Fury
Rebel Wayfarers MC
Book #11
MariaLisa deMora
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
Cover image by Sara Eirew
Model: Gabe LaDuke
Cover design: Debera Kuntz
Copyright © 2017 MariaLisa deMora
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
First Published 2017
ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-05-9
DEDICATION
Revenge is an act of passion, vengeance of justice. – Samuel Johnson
For Kay, who reminds me in her unique and hilarious ways that sometimes long chapters are best filled with great stories.
Contents
Simple things
I’m done being stupid
So much to do
Movin’ on
Iron Indian Records
Early days
Taken
Protocol
Anywhere but here
Occupy Yourself
Saving Bella
Don’t laugh at me
Sorry for your loss
Time to start digging
Rumors and secrets
I am what they made me
First one then the other
Love and then loss
Meeting Michael
Right don’t mean easy
Common ground
Florida fiasco
Keyword: Redemption
Unfriendly as fuck
Packing for home
Unrest in the West
Yoked tight
End of an era
Settling down
Sammy’s ready
Foreseeable future
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ac-knowl-edg-ment
noun
plural noun: acknowledgements
1: acceptance of the truth or existence of something
“there was no acknowledgement of the family’s trauma”
synonyms: acceptance, recognition, admission, concession, confession
2: the action of expressing gratitude or appreciation for something
“he received an award in acknowledgement of his work”
synonyms: thanks, gratitude, appreciation, recognition
There are some books that flow freely as they come to life. In those instances, I can sit in front of the computer with a broad grin, fingers flying across the keys as I try to keep up with the characters and their actions, dialogue, and plot twists. Those books are a joy to write, fulfilling in every way because when a story comes that easily there’s a serene sense of assurance that it wants to be told.
This is not one of those books.
Fury’s story came in fits and starts. I’ve never had as many separate files for a story before. My folder was filled with files! This chapter had a document, and that chapter had a document, and so on, but for the longest time I wasn’t even certain in what order they should be placed. It started when I cut a whole section from the manuscript for Duck, back when Fury was talking loud and proud, and he shouldn’t have been. I told him at the time, “Not your book, dude. Chill.” So, he chilled.
He chilled to the point I wasn’t certain he would even have a book. Frightening, but so what, I didn’t have a cover yet, and while folks wanted to hear from him, I couldn’t force him to talk, could I? Everything felt choppy, and forced, and I decided if I couldn’t have the woo, I wouldn’t do the story.
Meanwhile, I had things going on in my life, too. A surprise book or two, and baby those flowed. They had that effortless quality which always underscores my resolve to keep at this writer gig. In total, I wrote four stories while Fury chilled, quiet and silent as the grave.
Thankfully, it turned out he was just waiting his turn. Or should I say he was waiting on Bethany’s turn. Up to that point she’d been quiet. Oh, I could pull sentences from her, but not a lot more than that. Once she caught her stride though? Look out. She was gone, man. Me and Fury? We were playing catch-up for weeks. In the end, however, I think we have a balanced book where the main character, the hero if you will, is strong and firm in his beliefs, with a voice unlike any other Rebel. The main female lead is likewise strong, and has become one of my favorite chicks in the books. Growing up as she did, while carrying secrets as she does, and still she managed to seriously kick ass and take names. I like their story, and I hope you will, too.
So, the first thank yous go to Fury and Bethany, for not letting me give up on their story. They just needed time to find their stride and get in sync, and I needed to follow their lead.
Now on to the other acknowledgements, where I express gratitude and admit that while this writing is first conducted in solitude, it’s not really a solo gig at all. Not by a long shot. I lean on a lot of folks for every story.
To my lovely editor, Becky Johnson, founder and CEO of Hot Tree Editing, and her team of professionals – thank you. You always make me appear so much more put together than I really am, and I truly enjoy how well we work together. (Should that be “how we work well together”? Grr. Now I needa ask Becky.)
Sara Eirew, photographer, and Gabe LaDuke, model – the image on the cover is phenomenal, and I’m proud to have your artistry adorn my story. Debera Kuntz, as ever, your interpretation of what I saw in my head is spot on. Thank you all.
For the gals who encourage me and listen to my whining when the words don’t flow, who nip my woe-is-me in the bud and force me to look at the why so I can fix it – thank you. MirandaPanda, Jamey, Kay, Kori, and Megan – your voices echo in my head in a good way. My alpha team for this story was small, but fierce. Kori (yup, same one, I’m doubly blessed here) who read the story twice, Kelsi, and Megan – your feedback was valuable, and needed. Thank y’all smuchly!
To my cadre of folks in the life who gave insight on so many aspects of Fury and the various organizations he wandered through, thank you. It doesn’t matter where I go, you know I take you with me. Even Tinker—much as it pains me to admit—I should confess I enjoy our interactions more now. Maybe you’re mellowing as you age? Whatever it is, keep it up old man. Thanks for helping me see things through.
Woofully yours,
~ML
Simple things
Gabe
“In and out, shouldn’t be a big deal. Just do your job.” The big man lifted his beer and drained the bottle, staring at Gabe as he set it on top of the barrel. “You get my money, we’ll be square.”
We ain’t ever gonna be square, Gabe thought. Dion Cooper wasn’t the kind of man who would allow leverage to be lost. He’d been that way in the military, where Gabe had first met him, and had stayed the same after being discharged. Unlike most folks who’d served, Dion was proud of his bad conduct discharge, holding it up as if it granted him automatic badass status. BCD meant he’d spent time in military prison, and while Gabe knew that was true, he wasn’t sure what the sentence had been for. Coulda stolen toilet paper for all I know.
Dion was a procurer. He found things you needed, or more usually, wanted. He’d gotten his hooks into Gabe while they were deployed in Africa, and the moment Gabe had gotten back stateside, the man had shown up, like a bad penny. Shoulda never believed his shit. But he had, buying a fortune of illegal drugs. He would have been fine, except the bag had gone missing out of his locker. That
meant he was out both the money he’d borrowed to purchase the product, as well as the product.
“You hear me, Gabe?” Dion rapped the bottom of his bottle against the metal, switching it around in his hand. This being an unsubtle threat of potential violence.
“Yeah, I heard you. No big deal. I do this, and we’re done.” Gabe swallowed hard. I cain’t fuckin’ wait.
“No, not what I said. We ain’t done.” Dion tapped Gabe’s shoulder with the bottle. “Said you get my money and we’ll be square. Square ain’t done.”
“Same as.” Gabe shrugged as he took a slow step back, moving out of easy reach.
“No, not same as. You get me my twenty-five K and we’ll be square. Then we can see what’s next in line.” Gabe couldn’t help his reaction, and his laughter was loud as it bounced back against the trees behind Dion’s house. Scowl firmly in place, Dion clipped out, “The fuck do you think’s so funny?”
“Twenty-five thousand? Are you jacked in the head? I owe you fifteen K. Fifteen thousand. Not twenty-five. Where in the hell did you come up with that number?” Gabe shook his head. This was why he couldn’t ever get free from Dion. “You’re insane, man.”
“Want me to go through line-by-line? It was fifteen. Now, it’s not. Inflation. Interest. What the fuck ever, dude. Now, it’s twenty-five.” Dion shoved the barrel out of the way, taking two steps towards Gabe. “Give it another week, and it’ll be thirty.”
I could take him. It would be so easy to just take care of this a different way. He shook his head, forcing those ideas away. They belonged to his father and the clan in the holler, not the man he’d been fighting to become his whole life.
“Where do you think…? There’s no way this chick is gonna give me twenty-five thousand dollars. No fucking way.” Gabe had thought it was a stretch at fifteen. “She’s gonna know I am talking out my ass.” Shaking his head, he tried to find an argument that Dion would listen to. “She’s a businesswoman, in the music biz, and I’m a mountain boy. Fuck, Dion. Ain’t no way.”
“I got an angle.” Dion always had an angle. Part of why Gabe had wound up so deep in his pockets. “She’ll never see you coming. Pussy gonna be so quick to cash out for you, you won’t know what happened. And then—” Dion leaned closer, poking Gabe’s chest with a stiffened forefinger. “—we’ll be square.” Standing straight, the scowl wiped away, a smug smile in its place. “You ain’t ever gonna be quit of me, though. I know where too many bodies are buried.” Dion turned, walking towards the cooler on the ground near the backdoor, chin angled so he could see Gabe over his shoulder. He held up a hand and wagged it back and forth, fingers crossed. “You and me? Like this. We gonna stay tight, man.”
***
Gabe stared up at the sign on the building: Iron Indian Records. It didn’t mean anything to him, but he couldn’t get the idea out of his head that it should. That the name was something he’d heard somewhere before. He rolled his neck, stretching and reached up to scratch his hipster scruff, running a finger around the inside of the shirt collar cinched tight as a noose around his neck. Sweat prickled his scalp; it was only nine o’clock in the morning, but Nashville was already stifling hot and humid.
Running the script through his head again, he tugged his shades free from the pocket of his shirt, flipping the arms out and shoving the sunglasses onto his face. Not a long con, this was planned as a short-term confidence shill. Six days preferred, but only two or three weeks, max. He just had to convince the business manager he could do what she needed, which was provide studio time. Recording opportunities at a studio he’d show her in a carefully choreographed dance during the absence of the real studio owner. For all she was young, this chick was smart and well thought of in the business industry, all of which meant she had integrity, which made her a good mark. Intelligent people who did the right thing always expected the best out of everyone.
Time to aim and let fly. “Showtime.” Looking both directions, he crossed the street and confidently reached for the handle, pulling the door open. A welcome rush of cool air hit his face and he took a breath of relief as he stepped inside. That relief was short lived as he stopped abruptly, the door closing behind him and nudging him forwards as it tapped his ass, slipping into place. Jesus, it can’t be.
Dion said her DJ gig used the handle of B.T. The paperwork for this place was all signed by a B. Taylor. Gabe knew sex, age, reputation, and work experience, but that was it. He hadn’t asked for more, certainly hadn’t asked for a picture. If he had, he would have vetoed this plan. Put the brakes on any proposal involving this woman. Someone he knew. Very fucking well.
Bethany Mason stood from the desk at which she’d been seated and came toward him, arm extended, broad smile on her face. Beautiful and poised, she was so different from the girl he’d last known, but the Mason genes bred true. Dark hair, gray eyes, square jaw—she looked like her mother, and more than a little like her brother. Gabe held his breath, waiting for her to out him. He was shocked when he heard, “Mr. Sorenson, it’s good to finally meet you. You’re punctual. That’s always a good omen.”
Fuck, she don’t remember me. Derek Sorenson was his con name for this gig. Hearing it from her jolted him into action, and he wondered at the painful ache in his chest as he slipped his rough palm along her smooth one, clasping firmly but careful not to grip too tightly. Can I pull this off? I put on weight and heft in the army. Fuck, some days I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. He pushed the curl of disappointment down, not letting it factor in the expression on his face. Bethy Mason had been the best friend of his little cousin, Tabby, and had been in and out of the Ledbetter household all her years growing up. But she’d known a much younger Gabe, one who wore a perpetual scowl. I can do this.
“Miss Taylor,” he used the name she went by now, and he wondered for a bare moment if she was a shill, like him. Remaking herself once away from the hollers, taking on a false city persona that fit her better than the country girl she’d been. “I can assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” He squeezed her hand again, then loosened his grip, trailing calloused fingertips across her palm as he released her. Seeing the flush climbing her neck to her cheeks, he threw away the idea that she was a con, too. “Nashville is a beautiful city, but I believe I’m looking at the prettiest thing in it right now.” Too thick? The flush deepened. Nope, not too thick. Just right.
“Thank you, that’s very sweet.” Oh, honey, I’m far from sweet.
Instead of speaking his thoughts, he clamped his teeth closed, allowing the corners of his lips to curl up. “Are you ready for me?” So many meanings for that phrase, and as he hoped, she followed the words into the darker path. Dropping her chin, she looked to one side and pressed her lips together to hide a small smile. “For the meeting, I mean.” Damn, she’s prettier than I’d have expected. Way prettier than I deserve. That thought made him flinch.
“Yes, I am. I have everything set-up in the conference room. If you’ll follow me?” Through the gates of Hell, darlin’.
Down boy, he told his twitching cock when her swaying ass preceded him up the narrow hallway. Might be Heaven, not Hell.
I’m done being stupid
Bethany
“It was never that, was it? Never real. Never going to be forever, was it?”
In her head, Bethany heard her trembling question on a repeated loop, remembered how it had echoed down the phone line connecting them through the glass. Saw again the expression Derek wore, cold eyes she didn’t recognize staring at her over the mouth she knew so intimately. Dark stubble on his head, strange to see him look like this, his scalp had always been so smooth under her hands.
“Don’t. Please. Don’t lie to me. Give me that, at least.”
Heard his response.
“No, honey. It couldn’t be.”
Twenty-year-old Bethany Taylor rested the heels of her hands against her forehead and pressed hard. Over the sounds of water splashing around her, she remembered the hollow clunk of the phone
hitting the hook, the fluid movement of his muscles as he rose from the chair positioned across from her, and how he never broke stride as he walked away. Hollow inside, as she’d been since she left the prison after visiting the man she loved.
She’d left the prison and gone straight to the bank, shifting money and borrowing under her own name, not the business, funneling in every cent she’d lost. Only once that was done, did she pull in a breath that wasn’t weighted with fear. All through the legal proceedings she’d expected her brother to show, expected him to swoop in like an avenging angel. Had woken with that fear choking her every day, slept but fitfully, plagued with the nightmare of having to explain to him how she’d messed up.
Now that everything was settled with the money back in the business accounts where it should have stayed all along, there’d be nothing to explain. Better if Davy never knows.
Tipping her head back, she used her palms to wipe the water from her face, turning to let the shower stream through her dark hair. If there was salt mixed in, no one would ever know. Never again, she vowed. I’m done being stupid.
So much to do
Bethany, six years later
“Ty,” Bethy called, slapping a palm over her mouth and gagging as she stood in the doorway. She stared, looking around the apartment they’d shared for nearly ten years. “What in the hell is in those bags? A science experiment?” She waved a hand in front of her face, fanning to try and overcome the smell. “Jesus.” Pushing the door closed with one foot, she walked into the room, dropping her purse on the couch. “Ty?”
“Yeah. Minute.” This was called from the bathroom, and with confirmation that he was at least here, Bethy turned to what she thought might be the source of the stench—several black trash bags lined up along one wall. Using the toe of one foot, she pushed gently at the side of one bag, wrinkling her nose as it mushed in a couple of inches. The way it gave to the pressure felt wet and pliable, and wrong. She had just reached out to tug at the top, wanting to open it and see what was inside when Ty came out of the bathroom behind her. “You’re home early.”
Fury (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 11) Page 1
