Call Me...Vengeance: Book 1 in the Vengeance MC Series (10 page)

My Road Captain, Patrick ‘Jump’ Collins, is currently laying down pavement, making a return trip from San Francisco to Furnace, scooping out the route for an upcoming charity ride we’ve had in the works. He’d requested a couple of prospects as ride along, and seeing as that shit isn’t all that complicated, simple enough for a couple of plebs, I didn’t object. Now, I wish I had. I could have used them here.

Harlan ‘Hail’ Devon and Mitch ‘Green’ Fields weren’t new prospects. In fact, they were due to earn their bottom rockers soon. Meaning, they are a hell of a lot more useful than some of the other newly recruited prospects we’d taken on. They’d earned our trust already. Served the majority of their time, sticking it out through the shitkicker duties we’d given them, and garnered our respect for it.

Prospects didn’t ride out with brothers often, not unless it was an errand around town or something that wasn’t of any consequence if they fucked it up, so my decision to let Jump take two prospects with him was unusual, to say the least. The fact is, prospects without their permanent rockers are wild cards. The last thing Vengeance needs right now is any other new complications.

I had misgivings about sending them, but Jump reported that they’ve been holding their own, and haven’t run into any issues yet. Hitting call on my cell, Jump’s phone rings twice before I hear,

“Boss.”

“How far out are you?”

“’Bout four hundred miles give or take. Made an unscheduled stop at, Rebel’s compound coming out of L.A. so that tacked on a few hours,” he shoots back.

“Yeah, how’d that go?” I chuckle knowing Jump would have been treated to a warm welcome.

With his own bark of laughter, he replies,

“There’s nothing like the welcome you get from a bunch of women who’ve been taking the same cock for years, Boss. Shit, I need a solid twelve hours just to recover from that visit.”

“You don’t have twelve hours, brother. Had a meeting with Vasquez while you’ve been on the road, and he threw us a fucking curveball and a half. Sly’s all over it, but it’s something that’s more up your alley than his. That means you need to get your ass back here ASAP in case he needs another set of eyes to look at what he’s got so far,” I say impatiently.

“Give me five to round up the boys and I’ll be back on the road. Anything else I need to know about? Road clear ahead?” Jump asks tightly. I know what he’s getting at, and he’s right to ask. Especially in light of the recent developments Hells Riders camp.

Jump has to skirt HR’s territory coming back into, Furnace and that’s always a risk. But with hostilities escalating, it’s only more dangerous for a patch to travel that stretch of highway without an escort.

“Let me know when you’re getting close, brother, so I can send Gage and Fury your way. They’ll ride in with you to keep a lookout.”

“That necessary?”

“More than,” I respond quickly. “I’ll fill you in on the details when you get back. Stay sharp, ride smart, and get home safe, Jump.”

“Will do, Boss,” he says before I disconnect.

Releasing a heavy breath, I tilt my head skyward, wondering when this shit will end. This isn’t the first time I’ve taken a minute to contemplate whether the choices I’ve made were the right ones. There have been countless times I’ve had to ask myself if I made these changes in spite of my old man, not because they were right for the club. I keep circling around to the same outcome, though. I might have been driven by my desire to put the past behind me, outrun it, erase some of the damage it’s done, but my continued pursuit of it is based on securing a decent future for my club.

While we are living in the present,

we must celebrate every day,

knowing that we are becoming history with every work, every action, every deed.

-
       
Mattie Stepanek

The week from hell has the makings of a vicious migraine starting behind my eyes, and my temper barely in check. It couldn’t be happening at a worse time either. Because tonight, along with Diesel, I have an errand to run that’s slated to take up a good portion of the hours I could be passed out sleeping the last seven days off. However, as tradition denotes, Vengeance’s most recently patched brother, Greg ‘Dirty’ Jones, is due his patch tattoo. I’ve put it off as long as I can without insulting him, so to Jonas’ it is, and my bed a distant memory for now.

Vengeance was officially recognized as an MC in 1954, started by a few world war two veterans who couldn’t assimilate back into civilian life. They needed the familiarity of brotherhood. Men who would have their backs like those who served with them on the front lines of battle had. Making it through the dark days they faced on coming home wasn’t easy, but with time, good men by their side, and their bikes to point them in the right direction, they made it out the other side relatively unscathed.

While most of the original rules and customs the founding members instituted have been adapted or disregarded, one has held true. Within a week of being patched in new brothers get inked with the club’s logo on the right side of their chest.

The man who’s done all of my ink since I started getting it at seventeen also owns the only tattoo shop within fifty miles of, Furnace. Jay, or Jonas to his Mom, drops everything to tattoo Vengeance brothers, and has for some time now. He doesn’t ask questions, he works fast and clean, and he’s a damn good friend. The three of us, me, Jay, and Diesel go way back. All the way back to elementary school actually, so trusting him with something as important as a brothers’ patch has never been an issue.

Pushing through the heavy steel door of the clubhouse open, I’m immediately assaulted by the smell of booze, smoke, and leather. Inhaling deeply doesn’t help the migraine that’s threatening to surface, but fuck if it didn’t feel good to be home. Looking left, toward the bar that runs half the length of the far wall, I spotted who I was searching for instantly.

“Dirty, get your lazy ass off that fucking stool and go find Diesel. You want your ink, you move now brother,” my voice booms, echoing through the open space.

Everyone in the main room turns, acknowledging me with chin lifts and two fingered salutes. Nodding to a few of the older brothers, I scan the room, seeking out my absentee VP. Fuck, I groan. I don’t have time for this shit. Even though I’d kill for any one of these men, I just don’t have the patience to stand around waiting for them today.

The clubhouse is huge. A massive solid concrete structure which houses all of the patched brothers who each have their own room, a wing for the club whore who live on site, and half dozen spare rooms for riders in from other chapters. These are vacant most of the time unless we have a party that gets out of hand and need the space. Something that tends to happen often.

All the bedrooms have a small bathroom attached, built-in closet, enough space for a dresser, a couple of side tables and queen bed. Simple but functional. I’m not running a fucking hotel, and the brothers don’t need much more than that. Not to mention, most of the boys are used to far worse accommodation anyway. Bunking down roadside on your way to a rally, camping out during one, or any other number of times we’ve been forced to bed down in abandoned buildings makes you grateful for the small luxuries of home. Even if it is only hot running water and a lumpy mattress.

Walking into the clubhouse, a space which has been designed to hold more than a hundred people at a time, couches, recliners and coffee tables litter the area. A long bar taking up half the length of the wall stands off to the left, and pool tables, two of them, covered in red felt take up a good deal of the remaining space. To the right of that, a kitchen with industrial, stainless steel appliances and bench tops functions as the hub of the clubhouse where the old ladies and club whores who can cook prepare three meals a day for the brothers living in-house.

Four long tables that can hold twenty people have benches for seating on both sides and are positioned near the pass-through for the kitchen. One large, hand carved timber chair sits at the head of the table closest to the bar and is always left vacant unless my ass is parked on it. Just another one of the perks of being President I suppose. Having a guaranteed seat to sit in.

Near the entry to the back hall, the workout area is sectioned off with half walls on three sides. It doesn’t give a lot of privacy from the goings on of the main area, but shit. Who needs privacy when more often than not any one of his brothers could be found walking around with his junk hanging out for the world to see? Weight benches, a couple of treadmills, a full sized boxing ring, and a few free weights were enough for them all to stay in shape and not turn into a walking clone of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

The only rooms that are considered off-limits to prospects, visitors, family, and club whores are my office and the large room at the end of the hall we use for Church. The only people permitted inside are fully patched members and old ladies, by invitation only and never to Church. My office has seen a few old ladies through its doors, but only ever to bring in food or discuss non-club business. Shit like arranging our Friday night club parties or the annual hog roast. I’m not sexist, far from it. Fuck, I can appreciate a strong, independent woman as much as the next man, but club business is just that; club business.

Coming down the back hall, I hear the heavy footfalls that can only belong to a set of even bigger boots. Looking up, I spot Diesel followed by Dirty heading in my direction, finally. Sighing deeply, I roll my eyes, wishing again that I was hitting my bed instead of heading out.

“Jesus Christ. What were you two doing back there? Jerking each other off or something? Pull the lead out would you. I’ve got shit to do.”

Shaking his head at me, Diesel keeps walking ignoring my jab.

“Dirty, move. Let’s get this shit done. I have a bottle of bourbon waiting for me to get home and keep it company, and Boss looks like he’s about to have a shit hemorrhage.”

He’s not wrong. Like I said, I’m all out of patience today, and Diesel’s attitude is helping that. Controlling the urge to punch my best friend in the throat is becoming harder by the second.

Calling over my shoulder continuing toward the door, I order,

“Sly, put a call into Fury and report back to me when you get hold of him. He hasn’t checked in, and he needs to know he’s on notice for when, Jump, Green, and Hail ride in tomorrow.”

“Right, I’ll get on it now. You want a call, or wait till you get back?”

“Call in. Later, brother.” With a chin lift, Sly turns back to his beer reaching for his burner.

Spotting both, Diesel and Dirty already straddling their bikes, I swing a leg over my hog and turn her over. The engine kicks over instantly, pipes rumbling in sync with my brothers. When the rolling, metal gates finish their glide open, all three of us pull out of the forecourt, and onto the road leading into town.

It isn’t a long ride, but it’s long enough to have my mood taking a turn for the better. The wind rushing past me, the cold whip of mountain air stinging the exposed skin of my face, and the vibration of my hog between my legs is like a balm to my soul.