hate to see your talent go to waste, and college football would be losing out on a great player, the choice is, and always will be yours. Just because your parents might want you to follow in their footsteps doesn’t mean you have to tread directly in their pre-determined path. You can deviate from the plan, James. You can play and earn your engineering degree. And I’m positive you can do both well.”

  A short while later, James left and for the first time in a long time, I crossed my fingers and hoped I had helped him, even if it was only to be a listening ear. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  The next day, James came into the gym a different kid. He was upbeat, engag
ed, and finally enthusiastically participating in class. It was like looking at a whole new person. One who wanted to be there and wanted to learn. And in the months that followed, that hasn’t changed.

  "Where’d you go, babe?” Avery asks, jarring me from the memory.

  “Just thinking about one of my students,” I reply.

  “Good or bad?”

  “Gifted,” I state matter of factly.

  Jonas moves deeper into my side, prompting,

  “Have we got a deal, baby? One hour, then you call it quits,” he reminds me.

  Pretending to think it over, I tap my chin with my forefinger. I’m only drawing out my answer because I hate to give in to him so quickly. It’s good to keep him on his toes sometimes. Not to mention, Jonas getting his way all the time would do horrible things for his control freak alter ego.

  Finally, I conceded with a minor amendment,

  “Yeah, we have a deal but on one condition.”

  “And what’s that?” He asks, grinning at me.

  “If I pack it in after an hour, you have to order pizza, let me sit on the couch to eat it, and watch two episodes from season two of Lie to Me with me. And you have to do it without complaining, or bitching about me being out of bed,” I tack on the end for good measure.

  “I like how you think, Bee,” Avery smirks.

  “How about, I order pizza, bring it in here, and agree to one episode,” Jonas negotiates.

  “Couch, pizza, two episodes, and no bitching, or no deal, buddy,” I shoot back, not willing to budge.

  “Fine,” he groans. “But I’m fucking warning you, you tear those stitches, I tan your ass after I’ve taken you to the ER and told them to patch you up. This time without the local anesthetic.”

  “You have a deal,” I say, extending my hand for him to shake.

  Gripping it tightly in his, Jonas doesn’t pull me to him. Instead, he leans in and places a soft kiss on my forehead before retreating from his bedroom, leaving me to it.

  “That would have been almost sweet if I didn’t know he is out there wrapping anything that could hurt you in cotton wool,” Avery chirps.

  “Hmm,” I hum.

  “How long do you think it’ll be before he calls your Dad and tells him you’re trying to escape alpha decreed bedrest?”

  She has a good point. Jonas and Dad have been in constant communication since I was released from the hospital, and I have no doubt Jonas is just itching to call my Dad and complain about me not following orders. Whatever. If I have to endure a lecture in order to have an evening sans the same walls, I’ll take it. I won’t like it, but I’ll do just about anything for a room with a different view.

  In answer to her question, I guess,

  “I’d say within thirty seconds of finishing whatever childproofing he’s in the middle of doing right now.”

  “Put me down for him being on the phone while he’s doing it,” she giggles.

  “Just mentioning, it’s poor form to laugh at an invalid,” I gripe.

  Laughing so hard she doubles over, clutching her stomach in the process, Avery manages to reply with,

  “I’d have to agree with that, but seeing as I don’t see an invalid anywhere, I think it’s safe to find humor in you getting lecture fifty-seven from Daddy dearest.”

  "Well, then laugh it up, bitch, because while I’m being scolded like a six-year-old, I’m texting your man to let him in on the secret you’ve spent the last week and a half keeping from him,” I taunt.

  “You wouldn’t,” she hisses.

  “Oh, I absolutely would,” I grin, meaning it. “How the tables have turned, oh hypocritical one. It wasn’t long ago that your holier-than-thou self was criticizing me for not telling Jonas I’m baking his bun in the oven, now you’re the one hiding the fact that soon your ass is going to be the size of a small Cadillac.”

  At that, Avery narrows her eyes at me.

  “The hell it will. There will never be a time my ass resembles anything of the sort.”

  Grinning evilly at her, I drone,

  “You keep telling yourself that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ~ Jonas ~

  “I never make the same mistake twice. I make it five or six times, just to be sure.”

  - someecards

  Setting Blaine up on the couch while I order pizza and throw a load of washing in the machine, I go over the events of the last two weeks in my head.

  The day after Blaine was shot, me and the boys who were there, and a few others who had ridden into town that morning had a meet to go over what went down. The vibe was tense, fucking volatile in fact. A woman was shot. An innocent, pregnant woman. And that shit was not going to go unanswered for.

  While Blaine was the worst of the injured, Devil’s Spawn made it out unscathed. Shy of Reaper getting winged by a bullet that grazed his bicep, everyone else only suffered cuts and scrapes from crawling through the sea of glass from the front windows exploding. Vengeance was much the same, with the exception of, Cash.

  Boss was the only other person treated in the ER that night, Blaine and Cash aside, but even then, he refused to have the inch long cut underneath his eye stitched up until he knew his brother was going to make it out of surgery breathing.

  None of us saw how it happened, but somehow in the fray, Cash was clipped in the neck, the bullet nicking his carotid artery. He’d lost a lot of blood by the time the paramedic finally showed. As in, a fuck of a lot of blood. So much so, all of us thought he wasn’t going to make it. Something that after ten minutes when the ambulances still hadn’t arrived was becoming more and more likely.

  Saint called it into 911 before the firing ceased, so why it took them nearly fifteen minutes, considering base couldn’t be more than three minutes away, is fucking beyond me.

  Cash was assessed on scene, paramedics calling his condition into the trauma surgeon on duty, so they were ready to transfer him straight to an operating theater as soon as he arrived.

  It was touch and go there for a while, but after having to restart his heart twice, transfusing him with two pints of blood, and three and a half hours of surgery, Cash’s doctor informed us he was being transferred to the ICU and was in critical yet stable condition. Whatever the fuck that meant.

  But Cash, in true Cash form, proved the saying, “You can’t keep a good man down” correct when two days later he discharged himself against medical advice and took up residence with the rest of us watching over Blaine.

  He’ll always carry a scar, not unlike my own, only his is a hell of a lot bigger and angrier looking, but that aside, Cash doesn’t appear any worse for wear.

  The solitary positive thing to come out of that day was any residual animosity my brothers had toward Blaine died that day. More than once I overheard them talking about smoothing things out with her if she woke up.

  That pissed me the fuck off. There were no if’s about it. Blaine was going to wake up. She had to. I hadn’t had the chance to make it right between us, apologize for how things went down, or tell her how I feel about her, and I couldn’t, not until she woke up.

  Thankfully, nineteen hours after she lost consciousness, Blaine opened her beautiful blue eyes and smiled at me. When she did, my heart started beating again, and I was able to take my first full breath since she was admitted.

  *****

  I waited to join the boys until her doctor checked her over and declared she was in the clear. Barring complications that is.

  “You don’t need to be here for this, brother,” Boss conveys, looking up from the table in the hotel room he’d commandeered for the purposes of the meet. “Go be with your woman. Someone will find you and brief you later.”

  “Nothing I can do for her right now, brother. She’s awake, her girls and her parents are with her so she’s covered,” I answer shortly.

  “Right. Preliminary reports say, four shooters using large caliber rounds exited a gray Chevy Suburban a block up from the diner. No one got a good look at thei
r faces, but witnesses say they were built, over six-foot tall, and white,” he informs us. “Reaper’s sharing what we know with Cage as we speak, so I’m expecting to hear from him to offer his assistance any time now.”

  That doesn’t come as a surprise. Cage is a good friend, better leaders, and he loves Blaine like a daughter.

  “Casting a wide net, you’ll come up with a fuck ton of people who feel like they’ve been wronged by the club at some time or other, but none of them are stupid enough to seek retribution in broad daylight. Better yet, none of them have sufficient reason to risk our retribution,” he states resolutely.

  “Who are we thinking then?” Dirty, who arrived minutes before we started, asks.

  “After what went down in Wyoming last year, it’s safe to say Rebel Warriors have the motive, hardware, and manpower to initiate an attack like this. Lord’s back in play asking around, seeing what he can dig up, but that’s gonna take time,” Boss advises. “Payment for that is we consider patching him in. I’m not gonna lie, Lord’s a good man, solid, but he’s been a nomad for years. Black Widows know his skill set, they’ve called on it often enough. Mills isn’t going to want to cut him loose in a hurry, but he’s got boys coming up through the ranks who’ve got the stomach to do the work Lord does if it came down to it.”