Fury

by Cat Porter

  A fucking triumph.

  I grinned. “We’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Lenore brushed my lips with hers and gave our daughter’s leg a final squeeze. “Have fun!”

  I kicked the toe stand and set my bike on fire. I took off, gaining speed at the end of the lane. My heart expanded, filling with the music of Zoë’s squeals and the magnificent scream of my engine as we flew down the road.

  And that fury erupted inside me.

  But it wasn’t that brutal rage that would rise like an inferno or that black sorrow that would slide all over me and harden into a spiked shell of desolation.

  No.

  It was my dad scooping me up off the floor, carrying me out of that house, and setting me on his bike,

  it was me and my brothers riding in perfect formation down a long highway,

  it was that bruised face looking up at me in that club kitchen, her realizing that I’d come back for her,

  that glorious thunder of Beck’s waterfall,

  my woman’s soft lips on my skin,

  the heady whisper of her gaze,

  a labyrinth of vivid ink,

  a cartography of compasses,

  my daughter’s innocent pure laughter ringing in my ear.

  I breathed it all in.

  The heat of the bright, hard afternoon sun unfurled over us.

  I shouted, “Hold on, Zoë.”

  Holding onto me tight, my daughter answered me, “I am.”

  The Lock & Key Series

  Lock & Key

  Random & Rare

  Iron & Bone

  Blood & Rust

  Wolfsgate

  Fury

  The making of this book took a great many people whom I love and cherish. My deepest thanks go out to each and every one for their precious time, energy, and support.

  Tina, working with you on this was sublime. Your instincts are incredible and you know of what you speak and it’s from your heart. I couldn’t have done this without your articulate precision, generosity, and belief. You always nudged me in the right direction, and I learned so much along the way. To many, many more.

  Jenn, working with you again has been a gratifying joy. Thank you for your dedication and clarity, my dearest friend. I wouldn’t be here without you.

  Naj, for your beautiful visions time and time again. This one took a long while, and I appreciate your patience with every emotional detail.

  Nada, working with you was a ray of light. Thank you for coming through so beautifully.

  Memphis Cadeau for your enthusiasm, and your and Travis’s fantastic artistry.

  Needa Warrant for kicking my ass— exactly when and where I needed it—while holding my hand. Your generosity as a writer, friend, and sister knows no bounds. You are in my heart for life, woman.

  Rachel, Alison, Needa, Lena for beta reading that raw early draft and giving me your time, precious insights, and vital signposts.

  Jan, for Tania’s Chicago and your proofreading skills and so much love and support along the way.

  Mindy, for generously answering my questions about firearms.

  Sherry, for your music suggestions for Lenore—perfect timing and utterly perfect, my friend.

  My JoJill, for your friendship and incredible jewelry that always keeps me grounded and inspired throughout writing. Because #DigForever, baby.

  Iza, for all the Finger enthusiasm and Instagram casting inspirations around the clock as I wrote. I love that we’re in the same time zone!

  Kandace, Cindy, Sammy, MJ, Soulla, Sue B for your constant enthusiasm and friendship which means the world to me.

  Ryan for your rehab insights and occupational therapy suggestions.

  Penny, I’m glad I asked and I’m so grateful that we did it! Love you, amiga.

  Lori Jackson for your amazing teasers and designgasms. I love working with you, and I’m thrilled we finally are.

  Linda R. Russell and everyone at Foreword PR for your tell-it-like-it-is savvy, for pushing me, and having my back. One day we will have our morning coffee together, for reals, woman!

  Alison, the best transcontinental PA ever and my very dear friend.

  Bloggers who make my book world go around—we writers could not do this without you. In particular, iScream Books, The Book Bellas, Book Babes Unite, Dirty Book Girls, EDGy Reviews, LABB, Perusing Princesses, Schmexy Book Girls, Kinky Girls Book Obsessions, Kindle Friends Forever, and so many more. My deepest thanks for the astounding work you do.

  My Cat Callers who cheer me on and kept the adrenaline flowing as I chiseled away at Finger and Lenore and got them to where they needed to be. I loved sharing these two with you every step of the way.

  To my author friendss who inspire, support, answer my silly questions, and share, share, share, I thank you from my very full heart.

  To all my readers for sharing the book love, your messages, taking the time to leave reviews. Your enthusiasm and reader satisfaction mean everything to me. Thank you for loving my bruised characters and their difficult stories.

  Cat Porter was born and raised in New York City, but also spent a few years in Texas and Europe along the way, which made her as wanderlusty as her parents. As an introverted, only child, she had very big, but very secret dreams for herself. She graduated from Vassar College, was a struggling actress, an art gallery girl, special events planner, freelance writer, restaurant hostess, and had all sorts of other crazy jobs all hours of the day and night to help make those dreams come true. She has two children’s books traditionally published under her maiden name.

  She now lives on a beach outside of Athens, Greece with her husband and three children, and freaks out regularly, still daydreams way too much, and now truly doesn’t give AF. She is addicted to reading, cafes on the beach, Greek islands, Instagram, Pearl Jam, the History Channel, her husband’s homemade red wine, dark chocolate, and reallllllly good coffee. Writing has always kept her somewhat sane, extremely happy, and a productive member of society.

  Cat’s Website

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  Lock & Key

  Cat Porter

  ©2014

  The Prologue & Chapter 1 just for you!

  Prologue

  Once upon a time I lost everything.

  Then I ran away.

  But I returned because I had to, and I stood on the edge and looked over.

  Truth is a painful sword. It cuts deep and stings, but the pain evaporates, the blood dries, and in the place of such savagery is a gleaming absolution and an absolute purity.

  It’s blinding.

  It hurts.

  And it is utterly beautiful.

  You can’t escape it. Truth demanded a leap, I took it.

  This is a story of my love for two men at two different moments of truth in my life. One man is gone forever; the other is very much alive.

  Love not only stings when you lose it, when it’s ripped away. When it first bites, it can sting just as deeply.

  This is also a story about the love between my sister and me, and our redemption through two families—one bonded by blood, the other by brotherhood—that tore us apart yet bound us together forever.

  Real life is messy and strange, and our ride through it left plenty of bruises, slashed hearts, a few lifeless bodies, and blood and smoke in its wake.

  But it’s our story, this rather mangled tale.

  Chapter 1

  GraCe

  I should have left when I had polished off that first drink.

  That had been my initial plan, but the Doobie Brothers “Eyes of Silver” was playing on the jukebox, and that really deserved another drink for old time
’s sake. Not for the sake of the future, though. Isn’t that why I’d stopped here in the first place? I was just over an hour outside of Rapid City, but I wanted to put off harsh reality a little while longer.

  Just one more drink.

  I gestured at the bartender with my empty glass. He winked at me.

  My motel room across the highway was most certainly not a fabulous destination, and I just couldn’t face another night watching bad reality TV or the usual sitcoms as I had done the night before at the motel in Montana. Tonight was different. No, I couldn’t sit still tonight. The walls of the room seemed to stretch to hold me in. Dead Ringer’s Roadhouse was a much, much better alternative.

  It hadn’t changed much in the sixteen years I’d been away. License plates from each one of the fifty states still covered the walls, but that original poster for a Doors concert in California was thankfully now secured in a thick brass frame. A dramatic spotlight glowed over it for all those who came regularly to pay their respects. I suppose the owners finally realized its worth. A vintage photograph, it too now solidly framed, of an old locomotive stuck in over twelve feet of snow during the infamous blizzard of 1949, took pride in its place on the opposite wall. Gentrification had arrived in this little corner of South Dakota. The same beer-soaked smell filled my nostrils, though.

  Three pool tables stood on a raised section of the room where several older pot-bellied bikers played a game. The dart boards still dotted one wall as did the myriad of hunting trophies peering down at us from overhead—an eccentric variety of antlers, furry, glassy-eyed heads, and even a few stuffed fish, all mute, somber witnesses to the whirligig of flesh and alcohol below.

  Hey up there, remember me?

  I took in a deep breath and leaned back against the extremely long bar. In the center of the spacious Roadhouse was a sunken dance area, its long stretch of wooden floor polished and worn from years of use. Glass mason jars glowing with the light of votive candles spotlit each of the crowded tables surrounding the dance floor. I lowered myself back on my barstool and waited for my refill. The lights lowered a notch as the couple to my right laughed uproariously at a joke the waitress had told them.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. I definitely needed to have a laugh and relax before I got into town tomorrow and faced the music. I was too wound up to sleep tonight. All my belongings, and there weren’t many, were packed in my Toyota Land Cruiser. It’s good to be mobile at a moment’s notice, like I was when my sister called me a little over a week ago.

  “Grace, I need you, honey.”

  She wouldn’t have asked me to come home if it wasn’t serious. I think both of us had been in denial over just how serious it was. I quit my job that day, packed my essentials, and came back to South Dakota.

  Anything for Ruby. Anything.

  But I wasn’t going to think about all that right now. Right now, I was going to try to enjoy myself. Well, at least have a laugh or two. Or something. That’s why coming to Dead Ringer’s had seemed like such a good idea after I had checked in to the motel earlier. My home town was located almost two hours away on the other side of Rapid City, so there wasn’t too much of a chance of anyone recognizing me here tonight.

  After I had checked in at the motel, I’d taken a long hot shower, scrubbed the grime of the road off me, and eased the ache in my lower back from driving most of the day. I’d put on my black jeans and my favorite charcoal-gray T-shirt dotted with studs and tiny rhinestones along the wing design, shoved on my oldest pair of engineer boots, then set off for Dead Ringer’s. My legs always felt solidly weighted into the ground with these treasured puppies on, which was always a good thing, especially now. They were definitely a nice change from the high-tops I had been wearing to stay comfortable as I drove.

  I raised my chin and inspected my appearance in the huge, cracked antique mirror that hung behind the bar next to the Roadhouse’s famous antique photograph of a nineteenth century gold prospector in the Black Hills. My grape lip-gloss had faded, of course, but my thick brown hair that I had highlighted off and on over the years had, as usual, achieved full volume all on its own. I had kept it bound in a ponytail all through my days of driving to keep it out of my face and off my neck. I combed my fingers through the layered waves that cascaded to my shoulders.

  “There you go, hon.” The bartender blocked my view, breaking my girlish reverie. He slid a whiskey neat towards me on a small white napkin.

  I shot him a smile. “Thank you.”

  I drew deep on the amber liquid, and that delicious warmth flowed through me once more and settled in my blood. A Miranda Lambert song flared up, and suddenly a rumble echoed over the old wood floors as a good number of eager couples, both young and old, scrambled to the dance floor. Laughter and whoops swirled through the room. I took another swallow of my whiskey and savored its richness in my mouth.

  This was good, comfortable. I tugged a strand of hair from one of my long silver earrings.

  Was I really an upgraded version of the Grace Quillen who ran away from Meager, South Dakota sixteen years ago?

  Ran away, absconded, escaped…

  “Are you really drinking that without ice?” a deep male voice vibrated through me.

  My eyes snapped up to my left, and I had to raise them up a bit higher to see the face behind that firm, almost purposeful tone. My fingers slid down my glass.

  I drank in the large, almost black eyes lined with thick dark lashes that were pinned on me. His face was full of planes, angles and high cheekbones. He sported a long nose that must have been broken at some point, because it had an odd bump to it and a small scar on its side that travelled down his cheek. Those flaws may have blunted any overt handsomeness he might have been blessed with, yet they gave him an unforgiving, grim quality. My gaze settled on his full mouth. His smooth skin was a light bronze hue. He definitely had Native American blood in him.

  He had to be over six feet tall with pronounced shoulders and a closely cropped head of dark hair peppered with just a bit of gray. There were faint traces of stubble on his face, and a small silver hoop hung from his right earlobe. His long arms and broad chest filled out his black hoodie that was zipped up most of the way. Faded and frayed blue jeans hung low and loose just below his waist and extended down a long pair of legs, which ended in heavily scuffed black leather boots. A worn-out road warrior.

  He leaned against the bar, one feathery dark eyebrow quirked higher than the other at my glass of whiskey. “Never met a chick who liked it straight,” he said.

  I choked on the swirl of liquor at the back of my throat. He swallowed his drink, his solemn eyes on me as he waited for a response to his ridiculous remark. With my eyes locked on his, I put down my glass.

  I smirked. “Well, well. Lucky you.”

  He shifted his weight and leaned in closer. “I meant the drink, not …” I could swear his irises had silver threads in them at this angle. His full lips tightened. He didn’t break into chuckles or a flirty pose. He really wanted an answer to his question.

  “Yeah, I got it,” I said with a slight smile. “Ice only dilutes the flavor. Why order a great whiskey if you’re going to insult it with water or sugary soda?”

  He studied me for a moment, perfectly still, then he nodded once and drank from his ice-filled glass, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “Very true. Insult—that’s perfect.”

  I turned back to my drink. He moved in closer. “It’s just that most women order everything with a diet, you know?”

  “Women or was that ‘chicks’?”

  He let out a laugh. His face seemed almost boyish, then in an instant the relaxed look was gone and the somber returned.

  “I hate soda,” I said.

  His dark, languid eyes riveted on me once more, and I swallowed hard. I could soak in those soothing pools of darkness.

  “Guess you’re not most women.” His voice was warm, a
lmost gravelly, and his eyes glinted at me as he drank. The chunks of ice in his glass clinked together, the sound filling the thick air between us.

  “No, I’m not.”

  His teeth crunched on ice as he studied me. “I’ll bet you don’t like much diluted or watered down, huh?”

  I tore my gaze away from those dark eyes of his and cleared my throat. “What are you drinking?”

  “Vodka. Thought I’d change it up from beer tonight.”

  “Good idea,” I murmured. “Change is always good.”

  “Keeps the blood flowing, right?”

  I glanced up at him again. He was trying to make conversation with me. Being friendly to strangers is good for one’s karma, isn’t it? And I needed all the help I could get in the karma department. Why not indulge in conversation with the attractive Mr. Vodka On The Rocks?

  “Ever tried it with a slice of lemon?” I asked.

  A hint of amusement passed over his eyes, and I grinned. “The drink, I mean.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “No.”

  “You should.”

  My gaze swept over him once more. A tattoo crept across the base of his neck from his shoulder. Was it a feather? I tried not to stare at it too long. He looked to be around my age. There were lines around his eyes and mouth to match my own budding crow’s feet. His face was a bit weathered. A wise, dry humor flashed from the crooked angle of his brief smile, which I liked. No, he wasn’t some young’un hoping to score a cougar. My eyes rested on the bulky silver ring of a sculpted eagle’s head he wore on the hand that was wrapped around his glass. I frowned.

  He leaned over the bar and plucked a thick slice of lemon from the tray of condiments and dropped it into his glass. He swirled the vodka around the ice and the lemon and took a swig. His attractive lips puckered.