Fury

by Cat Porter

  Wildflower Ink, LLC

  Copyright ©2017 by Cat Porter

  Wildflower Ink, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.catporter.eu

  Cover Designer

  Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs

  www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Cover Models

  Travis Cadeau

  Memphis Cadeau

  Photographer

  Mark Wong Photography

  Editor

  Jennifer Roberts-Hall

  Content Editor

  Christina Trevaskis

  www.bookmatchmaker.com

  Formatting & Interior Design

  Nada Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs

  www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  “Lenore’s Lace” logo by Lori Jackson Design

  www.lorijacksondesign.com

  Proofreading

  Penelope Croci

  No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, logos, symbols of motorcycle clubs are not to be mistaken for real motorcycle clubs. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products and locales referenced in this work of fiction. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  for Kandace

  Because you happened to ask me about Finger at the very same time that I was becoming madly obsessed with him. He’d intrigued you from the beginning, just as he had me. At the time I was writing another book and had just realized I needed to break it into two, yet on top of all that madness, I couldn’t stop thinking about Finger. I contacted you to vent, and you were the first person to whom I confessed my Finger obsession and how I wanted to write his story.

  And even though you were in the middle of a meeting at work, you texted me back, saying—

  “Gimme Finger”

  It made me laugh, it made me cry. And it was exactly what I needed.

  And because in this little life of mine,

  believers and readers and book sisters and friends and good, strong women with huge hearts like you

  are everything.

  Author’s note: the players on this landscape are numerous, therefore names and organizations are outlined here for the reader

  Motorcycle Clubs

  The Flames of Hell - Fuse, Finger, Reich, Kerry, Chaz, Cooper, Siggy, Gyp, Kwik, Drac, Slade, Lenox, Led, Catch, Den, Split, Priest, Deanna, Krystal

  The Smoking Guns - Med, Motormouth, Scrib, Dog

  The One-Eyed Jacks - Jump, Dig, Boner, Butler, Lock, Judge, Kicker, Alicia, Mary Lynn, Dee, Grace, Jill, Nina

  The Broken Blades - Zed, Notch, Pick

  The Demon Seeds - Jimmy, Vig

  Organized Crime Syndicates

  Guardino - Turo DeMarco

  Tantucci

  The Calderas Group - Alejandro Calderón

  I was born, but not raised.

  I erupted.

  I am the weed that grew in the distance fed by rainwater whenever the skies deigned to yield it, sharpened by brisk winds, hardened and spiked by icy cold. Hued by occasional kindnesses, the heat of the sun’s glare.

  No, I was forged the day I met Serena. A blade sharpened, a gun barrel loaded, a fuse lit.

  My track was laid over her rocky earth, and it only made my soul darker, my heart denser, my blood fiercer, my purpose raw.

  With her I was everything I’d never known before. Not helpless, not exposed. Not powerless.

  And even through all these years without her and all that I’ve achieved in the world, I’ve been nothing but an open hand grenade, idling, ready to detonate.

  Now, having broken into her house, standing here in her bedroom, selfishly stealing the air she breathes as she sleeps, that idling is over.

  Her sleep is fitful. She murmurs words, she scowls and twists the sheets in a fist the same way I do.

  I still have the dreams, too, baby.

  “Touch me. I need you to—” I’d once pleaded with her in the dark.

  In my dreams I plead and I wait for that touch to come, like it once had. But it never does. I strain against the iron, but she’s not there. I’m alone. That dream used to come more frequently, regularly. Each nightmare was a visitation reinforcing my passion for her, my passion to love her, to hate her. Each morning, my resolve would be screwed on tight once more, an unyielding cap on an ancient bottle.

  This morning, before the dawn had even broken on this brand new day, that resolve was stronger than ever, but my purpose has changed.

  I want her back.

  I hope she dreams of me. I hope her dreams are as tangled and snarled as mine. The cut of the blade, the sting of her mouth remain fresh. They’ve inspired me, demented me.

  All the jagged pieces of our hearts, be they sharp, be they blunt, red or black or gray, are indiscernible now. Me and her, we’re in pieces, shards, but we aren’t broken. She had given up, let go, and so had I. But standing here, inches away from her, I know deep, deep inside I hadn’t, not ever.

  Not essentially.

  I run a thumb over her full, soft lips, and they part under my touch. A slight intake of breath passes between them, warming my skin. Beautiful lips that were once mine. Lips that once shared words and thoughts and hopes with me, the good kind. Lips that shared fears and horrors. Lips that offered a violent heaven.

  I want to take those lips now, possess them, but I stop myself. I need her to give them to me willingly.

  And she will.

  My finger grazes the tip of her nose. Her eyes dance under her lids, blinking open.

  Blue green glory.

  My heart settles in my chest and kicks to life all at once, and I know nothing has changed.

  Soul dark,

  Heart dense,

  Blood fierce,

  Purpose raw.

  I’m a quiet man, observant, introverted, not given to dramatic declarations. But here I stand, feeling that agony, that swell of emotion that only she invokes in me, all of it wiping away the ugly I’ve been clinging to all this time; the remote wilderness where I dwell.

  Those eyes hang on mine, and I see her reflection in all the shards of me. She is at the crux. She is the flame. My fever, my fury.

  Let it roar.

  1

  25 years ago

  “Should we keep him or kill him?”

  Someone kicked my calves, shoved at my back, and I sprawled on the cold floor. The hood was torn off my head, and I blinked in the bright light. A tall heavy set man stood before me, bulky tattooed arms crossed over his chest. Med, the famed President of the Kansas Smoking Guns, a man I’d heard about almost all my life.

  The devil himself.

  In the flesh.

  “You know where you are?” his deep voice practically growled.

  I shook my head, unsure of how to answer. The truth often got me in trouble in the past. Why should now be any different?

  Med only sneered, or maybe that was just his way of smiling like Jack Nicholson’s Joker. “What do they call you?”

  I pushed up on my arms, but my limbs were still numb from being held down in the v
an on the endless ride here. “I’m-I’m Kid.”

  Laughter fizzed around me like a can of shaken beer going off. “Aww, ain’t that cute?” a voice behind me said.

  “Prospect, eh?” Med asked, his eyes wandering over my cut.

  “Yeah.”

  “Perfect.” That Joker grin deepened, and the blood backed up in my veins.

  “They probably won’t give too much of a shit about you.” He raised his chin at someone to my side and my cut was ripped off me. “More fun for us.”

  “Hey!” I choked out.

  They kicked me and ripped off my boots, socks, jeans. I was naked. Thick metal cuffs were attached to my wrists, my ankles, my neck and linked to heavy chains. My head swam, a cold sweat tracked over my skin, my heart plodded through mud.

  “You know why we took you?” Med asked.

  “‘Cause it’s the kinda shit you do?” A slap cracked across my face. A silvery haze shadowed my vision.

  “It’s because the Flames of Hell think they can do whatever the fuck they want. Time to show your club how pissed off I am at catching them on my territory doing what I’d warned them not to ever do.”

  My stomach dropped. Reich, our VP, had found a dealer in southern Kansas who used to be supplied by the Smoking Guns, but the Guns had recently iced him, not paying him what he felt they owed. Reich had stepped in and provided Flames of Hell made-product to find new buyers, new addicts along that guy’s route, a route we’d never had access to before. Money was money, and we wanted more of it, just like everybody else.

  My dad, a club old-timer and former officer, had told him it was a bad idea. For decades now, our club constantly fought with the Guns over territory, over trade routes, over women, over you name it. All I heard growing up was “this shit’s gotta stop already!” but it never did. It had become part of our day to day, part of our fun. I didn’t think either club knew how not to shit on the other.

  In front of everybody, my dad had told Reich his plan was fucking stupid and careless as all hell. Reich’s response? He chose me to make the delivery with another club member, and it got approved real quick.

  I’d gotten the surprise of my life when I opened the door to the dealer’s house and saw him hanging from a hook in his ceiling. Me and Siggy ran straight out, got shot at, chased into the woods. Siggy got shot in the face as he climbed a tree. They’d pinned me down at gunpoint and dragged me here to their clubhouse. I was alive, but not so fucking lucky.

  My pulse pounded in my ears, my heart muscle vaulting over never-ending hurdles in my chest.

  Med made a hand gesture in the air, and kicks and punches rained down on me. I collapsed and went sailing up in someone’s tight hold. Blows and bashes cracked and smashed over my body, pain exploding through me. My head swung to the side, and I gasped for air, choking on my own saliva and blood.

  His pinned eyes on me, Med admired my bloodied pulp. “Ah, welcome to the Smoking Guns, Kid.”

  They let go, and I crumpled to the floor. Chained to hooks in a concrete post in the middle of a big room, I strained to keep my sore eyes open as they partied and argued around me. Men and women stared at me, laughing, talking, and I stared back. I was the new attraction at the zoo. The freak at the circus, their chained cyclops shuddering in a mangled heap, settling in a pool of his own piss, sweat, and blood.

  I pressed back against the post, keeping still. I knew how to do that pretty good. All my life I’d been somebody’s afterthought, a gray part of the landscape, but that had just changed.

  Now I was front and center.

  I gotta keep it together. Keep it together.

  Would they kill me? Ask for some kind of ransom? I was sure my dad and my club were working to bust me out. Working on some sort of plan, working hard. They had to be.

  One figure, a slight one, stood motionless just beyond the men. A girl. Long bright red hair, and her eyes...the most mesmerizing eyes I’d ever seen. An odd combination of blue and green, like pictures of the Caribbean Sea that I’d seen in magazines. Was it ‘cause her eyes were so big? I held her serious gaze, and she didn’t look away. Her expression was somber, not teasing, not mocking. I wasn’t entertaining her. My vision was still fuzzy, and I blinked, but she was gone. She was probably a mirage. A mirage of hope and empathy in this crazy Roman fucking orgy in the middle of Buttfuck, Kansas.

  I counted the lines in the cracked flooring, but I got lost. They were only quivering scratches, and I couldn’t keep track of them. My joints ached, my bare body cold against the hard floor. I lay in a ball on that floor through hours and hours and hours. Got kicked, got spit on. Finally, they brought me to a prison cell where I got some sleep. The next night they brought me back out to the main room and chained me back to that post again.

  “Hey, Kid! Guess what?” shouted somebody. “It’s been two days, and your club’s playing hard ball. Told ya they wouldn’t care so much about some prospect of theirs.”

  Laughs and whoops filled the room, pounding into my aching skull. A kick jabbed me in the leg. My tired eyes lifted.

  Med stared down at me. “You’re Fuse’s son, huh? Ain’t that something. Known him a long time. Well, the bad news is, your daddy’s dead, and they’re too busy with his funeral to deal with your ass. How ‘bout that, huh?”

  Dad dead? No, no, it can’t be. We’d just started to really hang out. I was a prospect now...not now…not…

  Sour bile jerked up my insides and shot up my throat. I retched all over myself. Whatever was left of myself. The music roared again, and I shut my eyes, my body curling into a ball.

  My hair got pushed over my arm, away from my face, and I flinched at the contact. A cool towel swept over my skin, scouring my flesh like sandpaper. Those blue green eyes were over me.

  “Just cleaning you up,” she said.

  I stared at her. Who was she? Why was she bothering? Maybe she’d pull a blade and play with me too. My aching muscles stayed tense as her towel, a thick faded red, stroked over me carefully.

  “Why?” I asked. “They’re just gonna do it again.”

  Her gaze met mine, and in it I saw a flicker of something, not cold or hard, like indifference or duty, but a split second of warmth that raced over my flesh like the sure strokes of her towel.

  “I know,” she said quietly. “They will.” That deep voice was frank, resigned, and I leaned in closer to hear more of it. She dipped the towel in a small bowl of water and soap.

  “Did they kill him?” my voice croaked. “My dad? Do you know?”

  “No, they didn’t kill him. He was at your club, had a heart attack.”

  A heart attack. He’d had a heart attack once before when he’d been in jail years ago. A heart attack induced by something else Reich had done. Now Dad was gone, and I wouldn’t see him again. Wouldn’t ride with him again. He wouldn’t be there when I got patched in.

  If I patched in.

  If I ever made it out of here alive.

  The girl wiped at my leg and down the other. Her attention was some sort of seduction. She was just prepping me for more torture, wasn’t she?

  “Get the fuck off me,” I said through gritted teeth.

  She stopped and sat back on her heels, her lips pressed together. She took her towel and bowl and slid back into the crowd. I choked down the tears, the ache. I was nothing but pain.

  Nothing but alone.

  2

  One bloodied eye hung on me.

  The white was washed with red, but at the center was the most startling eye I’d ever seen, and certainly the most alive. That molten iron eye held my gaze, gleaming, defying, and I was rooted to the cement floor by its brawn.

  In the two days since he’d been here, the prisoner had shut down. He’d been brought to this dark basement cell after the first night, and he’d barely spoken since, except just now to tell Motormouth to go fuck himself. He’
d tried strangling Motor with his chains, but he was weak and Motor got him down and punched him out, then he’d shortened the chains. I’d heard the yelling from the top of the stairs, and I’d come running.

  “You’re gonna feel everything we dish out from here on in.” Motormouth’s sneering voice made me clench my jaw. “Med wants you wide awake, feeling like misery and wishing for death. You got that?” Motormouth’s steel-toed boot kicked at his ribs, and Kid’s body shoved over on the floor closer to my feet, his other eye swollen and ugly. Sealed shut.

  “Fuck you!” the prisoner spit out along with blood and goop.

  Motormouth’s hands gripped his neck, throttling him, and the prisoner’s legs thrashed, his heels digging into the cement. Wheezing, choking filled the dank space, the clang and ringing of metal chains straining, dragging. I swallowed hard, but I couldn’t look away. I wasn’t allowed to look away, so I watched everything. It wasn’t new, but seeing a man fight for another breath was always inspiring.

  That was me, fighting for my next breath.

  Motormouth released him. “You don’t mouth off like that again, you got that, you little shit? See, your fucking club ain’t coming’ to get you. They’re playing us and playing you, prospect.” He smacked Kid on the face.

  The prisoner gulped for air, his arms wrenching against the chains, then finally dropping. Not giving up or giving in, just taking a much needed break. That one bloodied eye blinked, his head lolling on the cement floor. He didn’t moan or beg. He only turned away, his chest heaving for air, the skin of his throat banded with red.

  “Damn, it stinks in here. Hose him down.” Motormouth belched. “I need a drink.” Footsteps. The door slammed closed, shutting out the sounds of carousing, celebrating, madness.

  “Motor!” Shit. I was locked in here now.