Tonight he’d nearly clambered to the wrong side of an exchange that could still hold the potential to fuck his plans in the ass. Hope was a waitress, and by chance, he and his men had sat in her section. Pure chance, nothing planned about the encounter. Fury had watched the beautiful blonde’s tentative but graceful interactions with his rough men. Saw her gain confidence in herself over the hours, finally got to see her give back as good as she got from them. Saw her smile, watched her hips sway as she walked their orders to them, caught glimpses of the curves hidden by her apron when she leaned across the table to set a bottle in front of his brothers.
It wasn’t that he’d wanted the woman so much as what she might represent. Enticing, but still a shadow when held up against his memories of Bethany.
Not that he’d been a saint since leaving Riverbend. He snorted at the idea. He liked pussy and hadn’t missed many chances at finding a wet and willing hole in the dark. But he’d shied clear of anything that sniffed of a bitch that might have ideas above her station. According to him, that station was directly underneath him, and not a hint of anything else.
Hope, though. She’d been the light to Bethy’s dark, still filled with a sweetness that called to him. She reminded him of something he had held in his hands long ago, a time when he was gifted with love paired with a naïve trust, and all of that wrapped up in a sweet and sassy package he could have spent his whole life worshiping. Back when he was just Gabe Ledbetter, con man.
I could still turn things around. Bethy can still be mine, he thought. Even as the idea passed through his head, he knew it wasn’t even close to true. He could have a chance, but for his loyalty to his men and trying to find them a home that was worthy of their commitment and strength.
Not meant to be. Like every other good thing in my life, turned out wrong for me.
Hope’s lilting laughter had echoed throughout the room. Charming, gentle, good. All the qualities he could wish for. Fury had watched, and ached, reminded of the woman he had loved, long ago. Still loved, holding his memories of her close. Those days before he’d betrayed her, and surely earned her hatred.
Mason had no idea who Fury was, or what had happened—what he’d done. No way, or Mason would have never let Fury get as close as he had already. He’d be taking advantage of Mason being on an extended ride with his woman, both of them healing from what had gone down in Utah. Any chance of recognition had to be avoided for the foreseeable future, giving him a chance to dig in deeper with the Rebel members.
Bethany had gone home to Nashville. Back out of reach, and his only glimpse of her, while she was in town, had been fleeting, a pale face rushed into Mason’s house from the van that picked the party up at the airport. So fuckin’ far out of my reach.
So, just for tonight, he’d watched.
Watched and wanted, and at the end of the night, finally decided he would try and take a little of that for himself. I just wanted sweet. One more time in my life, I wanted a chance at sweet. It didn’t matter because the curtain closed on any options. Denied again.
For the span of a single minute, he’d held her brightness in his arms. The possibility of so much. Sweet and kind, beautiful. Cradled in his arms, him wrapped around her, memories burning through him. Wants and desires for more. Dreams he’d never expected to have again. Wounds reopened and bleeding, her bright hair shading to dark in his mind. Bethany.
Hoss had put an end to any thoughts by facing Fury down and declaring the woman off limits. When Fury looked at him—even without Hoss making his claim official—he could see the man had himself tied up in knots over the woman, and immediately Fury had backed off. If Fury angered Hoss, the man would take it to church. It’d be touch and go, but if Fury got a chance to speak, he could salvage things. If what he did pissed off Mason, he and his men would be up shit creek for certain.
So Fury ended it, setting Hope on her feet. But not before he had a taste of what she offered; saw clearly the beauty she held inside, the sweetness she could give. The bare taste he’d taken meant he knew. Knew in his soul. She’d set up a resonating echo inside him, pulling everything he’d wanted with Bethy back to the surface. Reminding him she’d been the woman meant to fill the hole inside him.
Nothing to do for it but stand back.
Wanting.
Watching.
Remembering.
Never real.
Sitting at a table in enemy territory, surrounded by people he trusted and those he might never trust, Fury remembered. He held onto the pain that came with those memories, drew it close, letting it simmer deep inside him. Then he blew out the breath he’d finally been able to pull in, throat raw with his shoved-down rage.
Bethany. After Riverbend, after dissuading Dion of any pursuit, he’d gone back to Nashville and kept tabs on her. Researched every fact and tiny bit of information he could scrape up. He found that she didn’t date, didn’t even socialize much. Couldn’t find a boyfriend, not even a hookup. Her roommate—that man made him wonder, but he’d set that aside because in his selfish gut, he wanted her free. Wanted to believe he could swoop in and if she’d have him, he could have her.
He would park where he could see her, not too worried she’d recognize him if she caught a glimpse of him. Life had changed him from the Gabe she’d known as a kid, turning him first into the slick con guy who’d played her, and then finally into who he was now. Fury. Named for his ability to do what he’d just done, holding onto his anger in a way that made it a tool. A weapon. Not something that controlled him. Instead of going crazy when he got angry, now he went cold, his name an antonym.
Nashville had become a dream years ago. A lifetime. Memories of his dark-haired beauty. The one who slipped through his fingers. Her tortured darkness as deep as his had been, and he’d recognized that in her. Wanted to be the one who lifted it from her soul. Held to the course by threats and hatred. Lost her forever, because of who he was.
Betrayed.
Walking away from her had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. She’d sat there and stared at him, tears coursing down her face, her words empty of any emotion other than anguish. No more love, not for him. Not the man who had lied to her with every word, every breath. Best thing I could do for her, he’d told himself. It had taken him a long time to realize that moment defined him, because he had vowed never again. He’d kept his head down, done his time, and come out the other end a better man. One who knew what he wanted from life, who knew he’d held everything in the world in his arms at one time, and vowed to never settle for less than he’d had.
Eyes on the prize, he reminded himself, looking around the small table of suddenly-somber men. They were waiting to take their cue from him, but he’d been too lost in his own memories to notice. Deliberately softening his posture, he angled one elbow over the back of his chair and leaned to one side. Placing his mouth to Gator’s ear, he pitched his voice so every man at the table could hear him. “Never seen a man so tied up in pussy. Glad I didn’t fuck that up for him, yeah? She had a taste ‘o’ me, there’d be no going back.” Nervous laughter circled around as he eased back upright. “Finish these, boys. We got a party to get to, yeah?”
Beer in hand, he used the bar’s mirror to check the room. Hoss was nowhere in sight. Neither was Hope. And in about thirty seconds, I’ll be wind, too.
***
Months later, a different patch finally in place on his back, Fury stood on a hill, staring down at the patterns created on the cold ground that stretched from fence-to-fence. Patterns of trust and uncertainty, drawn by lines of an alliance between clubs. Groups separated by just enough distance to ensure no conflicts would happen today.
He was glad they were being considerate. Putting aside grievances for grief.
Bingo had died, carried off this green earth by the cancer that had been eating at his insides for a while. He’d been a good man that Fury hadn’t known long, but liked more than he’d expected. After only a few conversations, Fury had found he respected the m
an for his wisdom and experience, the miles the man had under his wheels, all the things he’d seen in his rearview. Old cuss of a member, a ground-pounder from decades ago, Bingo had been a past-president held in high regard by every man in the club, regardless of chapter. Fuck, regardless of club, he thought, looking down again at the dozen or more patches represented at the funeral.
Movement to one side drew his attention, and he turned to see Hoss standing there, staring down in much the same position in which Fury stood. He was surprised to see Hoss, and then twisted back to sweep the cluster of women close to the tent, seeing Hope there with her sister, Mercy.
Make nice with the man, he told himself with a grimace, walking over to stand next to Hoss. It won’t kill you to make nice with the officer who holds your future in his hands. Even though Fury and his men hadn’t been made to prospect like someone new to the life, as their sponsor, Hoss held responsibility for them and was in his rights to demand Fury acknowledge him. He wouldn’t, but Fury felt it wiser to continue to offer it up unasked, letting the sincerity show. He was honestly pleased to wear the Rebel patch. Pleased, and proud.
Gaze cutting his way, then back to the men below, Hoss greeted him. “Fury. How’s life treating you these days?”
Hoss’ casual welcome shocked Fury, who knew the man had been through a world of shit recently. Hope’s boy had been taken by her ex-asshole, and Hoss had to go all the way to Alabama to get the boy back, coming home only two nights ago. The kid had been found healthy and whole, thank God. Man worked for and earned the woman, and gained a family, Fury thought, hating the burn of jealousy that writhed through him.
Something must have shown on his face because Hoss’ next words were a cautious question. “You got shit, man?”
Smoothing his features, Fury brushed it off with casual words, sorry he’d taken the time to walk over. I’ll just stand a minute, then head down to the boys. His gaze swept the cemetery again, seeing his men standing in a clump to one side. Hoss was silent, staring down at Hope. Enough of this shit. Fury asked, “I’m gonna hit it. You want me to grab anything before I head back to the clubhouse?” Hoss didn’t move, didn’t change expression, and Fury wasn’t sure the man had even heard him. With a grin, he repeated the question with the same result. Leaning closer, he asked a third time, laughing aloud when Hoss just continued to stare down the hill.
At his laugh, Hoss jerked and turned to look at him, asking grimly, “What?”
Fuck. Deep and dark with this man, too. “I’ve asked you three times if you guys needed anything picked up before my boys head back to the clubhouse, but you were staring off into space.” Fury angled his eyes down, breaking their locked gazes. “Where were you, Hoss?”
Instead of answering him, Hoss said, “Our boys. Every member is ours, so you sayin’ you got some special boys ain’t gonna fly.”
Fuck you. Clamping his lips tight so those words didn’t escape, Fury kept his tone casual as he said, “Noted. You didn’t answer my question.”
Nothing could have prepared him for Hoss’ answer. “Hope’s pregnant.”
With two words, Hoss ripped the ground out from under Fury’s feet. Reminded again that for six short days he’d held in his hands what he wanted more than anything in the world. Bethany. A world away. Hooked her star to another man, any children she had wouldn’t be Fury’s. None of his jailhouse dreams of her would come true, all his imagining Bethy cradling a tiny baby, red hair contrasting with sweet grey eyes in vain. Might as well wish on a fuckin’ star.
He stared down the hill at Hope, seeing happiness shining from her face. Hoss had never treated her badly. Never lied to her. Would never do to her what Fury had done to Bethy. So fuckin’ happy. Bethy deserved that.
Hope’s boy had run towards the tent by the graveside, coming back with one of Jase’s kids in tow. The expression of love she wore when she looked down at her son was too much. Fury couldn’t stand the thought of Hope’s face appearing like Bethy’s had, staring at him through the glass in the visitor’s center, tears marking her shirt as they dripped off her jaw. Tiny rings of accusation, dark proof he broke everything he loved. I caused that. That’s mine.
Stiffly, he moved, clenching his hands. Then he gave Hoss the advice he wished to God someone had given him. Wished he’d known the importance of holding on when he’d had the chance. Wanted to pass it along in a way that would resonate, so the man never lost sight of what he’d been blessed with. “Both hands. You find sweet and good like that, you hold onto it with both hands. Tight as you can. That is a fucking magnificent woman, and now she’s carrying your babe. Both.” He paused to take a breath, turning his head to stare at Hoss, willing him to understand the importance of the message. “Hands.”
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
***
Marie’s held the promise of oblivion. Delivered to his table by a curious Tequila, the requested full bottle of whiskey stood waiting.
Fury wanted it, hell, he needed it tonight.
Hope’s pregnant.
Two words, and the resulting anger and grief of loss built a fucking home in his chest. Something I’ll never have. He’d been swallowed whole by a wave of emotion so huge he had nearly missed Hoss’ next words, that she was giving him a girl. Full family with a boy, a girl child, and a woman like that? Fucking shit. Hell, yeah, Hoss should be pleased and he’d sounded every ounce. In love, full to bursting with that pleased coming from so deep inside him, Fury could see how Hope had filled him right up, even if she didn’t know. Hoss’ whole world. Got her boy back, dealt with the dick that was her ex, locked her to him in a way that made the ties tighter than ever.
Fury harbored secret, dark dreams of having Bethany like that. Have her tied to him, any way he could. Now that he was patched into the Rebels, he had to keep his past closer to the chest than ever before, protecting what he could. At night, he would pull out the memory of holding her against him, feeling the way her soft curves fit into him. Only then could he remember how when he pressed his face into her neck and nuzzled into that soft hair, Bethany was all he could see. Buzzed as fuck, filling his lungs with the scent that was all truth, and nothing false.
Truth, not deceit. Can’t turn back the clock. No matter how much he wanted. Her last words to him continued to flay him open. Two words he couldn’t forget. Never real.
Yes, it was, he argued with himself, unsuccessfully trying to bury the memories of Bethany.
He’d breathed her in.
Drank her down.
Addicted in an instant.
Fuck.
Now, all that was behind him. Everything. All was solid and stable with the Rebels, life was good for his men. They got what they needed, what he wanted for them, every ounce of it. But... Always a but, he thought, forcing out a hard breath as he tried to push the memories aside. But, he would never have that. This day, standing on the hill at a good man’s funeral, looking out at the respect and love paid that man, he’d felt hollow and empty instead of full. Hope was Hoss’ whole world, and she handed that back to him. Full circle love. Like Bethany could have been.
Not mine.
His brain wouldn’t rest, everything set to a simmer inside him. I’ll never have that kind of woman. Not him. Wasn’t written in my fucking cards. His one chance so far in the past, he was sure she wouldn’t remember him if he were to walk in the room. Never again hear her voice cry out his name. Fuck, never got to hear that anyway. She didn’t know me.
He grabbed the bottle from the table in front of him. Using the edge of one hand, he spun the lid off, letting it fall to the floor and lifted the bottle, drinking deep.
Anywhere but here
Fury had left town the day after the funeral. Rolling downstate, he’d been nursing a headache alongside a gutful of anger.
He’d headed to Kentucky to settle an old score. At some point that night, he’d decided it was past time to clear the debt with Dion. Wanted to give himself something tangible he could take
hands to and deal with, rubbing out the problem. A problem that dragged its roots back through the years to where it sprouted from the first club takeover he had orchestrated.
Fury walked into the meet with a dozen of his most trusted brothers at his back, already knowing things were about to go bad for him despite Dion’s promises. The North Carolina club he had been riding with didn’t have the discipline to deal with threats like this one, and in the broad grins on the men facing them, he could see their expectations for the end results of the next hour. Dion wasn’t here, oh hell no. Any chance of pain or consequences, and that man was ass in the wind. Didn’t matter the cause. A straight-up fight like this promised to be, or doing a nickle in the pen because the money guy fucked up on the routing of a check. Dion would be vapor until things settled out.
Mentally evaluating the odds facing him, Fury rolled his shoulders, accepting that it appeared to be highly unlikely he would be walking out the door behind him at the end of this meet. Such an unlikely outcome, he decided to just go ahead and make the move they would all be making in about two minutes. As the canons of Sun Tzu taught, victorious warriors win first, and then go to war.
First, we cut off the head, he thought, lifting his arm with fist upraised, the signal bringing his group to a silent, shuffling halt. “Who speaks for Red Scorpions?” He asked the question casually, but the insult was out there because he implied it wasn’t even worth his time to read patches, forcing the other club to identify their ranking officer in the room. Several men turned to look at a small man in the back of the group and Fury sighed, and then laughed aloud when a different man spoke.
Fury (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 11) Page 8
