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

by Natasha Thomas

  *****

  Walking through the doors of Jay’s tattoo shop, Skin Fusion, Gage and I glance at each other briefly, shaking our heads. It’s clear just by looking at him, Jay isn’t getting better. If anything, he looks worse than I’ve ever seen him, that includes the time he returned from a tour overseas when he was in the Army filled with bullet holes.

  His usually clean shaved head is covered in, at least, five-six inches of dark hair, and he’s bigger than I’ve ever seen him. Bulkier, Jay, has to have put on twenty pounds of muscle at a bare minimum. That, however, is where the improvement ends.

  Jonas’s naturally tan skin is pale beneath the multitude of tattoo’s snaking up and down his arms, his face is drawn, extra lines around his mouth seem to have appeared overnight. All in all, he looks fucking terrible.

  All of a sudden a wave of guilt washes over me, almost stealing the breath from my lungs. Seeing him looking like this only serves to remind me I didn’t come close to grieving as hard for Rosalie when she died. Bec and Jonas weren’t even together, no relationship, nothing when she was killed, but Rosalie was my wife. And still, I didn’t feel remotely close to the depth of emotion churning in Jonas’s eyes.

  “Take a seat. I’ll be with you guys in a minute,” Jay’s gruff voice sounds from behind the partition separating the waiting area and his station.

  Tipping my head toward him, I look to Gage saying,

  “You weren’t wrong. He looks like shit, brother.”

  Gage doesn’t reply, nor does he need to. It’s obvious if something doesn’t change soon the man we’ve all known and loved will be lost forever.

  Ten minutes later, I’m removing my cut – placing it over the headrest of the adjustable tattoo chair – stripping off my shirt, lying down so that Jay can get to work on the design I dropped off months ago before I left town.

  It won’t take long. This tattoo isn’t overly big, nor is it complicated. It’s only one word, stretching from hip to hip across the bottom of my abs. I don’t want fancy fucking script, and I don’t want any tribal or images around it. Simple black ink and bold lettering is all I’m after.

  “You sure you want to do this, Fury?” Jay asks, eyeing me warily. “I don’t have to tell you this shit is permanent. There’s no going back after I get started either because this piece is too fucking big for a cover up if you change your mind.”

  This isn’t a spur of the moment decision. I’ve been thinking about getting this done for years, but it wasn’t until a few days before Avery was taken that I made up my mind and approached Jay about it. Maybe it was fate telling me something, or maybe it was just coincidence, but there’s no doubt in my mind I want Jay inking my skin tonight.

  “Yeah, brother, I’m sure. Do your worst,” I offer, grinning at him over my shoulder.

  “This is going to hurt like a bitch, man. Better you than me,” he grunts getting to work.

  The second the needle makes it first pass through the sensitive skin of my lower stomach, I feel my abs tighten along with the muscles in my legs. Jesus Christ. I forgot how much I hate this shit. It’s not a phobia or anything, but I hate needles with a vengeance.

  Ever since I was a little kid just the thought of getting shots or boosters made my gut churn with anxiety, and had me breaking out in a cold sweat. And now is no different. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, nothing bad happened to make me dislike them, I just don’t particularly enjoy the feeling of cold steel penetrating my skin over and over again.

  Gage is aware of my hatred of them, so when we’re an hour in, he asks,

  “How you holding up, brother? You haven’t passed the fuck out yet, have you?”

  I closed my eyes after the first five minutes, preferring to zone out and think about something a hell of a lot more pleasant than the burn the tattoo gun is creating.

  “Fuck you, Gage. I can’t wait till Jay gets to work on your back because we’ll see who’s laughing then. Karma, brother. Karma.”

  Letting out a deep belly laugh, Gage replies,

  “I’m not the one who’s got a problem with needles, that’s all you.”

  Cracking one eye open, I look at Jay only to see him one hundred percent concentrated on what he’s doing, paying no attention to our back and forth.

  “How you been, Jay?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.

  “Working, dealing with my sisters’ bullshit, you know how it is,” he returns monotonously.

  “Yeah. So, what’s the latest with Miss Bella? Gotten herself in any trouble recently?”

  My friendship with Bella since I came home can be described with one word; strained. Where before we were tight, as in, almost as close as Avery and me, lately that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  When I joined Vengeance MC as a prospect, one of the first people I met outside the club was Bella. Sassy, funny and outgoing, Bella wasn’t one to shy away from calling a spade a spade. I admired that about her. It wasn’t often I met a woman who was willing to let it all hang out there, regardless of the consequences.

  Two years older than Avery, Bella was fourteen when I moved to Furnace. We had an instant connection that hasn’t faltered throughout all the year we’ve known each other. Not until now, that is.

  I have every intention of apologizing to her for cutting her out of my life while I was gone, but not until I’ve got shit sorted with Avery. Any more than one woman wanting to rip my balls off at a time is just too many, so Bella’s going to have to take a backseat for now,

  “When isn’t she causing trouble I’ve gotta clean up?” Jay grumbles.

  As much as he likes to complain about his little sister, he loves the hell out of her. Their relationship isn’t only one of brother and sister. Honestly, she’s also his best friend. Or, she had been until Jay decided to shut everyone out.

  “True,” I grin in response. “She’s been calling me non-stop for days. I know she wants to tear me a new one, but I’ve got shit to sort out before I let her have at it.”

  “I know, she told me. If I were you, I wouldn’t answer. Ever. My sisters’ like a Bobcat on steroids when she wants a piece of someone, so I’d watch out. She’ll pounce when you’re least expecting it,” Jay says with a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth.

  Forty minutes and an indescribable number of hissed curses later, and Jay’s done. The lower half of my stomach feels like it’s on fire, making me want to soak in an ice bath just to get rid of the sting for a few minutes. But all bitching about the pain aside, he’s done a fucking fantastic job, as always.

  Avery’s name is now permanently etched into my skin the same way she is etched into my heart. Each letter the size of both my thumbs put together, the solid black Old English script stands out starkly against the much whiter skin of my groin. Because let’s be honest, that is actually where it’s positioned.

  If you’d asked me in the beginning why I chose to tattoo her name in a place that would probably be a turn off to other women, I would have said I didn’t have the first clue. But now? I know the truth. As ridiculous as it sounds, I want her to know she owns me. Not only my heart and soul but my body too.

  “That what you were after?” Jay questions, busying himself by cleaning up his station.

  “Yeah, it’s perfect. Thanks, man,” I reply, pulling my shirt and cut back on. “You up for heading to Hounds for a drink after you finish with, Gage?”

  “Are you gonna keep pussyfooting around what you really wanna ask if I say yes?” He fires back, narrowing his eyes at Gage and me.

  “Honestly, I didn’t think you wanted to talk about her. From what I hear, you don’t talk to anyone about anything anymore, brother. I’m not trying to piss you off, no one is, but you’ve got to throw us a bone here, Jay. You don’t want us to mention her, we won’t. You want to get shitfaced with us, great. But, this shit,” I say, gesturing to the room, “has got to fucking stop. Working all hours, not sleeping, shutting your friends out; it’s all got to stop.”

 
“You’re one to fucking talk,” he snarls, taking a menacing step toward me. “When shit got hard, you took off. You packed your saddlebags and got the fuck out of dodge. I didn’t have that luxury, brother. I’ve got people who depend on me. So, excuse the fuck out of me if you think it’s taking me too long to get over the woman I loved dying in the most brutal fucked up way a woman can die. Not sure what I can do to make that process faster so that all you fuckers can feel better, but I’ll do my best to hurry that shit up for you,” he sneers sarcastically.

  “Ease up, Jay. You know he’s only saying it because he gives a shit,” Gage interjects uselessly.

  Jay’s too riled up to care why or how at the moment. By the looks of him, he will be for a good long time to come. And I don’t blame him. Bec did die horrifically, and he saw it. Jonas saw how they restrained her, the marks, bruises, and devastation they had inflicted on her before she took her final breath. That’s not something anyone could get over quickly, let alone a man like Jonas.

  Jonas is a protector by nature. It’s all he knows. It’s in his DNA. He went into the Army because of it. His Mom, sisters, and his friends, he’d lay down his life for any one of them. Knowing that he wasn’t there when she needed him is eating Jay alive. I can see it. Gage can see it. And I’m sure Blaine saw it, which is why she asked Gage to check on him in the first place. But what no one else seems to have noticed is that Jay doesn’t only feel guilty; he feels relieved.

  I decide then to take the risk and approach him. Closing the distance between us, I grip Jay’s shoulder, looking him dead in the eyes.

  “I see it, brother. Try and hide it all you want, but I see it.” Lowering my voice so Gage isn’t privy to this next part, I murmur, “Not going to out you to the boys, brother, but just know that if you need anyone to talk to, I’m here. I know more about how you feel than you think. When you’re ready, come find me.”

  I don’t bother waiting for him to reply, taking a step back, I turn to Gage stating,

  “I’m heading to Hounds for a beer. You guys feel like joining me, fan-fucking-tastic. You don’t, I’m heading back to the club in an hour.”

  With that, I stride out, hoping something I’ve said tonight has penetrated with the man I consider one of my closest friends.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ~ Jonas ~

  “Dear life,

  When I asked if my day could get any worse, it was a rhetorical question, not a challenge.”

  - yourecards

  For the last twenty-four hours, I haven’t been able to think about anything other than what Fury said to me when he was leaving last night.

  At first, I was pissed off both him and Gage hadn’t mentioned Bec’s name. I shouldn’t have been surprised they didn’t, no one has since the day we buried her. At least, not around me they haven’t. But, I can’t ignore the fact that it fucking burns people won’t say her name.

  Bec may have died, but that doesn’t mean the memories of her did. Every night I close my eyes, I think about Bec. My dreams are consumed by her, and so is every waking moment I’m not consciously distracting myself. Her beauty, her laugh, the way she always knew when to call because I needed to hear her voice; I remember it all.

  I know what people think when they look at me too. The questions are written in their eyes, plain as day. No, Bec and I weren’t together, we hadn’t been for a long time. Our breakup was mutual, neither of us saw what we had going the distance. And to be honest, at the time, a relationship wasn’t what either of us was looking for. But just because we weren’t together, doesn’t mean her death didn’t destroy something in me. It did. I just don’t quite know what that is yet.

  When I met Beth, Boss’ woman, at a tattoo conference over a decade ago, we hit it off. For all of about five minutes, I considered seeing if she’d be up for a casual friend with benefits arrangement, but after talking to her, I knew we’d never be anything more than good friends. Just friends.

  A few months after that initial meeting, I had business to see to in L.A. so I called Beth to find out if she wouldn’t mind me crashing on her couch for a few nights. We’d exchanged numbers and kept in touch – albeit sporadically – but Beth had said if I was ever in town to give her a call and she’d put me up.

  Beth didn’t think twice, she messaged me her address and I was standing on her doorstep the very next morning. That was the day I met Bec. That was the day I met the woman I would use to banish the thoughts of someone else from my head. Someone I couldn’t have.

  Since Beth was working the early shift at the tattoo shop she was employed at, she was in bed by ten most nights, leaving me at a loose end. I’m a night time person, not usually going to bed until one or two in the morning, at least. Thankfully, I wasn’t bored for long. Bec came in that first night, dropped down onto the couch beside me, and told me to pick a movie.

  Rebecca Michelle Foster was loud, funny, and her sense of humor was out of this world. Nothing was off-limits to her. She joked about everything from blowjobs and anal fisting, to the Holocaust. To some people that might have been offensive, but it wasn’t meant that way. Bec was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She would give someone in need her last dollar if she thought it would help them.

  I’m not going to lie to you, Bec and I fucked like rabbits from the first night I met her until we called off our whatever the hell it was relationship seven years later. It wasn’t serious, and we definitely weren’t exclusive. Both of us knew the score. Funnily enough, it wasn’t me that laid down the ground rules of our arrangement, that was all Bec.

  Three months before I met her, she’d just gotten out of a semi-serious long-term relationship with a guy she had been dating since college. He did the dirty on her, fucking one of her friends at work in the staff breakroom. Bec, unfortunately, just happened to be on her lunch break, finding her boyfriend fucking the chick bent over the pull-out couch.

  Needless to say, after that eye-opener, Bec wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone else unless it was no strings sex. Something I was completely okay with.

  See, back then, I had a problem. A fucking big problem. I was in love with a sixteen-year-old girl. I didn’t want to be. I hated that I was, but nothing I’d done had changed the fact I was one hundred percent, head over heels in love with her. And if her Dad found out, I’d also be one hundred and ten percent fucking dead. As in, chopped up into little pieces and scattered throughout the Rocky’s, dead.

  Don’t ask me how it happened, because for the life of me I don’t know. One day she was just a cute kid who hung around at the clubhouse, that I saw from time-to-time when I was in town on leave, and the next, she was the most stunning woman I’d ever seen. The worst part was she wasn’t even actually a woman yet. She looked like one, talked like one, and behaved like one, but she wasn’t. She was six-fucking-teen. A kid for Christ’s sake.

  I can’t tell you how many times in those days I wanted to kill myself for looking at her and getting hard. It made me feel like a fucking pedophile staring at a high school kid when my cock hardened at the sight of her. But even then, I couldn’t bring myself to stay away from her altogether.

  It’s not like we spent a great deal of time together anyway. Maybe that was my justification for not keeping my distance entirely, but that didn’t make it any less true. Being in the Army, I wasn’t home much – two or three times a year for a couple of weeks at most. My unit was almost permanently deployed, which in light of my problem was a damn good thing.

  Everything about that girl called to me on a primal, visceral level. The way she listened intently to every word I said. The way her voice softened in sympathy when I told her about the men I lost on my last mission. And the tears that filled her eyes that weren’t for my men, but for me.

  It didn’t hurt she was stunningly beautiful either. Waist length blonde hair, legs that go for miles, an abundance of curves, and that angelic face was, and still is the stuff of my fantasies. Fucking everything about her was perfect. So w
as the situation. Perfectly fucked up, that is.

  Not only would her Dad kill me for even thinking about his little girl like that, but the rest of his club would also want in on the action too. I wouldn’t have even needed to touch her for them to put a bullet in my head, the thought alone would have signed my death warrant. And I wouldn’t have blamed them for following through with it.

  I was a twenty-nine-year-old man lusting after a sixteen-year-old girl. Nothing about that was right, so why did it feel that way? Why did my world settle on its axis when I was around her? Why was she the only thing I thought of all day and every night? And why no matter how hard I tried – and believe me, I tried – couldn’t I see anyone’s face other than hers when I was balls deep inside another woman?

  Those questions were ones I asked myself for two years after realizing what I felt for her wasn’t simply lust but something deeper. I couldn’t bring myself to admit I was in love with her to her or myself, but I was. Unequivocally. Completely. Irrevocably.

  You’d think I would have made a move after she turned eighteen if I felt that way about her, wouldn’t you? But I didn’t. I couldn’t. She deserved better than a man who couldn’t be there for her. Like I said, I was out of the country more often than I was in it. If she needed me, I wouldn’t be able to be at her side. I couldn’t comfort her if she was upset, take care of her like I wanted to, or protect her from being hurt.