Page 25 of Fury
Not just fucking up his band, Ben had managed to piss off some important people when he’d borrowed a fuckton of money, bought some heroin, and then skipped town out of Denver before repaying that money. The way the stories ran, there’d been Mexican mob and Chicago mob involved, as well as a big-ass Mexican MC, but somehow Slate had cleared all that shit up so his brother was still suckin’ air, and not doing it through a tube.
This show in Lamesa was to be the kickoff of their relaunch tour, with mostly new members, and entirely new music. Bethany must be good at her job because these days, you couldn’t listen to a rock station on the radio for ten minutes without hearing one of Occupy Yourself’s songs.
So there was Ben Jones, lead singer, not quite two years sober. Sitting on the couch next to him was Lucia Foscan, daughter of a past Rebel member. A jacked-up betrayin’ club member, who also happened to be very dead. That had opened the door for her and her three brothers to be adopted by another Rebel member, Bear. A man whose old lady was Mason’s goddamned fucking niece, the same one whose father saw her as a pawn to his ambitions. The tight pull of family in each of those ties.
The band’s drummer was a good old boy, southern born and bred, Victor Montrose. No one’s high school prom king, all through school Vic worked every spare moment to make enough money to support his crappy garage band. He’d skipped college, gone straight to Nashville and picked up studio gigs where he killed it, his genius finally recognized. Good kid, real straight shooter. He didn’t put up with any of Benny’s shit and would probably be the reason when Slate finally let Ben’s sober companion resign. Until then, they had Mercedes Gruffudd along for the ride, too. She was sprawled on the floor near the wall, legs angled straight up against the surface, ankles crossed primly.
Bonnie Dupont played bass for the band, and she was as nasty as Vic was sweet. Tatted up one side and down the other, her rebellion against everything played out over her skin, and she had a fucking attitude to match. Talented, sure, but from Fury’s perspective, no pussy was worth all the drama she brought to the band.
Dmitri Glass was the only original band member to hang with Benny through everything. He and Vic had kept the gear out of hock while Ben was in rehab. Big, muscled, and tattooed, all that topped with matted and felted dreads, he looked like a fucking badass, but Fury had watched with disbelief as Glass teared up during ballads at one of the band’s gigs in Marie’s in Fort Wayne.
Then there was Bethany, Mason’s baby sister. When Fury had worked her in Nashville, she’d been going by just Taylor, but he’d noted she hyphenated it now, introducing herself as Mason-Taylor. He suspected no one had the full story behind her marriage, but he’d been there at Tabby’s graveside when she exposed enough of what went on in the Mason religious compound for a judge to take action on her behalf. Sixteen at the time, already two years into a forced union.
Jesus, why any man would let that walk away was hard to fathom. As soon as the thought rippled through his mind, Fury tried to clamp it down. Tried and failed.I was that stupid. I had her in my bed, and I fucked up. Had her so close I knew every breath she took. If I hadn’t fucked up, I could have fulfilled every wish, not even making her say them aloud.
“My role here is to make certain you are all safe.” The faces turned his direction were transparent, every emotion and thought showing plainly. Interest, caution, dismissal, and from two, fear. Bethy didn’t surprise him, but Benny’s expression was just short of terror for a moment. Interesting. “I will have another dozen men later tonight, and we’ll be camping out in your space for the duration. You done fucked up and pissed me off this morning,”—he pointed a curled finger at Chase, shaking it for emphasis—“ditching me at the airport. Don’t do that shit again. If you want to know the threat, tell me, and I’ll share with you what I can.” Scanning the group, he noted a puzzled look on Bethy’s face and saw she was intently focused on him. Not what he was saying, but on him. Huh.
The message had to be delivered, so he forged on. “We’ve got two nights until the show, and then you’re all in town for a bit following. We’ve got a couple more folks coming in tomorrow, or the day of the show, and I’ll be adding to the detail at that time.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the cards Myron had made. “This is my cell number. I expect you to text me in the next five minutes with your name. I can access your info in other ways, but it’s easier like this. Make sure you get me in your contacts, so you know it’s a safe call to answer if I need to get ahold of you.” He twisted his neck, scanning the group again. “From here forwards, at a minimum, you buddy up. Do not go off on your own. My plan is for you to stay at the hotel, and not on the bus. Do not answer your suite door at the hotel without confirmation you know exactly who is on the other side. Do not answer calls from people you don’t know.”
Bethy rolled her eyes, and he scowled at her. “Serious as fuck, Bethany. I get that this is your business, but my business is keeping you safe.” When he said her name, she’d frozen, going stiff as a post, slowly relaxing as he kept talking. “Help me do my job.”
“My brother’s a pain in my ass.” She shook her head. “But we’ll do what you need. I won’t try and make things harder than they have to be, because God knows this gig is going to be hell enough. The heat alone…” She trailed off, fanning her face with one hand, and smiled at him.
Fury didn’t know how he kept it together, how he managed to nod at her, but he did.Beautiful, smart as fuck, sweet…his thoughts stuttered to a stop as he watched her reach over and slide her fingers through Chase’s hair. She pushed it back off his face, leaning in to press her lips to his forehead, eyes closing with what seemed to be sadness.
After dealing with Dion, Fury had made it his business to dig up every detail about that little revelation, finding out all about her son in Nashville. He’d even seen pictures of her with the family the boy lived with. Boy was a Mason through and through, which meant it wasn’t her roommate’s kid. He knew name, birthdate, and how often Bethy saw the kid, which was often. More than you’d expect an adoptive family to put up with, but the Marshalls seemed to welcome every visit with open arms. He’d heard a lot from sources in Nashville. What he hadn’t heard was boo about that boy from Mason. He hadn’t pegged the absence as odd until just this instant, but he realized he also hadn’t heard boo from Chase. Chase, who couldn’t put a filter on his mouth for anything, would have surely said something by now.
The look on her face right now gave so much away, the expression of love and longing exposing her pain. Her features said she was pleased for her brother, happy he had this, a son he doted on, but there was something else there. She wanted this for herself. Eyes on her face, Fury thought to himself,Want that for you, gal. At the idea of her with a child, his cock woke up, fattening in his jeans.
Uneasy, he rolled his shoulders, the familiar creak of the leather vest reminding him of his words to Hoss.Both hands, he thought.Already fucked that up, so many years ago. Ain’t got no chance of recovery at this point.
When the music of her laughter filled the room, rolling across his skin with a stroke he could feel, he took a quick half step towards her. Greedily drinking in the way her head tilted when she laughed again at something Chase said, the column of her throat working with that sound, hair falling down her back. Open and relaxed, easy joy on her face.Fuck, yeah.
So beautiful, and he remembered everything about her. Every sound she made when he slid inside her, the way she’d cried out the time he took her in the shower. How she’d snuggled into him after fucking, drawing circles on his chest while they both tried to control their breathing.Beauty in my hands.
Mason-Taylor.
His next footfall didn’t happen, and he shuffled his boots on the floor, edging back to the wall, leaning into it.
Mason.
Off limits. Not in so many words, but he knew how Mason felt about his baby sister, had heard the man talk about the weight of guilt he carried from pulling her into his world even a little. No way in hell was the man ever going to stand down from protecting her. And if Fury started anything with Bethy, he knew the past wouldn’t stay secret. Everything would come out in the open. Would have to. All the things he wanted to forget. That meant it was not smart to even contemplate what it could be, to think about how it would feel to have a different look directed at him, one that could make him feel as if he held the world.Had that, he thought.I had that and threw it away.
Want that for me, he thought, lifting his gaze from her face with an effort, scanning the room.
Forbidden.
***
On his bike and rolling through town, Fury headed towards the bar he’d been told Watcher owned for the Southern Soldiers. After deploying three Soldiers members both inside and outside the rodeo grounds media room, he’d left them with orders to split the civilians into three groups for transport back to the hotel. While Lamesa might be Duck’s hometown, Watcher owned it in every other way; his club had the region sewn up nice and tight.
His movements on autopilot, Fury’s mind wandered to Mason. From the first stories he’d heard told across tables and bars, he’d been impressed by the man. For years he’d studied Mason, working to build an image slowly pieced together fact-by-fact. Discarding the obvious lies, Fury had dug into each elaborate legend of the man until he found the meat underneath, the real story. Dug until he believed he knew Davis Mason inside and out, understood him better than anyone else did, except maybe the man’s cousin DeeDee, or Tugboat.
Intel on Mason had been the framework half of Fury’s strategic movements, something he had built around for the past five years. Getting a Diamante charter, then moving that charter closer to the Rebel territory. All of that happening at a time when the Rebels were spreading their sphere of influence both east and west of Chicago.Timing is everything, he thought, flipping on his blinker and turning at the next light.
Then Utah happened. Fury had been circling things in Fort Wayne with the Rebels, trying hard to earn his place in a new club. Earn a place for his men, too, those who had followed him for years. Utah, an event entirely orchestrated by one of the men Fury hated with everything inside him. Deacon.
From what he knew, Deacon and Dion had become friends sometime during the period Fury’d been in Riverbend. Cut from the same cloth, they’d latched onto the evil in the other in ways that tore through the North Carolina town Fury had been living in. This was in the days when he was still toying with the idea of the biker life, riding with men who claimed outlaw status, without actually earning it. Deacon horned in and took over the group and Fury watched how he did things first with disbelief and then anger. He’d ripped in two what Fury had tried to build.
