“I do.” The tone was arrogant, and he watched as the lips of several men twitched in response. This was a wanna-be officer, he decided, so he ignored him, turning instead to the first man who had looked around the room, the least member of the club he was about to go to war with. Fury aimed his words at that man, keeping his tone serious.
“You the president of the Reds?” Staring intently at the man, he still caught the movement of the small man out of the corner of his eye. Even as the low-ranking member shook his head, he heard the scuffing of boot soles moving his way. Allowing the man to get close enough without reacting was hard, but he schooled himself to stillness, pretending ignorance of the approach until the man was within reach.
In a single movement, he pulled his hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his leg, his thumb rolling the lock strap out of the way with a practiced twitch, bringing the blade out of the leather and into the air near his shoulder in a firm, underhand grip. Lashing out powerfully, with a short, sharp swing, he struck and then stepped to the side and out of the way as blood fountained from the man’s neck. Reaching up with his other hand, he turned the man to face the Reds, coating them with their own president’s blood. Within moments, the man had slumped to the floor, and Fury stood over the collapsed body, staring now at the only man who had spoken. With a nod, he indicated the now-pale wannabe, “Guess you do after all, huh?”
His words seemed to break the spell of shock, and both groups of men scrambled for weapons, surging forward to fill the gap that had previously separated them. Hearing the meaty thuds and pained grunts of hand-to-hand fighting, Fury allowed his men to flow around him, standing firm, watching as men slipped and cursed the blood that slickened the floor underneath their feet. When the first shot rang out, he nodded, reaching under his arm to tug his gun free of the holster holding it there. “Ain’t no onesies, twosies here,” he muttered, lining up a shot that took three members down.
At the end of the confrontation, there were four Reds standing and ten of his club. His gaze swept the group of men, those at his back and the few standing in front of him. “Whoever ain’t with me, y’all want to walk away, drop your fucking centers right now.” Calling for their patches would separate the real from lies fast, he knew and was ready when none of his men moved. Turning to the remaining Reds, he said, “If you ain’t walking away, what the fuck you think you’re going to do?”
“Join the Time of War,” one of them said, naming Fury’s current club. Fury watched as the man shrugged and shifted his feet to move away from the growing puddle of blood seeping across the floor.
“What the fuck for?” Fury asked, cocking his head to one side quizzically. “Dying club, why would you want to patch in here? And what makes you think I’d take a pussy who’s so quick to drop his center?”
Looking confused, the man glanced side to side at the men to his left and right, then over Fury’s shoulder to the men standing at his back. “If you didn’t want us to patch in, why didn’t you kill us?”
“Diamante,” he said and heard the surprise of sucked air behind him. Not even his brothers knew what he had planned. Diamante was a growing club, spreading their influence across the central and southern states. Strong enough to hold all claimed territory, they were serious one-percenters, breathing and dying by the bikers’ creed to live free.
From that time to now, nearly a year after he folded in his Diamante chapter into the Fort Wayne chapter of the Rebels, he continued to evaluate every decision he made against that cost. No regrets for North Carolina, and absolutely no regrets for stripping the Diamante colors off his back. Needful, he thought, using one of Mason’s favorite words.
Two of the men who had stuck with him were now planted, because they threatened his new family. Diamante members who didn’t see the necessity of dropping their cuts, wanted to feed info back to the old club. An old club filled with old men who had betrayal down to a science. Vendettas against so many, they couldn’t keep a fucking thing straight in their own heads. The past, for Fury. And those two members? In the past now, too. He’d dealt with their shit. Ancient roots brutally lopped off before they could grow and become a problem. Given a chance, he would do the same again. No remorse. No guilt. The only emotion was relief that he’d finally dealt with Dion.
“Told you we wouldn’t ever be done.” Dion leaned a skinny hip against the truck tailgate, staring out over the river. They’d met at the dam, in the parking lot near the spillway. A location Dion favored, because it meant he could give the necessary rundown for a con, send his minions off to do his bidding, and then get in some fishing. In the time Fury had known the man he had never, not once, done his own dirty work. No, what he did was find leverage with people he found valuable, and then worked them until they broke.
I’ll try one last time, Fury thought. He leaned against the fender of the truck, elbows propped on the top edge, steepled fingers in front of his pursed lips. Finally, all the words sorted in his head, he lobbed them at Dion, hoping to hit the mark with one of them at least. “I did time for you. Covered for you in a way that cost me a piece of my life.” Dion shrugged, shifting to a more comfortable position, staring at Fury with an expression of boredom. “I have run no fewer than ten successful cons for you. Made you more than a million dollars. For a while, I did everything you asked.”
“And I know where every one of those bodies are buried.” Dion paused and grinned, his remaining teeth yellow and uneven. “So to speak.”
Undeterred, Fury continued. “You cost me the single most important relationship I’ll ever have.”
“Better off without the bitch. She’d’ve saddled you with that boy, otherwise.”
Immediately alert, Fury barked the question, “What boy?”
Dion rolled his eyes. “Ain’t your boychild. But if you’d hooked up with her, she’d have taken him back, that’s for sure.”
“She’s got a son?” He’d seen no signs of a child in the days he’d known her, been in her life. None of his digging had surfaced any hint of a child. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Shit, you think I’m stupid and can’t manage intel? Never did blame you for fucking the bitch. She was a hot piece. Maybe I should make a trip to Nashville myself, see if she’s as good as your actions claimed. Mmhmm. Maybe I should.” Not realizing he’d ensured his own death with those words, Dion turned to the truck bed and pulled his tackle box close. “Now, boy, if that’s all you got to say, can we cut this short? I got your number. I’ll be in touch when I need you next.”
“There is no next time.” He’d have to digest the info about Bethany later. Now it was time to deal with Dion, one final interaction. “We’re done. I’m not your boy to come runnin’ when you call.”
Dion turned, pole in hand, playing the line out a few inches before reeling it back in. He took a step away from the truck and did a practice cast, backwards and forwards, flipping the weighted line in front of him. Reeling it all the way back onto the spinner, he shook his head. “Yeah you fuckin’ will. That’s the deal. I call—” He flipped the weighted line out again, tugging when it became tangled in a set of bushes near the drop-off by the spillway. “Shit.” He took another step, yanked the line without success as his feet moved again and Fury knew he’d never have as good a chance as this one.
With a final glance around to ensure they were alone, Fury grabbed a ball peen hammer from the bed of the truck, gripped the handle with a sweaty palm as he rounded the tailgate, and took three steps towards Dion before bringing it down with force. The first blow took the man’s knees out from under him, and Dion toppled forwards, hands up to break his fall, pole dropping to the ground. The second blow exposed bone-white skull, and he convulsed for a moment, legs quivering as his brain short-circuited. Not one to take chances, Fury lifted and let his arm fall again, then wiped the hammer on the man’s shirt. “We are so done.” Lying on the lip of the slope, one hard push with his foot and the body slid, then tumbled, free-falling the last thirty
feet to the roiling water at the bottom of the spillway. Dion’s foot had snagged on the fishing pole, dragging it along for the ride. “So done.”
He hated having to be around Hoss. Hurt like fuck. Watching him with that perfect family he was making with his old lady, seeing him bonded firm and tight with her boy, that shit tore something loose inside Fury every time he witnessed it. And now, knowing Bethy had a child? It meant he mourned that loss of the possible even more than anything else. Loss of a dream.
That feeling in his gut meant that even though he had been absent for the better part of the past two months, he wasn’t settled. As soon as Dion was in his rearview, Fury had headed to Chicago to ask Mason for a chance to move on in a permanent way. His intent had been to ask Mason to let him move away and settle in a different chapter, find some space to fucking breathe. Once he got there, he reconsidered, because begging a boon at this point would mean he’d owe a marker. Something I surely do not want.
This was where a Rebel named Duck was going to come in, because the club needed a security detail in the man’s hometown and Fury wanted an invite. The possibility had brought him to here, putting himself in place to be called in for a meet in Jackson’s, getting an eyeful of the family Mason had built for himself in the club in the process.
That was something else that was eating at Fury. Knowing how Mason had this for himself, and Bethy had been alone for a long time. Not now, because she had Ty for her family. But Mason had these riches at his fingertips, and Bethy looked like a beggar in comparison. Fury was pissed on her behalf, several times having to counsel himself against saying anything as the night went on.
Remember, it’s just convenience on both sides of the equation. This assignment would keep him busy for at least a few weeks. After that, he and Mason could sort where to go from there. This would buy him some breathing space.
Duck had been hanging out in West Texas. Gossip said it was about his family business, not club. President of the Southern Soldiers, Fury’s cousin Mike Otey had called and talked to Mason yesterday, going on about Duck having a woman in his hometown, sharing about his gut feel that Duck was hiding from them. Fury knew that because Mason had let him stay and listen in on the conversation with Watcher, exhibiting a level of trust that made Fury proud. Seemed there was lots to discuss, and Mason, thinking it was best done face-to-face, had set about recalling Duck to Chicago.
Tonight, sitting in a booth in Jackson’s, seated beside the man who had hardly gotten his feet back on the ground after his plane trip, Fury wasn’t willing to waste any time, ready to get this show on the road. Twisting his neck, Fury reached up a hand, fingers tangling in the long strands of his trademark red hair as he swept it back from his face. He glanced at Mason, then over at Duck and said, “Business here, or private room?”
***
Mason
Fury’s agenda was different from his. The brother needed away from some kind of pain in his past, but couldn’t look beyond the most recent hurt to see what was dragging at him so hard. He suspected the man resented what Hoss had found with pretty Hope, even if she wasn’t a woman he ever had a chance with. Mason had heard the stories of their first meeting, heard from Hoss about that second time Fury had his hands on Hope.
Mason had been in the clubhouse over the holidays, seen for himself the love she held for the man. No question she’d bound her and her son’s lives to in a way that shouted family to anyone who looked at them. He thought a lot of the woman. Loyal and hardworking, she had backbone that went on for days. If he had been picking a woman, she was just the one he would have selected for Hoss.
Fury, though? He was stumping Mason. The man might need a different kind of woman, maybe someone sassy, with a smart mouth to sort the man’s shit. A woman who wouldn’t be afraid of the club, or the life. Mason grimaced inwardly. Now you matchmakin’, old man? Leave that shit to Merry.
***
Fury
Fuck. As he listened to Duck, Fury realized the objective of the trip changed. Duck had been forthcoming about his woman, and as he talked, Mason had visibly relaxed, lines of strain easing from his features. Then Mason had dropped a bombshell, having decided to allow the gathering of several citizens primary to the club and Mason in Lamesa. Chase, his son, would be playing a gig there with Slate’s little brother’s band. The lines crossed and blurred because Mica and Molly, two Rebel princesses who didn’t deign to wear “Property of” patches would be there, too. Mason would be coming down at the last minute. All of this run by Duck’s woman, which meant his Brenda would be included in those who might have a target on their backs.
Since joining the Rebels, Fury had wavered between disclosing his connections with the Masons or sitting on the information. At first, he’d been shocked that Mason didn’t know, but then why would he? It wasn’t like he’d been around much, leaving the holler at sixteen and scarcely looking back. Ledbetter was a common enough name. He’d been gone from Kentucky so long, that even if they did a quick check, they wouldn’t find anything amiss. Just another ex-military guy. One of thousands who wanted the life of an outlaw, trying to better the circumstances in which he found himself.
So he hadn’t talked about Kentucky. It would come out eventually, no doubt. Watcher’s club in New Mexico was friendly with the Rebels, built on his strong friendship with Mason, that friendship stemming from their being raised side by side. Watcher had been Tabby’s real brother, and the men had met often enough through the years that there’d be no hiding their relationship. I wouldn’t ask him to, either. Let it come. It might even be a relief to have that secret out.
He’d have to come clean at some point about some things. I can do that one and live, he thought, lifting his beer and taking a sip. Reaching up to wipe the foam from his mustache, he ignored the pang that settled in his chest. Talking about what he’d done to Mason’s little sister, however…?
It’d be a sure death sentence.
A breath later, without access to his thoughts, Mason let him know how long he had to live. “Hold onto your dicks, there’s more, brothers. My Bethy will be there, too.” Fury’s breath froze in his lungs, solidifying in a way that wouldn’t move, wouldn’t flow, and wouldn’t give him space to suck in air. My Bethy will be there, too.
“Jesus wept,” Duck whispered under his breath. “All the Rebel royalty in one place. Our king, prince, princesses. Willa not going? Is the queen at least staying home, where she’s protected?”
The front door of the bar opened, and Fury tore his gaze from Mason’s grinning face, seeing half a dozen Rebel members he didn’t know walking in. Keeping his gaze averted, he tried to beat Bethy’s voice from his head. Tried, and failed. Never real.
It was fucking real. More real than anything else in his life had been. For nearly a week, they had been real.
Gabe sat across from her at the small table, one he had specified when he called for the reservation. That had been when this was a calculated play, the intimate setting designed to keep her focus on him. He was glad of his forethought, but not for the normal reasons, because halfway through the conversation at the studio this had stopped being a con. Her obvious intelligence and quick wit made him laugh. Really laugh in a way he hadn’t for a long fucking time. And pretty? He let his eyes drift over her features, watching as her expression changed throughout the story she was telling, going serious and soft by turns, her grey eyes dancing when she laughed.
By the end of the night, when he returned to the parking lot across from the studio so she could retrieve her car, he was sunk. The only way he’d been able to stay in his rental and watch her drive away was because he knew they’d be having breakfast together.
Their third dinner started differently. He asked to follow her to the apartment she shared with a roommate so he could pick her up. “I wanna make it a real date, B.T.” Eyes wide, she’d stared at him for a minute that stretched to two, and then slowly pulled in a deep breath.
“A date?” The questioning lift at the end of
her words told him so much. She wanted this but hadn’t expected to get what she wanted. She’d been disappointed in the past, but he shoved aside the thought of his Bethy with someone who didn’t take a care for her feelings. He reminded himself, She wanted this. Wants me.
“Yes, ma’am. A date.” Leaning forwards, he settled his hand over hers, gaze to that joining, feeling her clench as he threaded his fingers between hers. “I’m asking you out on a date. If you’re interested.” His answer was another involuntary clench of her fingers. “Please be interested.”
“A date.” Repeated, but now this was a statement. Her trying on the words to see how they fit, and he lifted his gaze to her face, seeing a rising flush in her cheeks. Staring intently at her, he felt a smile curl the corners of his mouth. “Okay.”
“Good.” No room for a repeat of her question, he wanted it clear that he hadn’t been willing to accept any other answer. “Now, let’s get out of here.” With his free hand, he gestured at the sound room of the recording facility they were touring. “And we’ll begin.”
“Begin?” Breathy and soft, this question revealed a brutal insecurity that lived just below her skin. Right there, waiting to pounce. He knew how that felt, hated she had that inside her. The weight of knowing you weren’t enough.
“The date.” Shaking his head, he dropped his gaze to their hands, watching and feeling his thumb sweep across the satin bumps of her knuckles. “With me.”
“With you.” Another statement, and he didn’t lift his head, looking at her from under his brows. She made an amused sound, and repeated, more firmly. “With you.”
Mason’s voice broke in on his memories, and Fury looked up when he said, “So yeah, need y’all rolling down. Watcher’s going to have a scoot for me to straddle while I’m in town, but I’ll want you there day after tomorrow. Twelve hundred miles, means you gotta drop at least four today yet to make it there.”
Fury (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 11) Page 9
