Mercy (Redemption Reigns MC Book 4)

by Juli Valenti

  Mercy

  Book Four in the Redemption Reigns MC Series

  Juli Valenti

  Copyright © 2020 Juli Valenti

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Kristina Circelli with Red Road Editing

  www.facebook.com/RedRoadEditing

  Cover & Formatting by Rene Folsom with Phycel Designs

  www.Phycel.com

  Contents

  Synopsis

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Juli Valenti

  Synopsis

  Mercedes “Mercy” Sheridan is no stranger to motorcycle clubs, or the violence that comes along with them. Being the daughter of the infamous Static Law president, Chuck Sheridan, her life has been no bed of roses. And, fed up after the death of a friend she cared about, at her fathers hand, she decided enough was enough.

  What she didn’t anticipate was escaping one club, only to come face to face with another.

  Tonka Hopkins, the Hells Redemption biker who offers her help after coming face to face with guns after her car broke down, is nothing like Mercy is used to. Kind, happy, and downright sexy, he only serves to confuse her about MCs.

  But with the proverbial sword over her head that is her father, can Mercy sort her thoughts and more, get the hell out of New Mexico fast enough?

  And even if she can... will she want to?

  For you, Mercy…

  For showing me mercy when I needed it most.

  1

  Chapter One

  “Fallen, don’t. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Well, that’s a warm welcome,” Mercy said dryly, or at least what she hoped was dryly.

  It wasn’t often that the girl was taken off guard. Coming from the small town of Sheridan, Wyoming, the only daughter of the town’s Chucky Sheridan, she was one who always knew how to take care of herself. Having six older brothers, with the one closest to her being eight years older, didn’t hurt either. She’d seen pretty much everything and nothing shocked her anymore. That is, until she took in the very unfriendly eyes currently shooting daggers in her direction.

  Remaining frozen where she stood, Mercy stared at the five figures poised to strike before her, all standing rigid with guns drawn: four men, one woman. The men donned navy-blue slacks paired with white button-down shirts that she was sure were once pressed to perfection, though now, the one in front had what looked like crimson blooming along the sleeves. The lone woman with her long, flowing hair barely contained, oozed elegance in a long, deep-red chiffon dress, a matching navy-blue sash accentuating her waist. If she’d seen them on the streets, clad in the remanence of their suits and evening gown, respectively of course, they wouldn’t have been anything to write home about. It would’ve been easy to imagine they were on their way home from the prom, if they’d been younger. But all imagination ended there; their eyes shone with something she was very familiar with.

  Rage. Vengeance. Revenge. Violence.

  Realizing she still hadn’t answered the man’s question, and that their fingers still lingered dangerously close to the triggers of the weapons they held, she swallowed, and continued.

  “My car broke down – I saw a lot of cars over here and figured someone could help me out. Didn’t figure that to be a reason to get my ass shot over. Yeah, I’ll just go over… um, yeah… I’ll just go somewhere else.”

  Glancing around, Mercy sighed, hating herself and more. She hated the whole day, hated the stupid classic car she just had to have. She hated that she’d left the majority of her tools, stupidly, when she’d decided to take off and get out the hell out of Wyoming.

  At least you made it this far, her mind added helpfully and she scowled in response. Sure, she’d made it from nowheresville Wyoming now to nowheresville… New Mexico? Maybe? Either way, sounded like a wonderful trade-off. It was an easier thought than actual experience, however, taking into account the almost twenty degree “spring” temperature difference. Apparently nothing made sense in this turquoise-laden state.

  “Where is your car?”

  A voice, as thick as molasses and just as delicious sounding, pulled her from her depressive mental tirade. Something deep within her soul told her not to look, to not meet the eyes of the owner of that melodic butter; nothing good would come of it. And, yet, she was a slave to her own curiosity, for any man who could almost turn her knees weak with mere words, was worth a glance.

  As her eyes snapped forward, she decided he was worth way more than a glance. Maybe a hundred. And none, none at all. He was trouble, pure and simple, in the best, and worst, of ways, of that she was certain. Sure that she was imagining things, she started from his shoes and worked her gaze upward once more.

  He was a mountain of a man, a giant. Mercy was used to large men, her father the biggest she’d ever seen… until now. No, this man had no rival in size, not even on her dear old Pop. She wasn’t a small girl, being deemed as too tall for most of her life at five-eight flat-footed, even taller depending on the boots she chose to wear, but, beside this guy, she felt small. Tiny even. A fucking ant amongst a world of giraffes or something.

  Towering over her, at least six-six or more, and weighing in at no less than two-eighty or even three hundred pounds of solid man muscle, she was definitely small in comparison. And his eyes, as hawklike and attentive as they narrowed on her, were still kind, though she knew he wasn’t someone to mess with. Hair tumbling to his chin, gleaming in a myriad of reds and browns amongst the dimming sunset, was brushed neatly and framing his face to perfection. His skin was tan, a stark contrast to her own fair, pale skin, and his arms strained the fabric of his neat, white dress shirt. Lines graced his face, around his mouth, his forehead, even his eyes - betraying the danger she knew lurked in him. Those lines told stories of easy smiles and laughter, but he was more.

  Shit, she thought, wishing now more than ever she’d chosen a different direction to drive. New Mexico hadn’t been her initial goal, it just sounded like a good idea at the time. Sun, sand, cacti, sure, why not. Cold had never been her cup of tea, and after the brutal winter they’d had, anywhere that snow was a major possibility had certainly been out. And while she’d wanted sun and heat, she didn’t actually want to be in them, so any of the beach states were out – besides, they were expensive.

  Not that she was poor or a pauper or anything along those lines. No, Mercy had done well for herself at the auto garage, the unlikely mechanic whom few had faith in until she was underneath a
chassis. So while money wasn’t an issue, that didn’t mean she’d wanted to spend a hell of a lot of it. It was over a thousand dollars for a freaking studio apartment, and that was the low end with who the hell knows as neighbors. That was just insane, especially when taking into account that her two-bedroom condo in Wyoming cost less than that and she’d known practically everyone.

  But seeing the handsome, no, too-beautiful-to-exist giant, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a big deal to pay so much. Maybe if she ran now, she could hit California before the end of tomorrow.

  Great plan, provided your stupid car wasn’t sitting alone about a mile down the stupid hill.

  “Where is your car?” the large man repeated, waving to the others in his party as they took off in a different direction. She shook her head once more.

  “Err,” she started stupidly, forcing her own eyes to narrow. When in doubt, go for attitude. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t need your damn help - I’ll figure it out my damn self.”

  The giant’s lip twitched, lifting into a small smile before vanishing. It happened so quickly Mercy almost wondered if she’d imagined it.

  “I asked where your car is.”

  “And I heard you just fine. Like I said, I don’t need your damn help.”

  This time the man chuckled softly. “Clearly you needed something for your car.” He paused, reaching into his slacks pocket, retrieving a cell phone and turning away from her as he brought it to his ear. “Poet. No. He went on with the others - I ran into something in the parking area. No, no, it’s okay; it’s an innocent with car trouble, came up here looking for help… yep, greeted with a half-dozen drawn. No, ‘Speare stopped him…I know. You tell me - find him or…?” Almost silver eyes glance behind him to her, his head nodding as he listened to whomever or whatever this Poet was. “Okay. I got this. Oh… and Poet? Beautiful wedding, you made one helluva princess bride.” He chuckled at the reply he got before retorting, “Poor Titan. Ride true.”

  With that, he re-pocketed his phone and turned back, his eyes expectantly flicking to her once more. “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I’ll rephrase my question. What’s wrong with your car?”

  Mercy sighed, knowing the man was clearly not going to give, having apparently gotten permission from the Poet person he’d been speaking with. I seriously doubt he needed permission, she scolded herself, shaking her head once more.

  “Whatever. Come. It’s this way. Do you have tools?”

  Mercy had taken several steps forward before realizing the nameless mountain was neither beside her, nor behind her. Confused, frustrated, and an emotion she couldn’t quite pin down, she stopped, turning to find the same man unmoving from the spot they’d been previously standing. Arching an eyebrow, she stomped back to him, throwing a hand on her hip and peering at him.

  “Well? Are you coming?”

  The man shook his head slightly

  “I’m not a dog to follow a woman,” he started, brushing a meaty hand across his face. “I don’t ‘come’ on command, which I’d be more than obliged to show you some other time.”

  Mercy swallowed hard, catching every ounce of heat he’d thrown in that statement. Opening her mouth, she tried to think of something clever to say, only to close her mouth again. Luckily he didn’t seem to need her to speak.

  “Secondly, you asked if I had tools - I do, but not here.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t have tools?” she asked incredulously, as indignantly as she could manage despite the heat that had risen into her cheeks. “You’re telling me a big-ass man like you doesn’t have any tools in his car, truck, semi, whatever he drives? Really? Go figure, just my luck. Great.”

  This time it was his turn to arch an eyebrow, so many unsaid words passing across his face. “I did not say I don’t have tools, only that I do not have any here,” he explained, holding a hand up to stop the spew of words she’d opened her mouth for. “If you can’t tell,” he gestured around them, “this is a very large field. I dressed for a wedding, not a car garage. And while I quite like my bike, I prefer it to be unladen down with things like wrenches when it is much better suited for iron of a different sort.”

  The image of the group’s greeting flashed in her mind. Guns, she thought, reminding herself once more to be cautious around the guy, despite enjoying their banter.

  “Are you telling me you don’t have a jack? Helpless little thing, can’t change her own tire?”

  His words only served to light a fire in her stomach, despite the teasing gleam she saw in his eyes. Why did men always assume women were helpless, hoping a man would come along and save them? To so many of them, every problem was something to be solved rather than a situation to be dealt with. Mercy’d lost count how many men assumed she was merely the front desk girl at the garage, thinking she spent her time answering phones, doing her nails, or putting on makeup. It was always so satisfying when she was the one who got underneath their cars and fixed the problems that the big, strong men couldn’t. She rolled her eyes.

  “Okay, asshole. I told you I didn’t need your help, that I changed my mind. You insisted. So just, I don’t know,” she waved, looking around, “just call this whole thing a wash. I’m not so fucking helpless I can’t change my own tire - in fact I could change four in the time it took you to change one. If that were the problem with my stupid fucking car, I already would’ve fixed it and been well on my way rather than greeted by guns in the middle of a field like a moron.

  “But no. Of course the beautiful pain in my ass just had to blow a head gasket. Sure, it’s my own damn fault, and I can tell you why,” she breathed quickly, holding up a finger and ticking them off as she went. “One, I had to buy the damn thing. I knew it would piss dear old Dad off because he said no, and that he wanted one and I got it first. Second, I knew good and well the stupid car was overheating because it has a coolant leak, but did I stop to fix it? No, why would I do something so smart.”

  When she’d stopped, unable to come up with a third reason, silence stretched between them. It was thick and uncomfortable, and for the first time since coming upon the guy, she fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot. Part of her wanted to keep talking, but she didn’t have anything constructive or helpful to say, so why bother. The other part wanted him to speak, to let any words drip from his lips, for no other reason than for her to listen. Hell he could’ve read the dictionary or the bible or the owner’s manual to her 1972 Chevelle and she would’ve been just as content.

  “I apologize,” the large man started, his eyes peering at her as though she was a wounded wild animal, ready to strike at any moment. And yet, there was a glimmer of amusement there as well. “I meant no real offense.”

  “It’s fine,” she sighed, knowing it was really one of her issues, not his teasing, that had her all riled up. She hadn’t slept in what seemed like forever; she was tired, stressed out, frustrated, and desperately wanted her car up and running so she could, at the very least, crash in the back of it for a couple hours.

  “I’m Tonka.”

  “Like the truck?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she gave him a small smile. “Sorry, I’ve always been told my word filter sucks. I’m Mercy.”

  “Mercy?”

  She nodded. “My father liked the idea of naming me after a fancy car no one I know would ever want nor waste the money on. Mercedes. I’ve hated it since I could talk; I prefer Mercy, as in I give very little.”

  “Mercy?” the man, Tonka, repeated again. “I like it. It suits you.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” she sniffed.

  “Well, Mercy, what would you like for me to do? As I said, this was a wedding. Now, I’d be happy to give you a lift down to your car, or I could lend you my phone to call Triple A - that is, if you’ve been living under a rock for the last twenty something years and you don’t have a cell of your own. Or, if you’d like, I’d even be willing to take you to get whatever tools your heart desires. That, of
course, comes with its own slate of issues.”

  “What issues?” Mercy asked curiously. She wasn’t sure what path would be best taken at the moment. Exhaustion was beginning to set in, along with the adrenaline that’d been coursing through her system fading. None of his solutions were rather appealing at the moment, but she had to do something. And, with the condition her car was in, she wasn’t willing to risk any additional damage to it. Lord only knew what she may find when she took out the blown gasket to begin with.

  “The first, and probably foremost, is that some shit went down during the wedding and our people are sort of all over the place taking care of some shit. Second would be that the clubhouse is going to take a little bit to get to. Poet and Titan chose this field to get married in, and, while it worked for everything they wanted and everything we needed, it isn’t exactly a block away from home.

  “Even if I didn’t follow speed limits, it would still take about a half hour or so to get back. And, I’m assuming, tools alone aren’t gonna help fix the gasket itself - so you’d need to hit an auto parts store, right? Or another garage or maybe a junk yard to find another one?” He held up a hand, once again hushing her without taking a breath. “My knowledge of cars, while apparently may not be up to par with yours, doesn’t mean I have none. I may look like a big dumb oaf, but I assure you, I know what I need to.”

  Mercy nodded. “Yes, I’d need a couple things at the very least. And I didn’t think you were a big dumb oaf.” A big, tall drink of every good coffee in the world, but most definitely not an oaf.