Page 73 of Fury

We all stood in silence in the bar. Outside, the roar of pipes rumbled and screamed, finally fading. Me and my bros picked up chairs and tables, swept the broken glass and dishes in a corner. A couple of women cried and some of the men talked to them, easing their fears. Garrett and his bartender and waitresses ran around pouring and serving drinks. The music played at a lower volume than usual.

Reich snapped his head at me, the look on his face searing. “What the hell did you do? You take his property? You actually fool enough to go back there?”

I eyed him.

He believed the worst of me. He believed the best of me.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and waited for my answer. There was awe in that silence. There was dread. My brothers had defended me and they would to the death because they were my brothers and that always came first against the enemy, but the question hung in the air.

“Lay off my VP, Reich.” Kwik’s sharp voice sliced between us. “From day one, Finger’s been a solid member, working side by side with me.”

“VP,” muttered Reich, as if he had to spit the word out before it choked him.

“Enough.” Kwik’s voice was firm.

Reich headed to the bar, but the weight of everyone’s stares remained on me. Kwik squeezed my shoulder and shot me a look as I let go of a heavy breath. He wasn’t sure either. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

“Get things done in here and then we all need sleep, not more booze.”

“You bet,” I replied.

I would get things done all right. I would have to be more careful than I’d previously planned on. I had no doubt if Med ever caught me and Serena, he’d tear us limb from limb. Seeing her in Chicago was going to be a bitch and a half, but I would do it every chance I got. I would find a way. I would take the risk. Risk showed you what you were made of. And I had it in me to risk everything over and over again for her.

The only thing I didn’t realize was how deep risks could cut and make you bleed.

19

“Are you Shane?”

“That’s me,” replied the guy at the counter in the tattoo shop.

“I need a fix.”

“What kind?”

“I have a tat I don’t want anymore, and I wanted you to—”

“Laser it off? Black it out?”

“No. I want you to make it something different, beautiful.”

“Uh huh.” He shuffled a small pile of papers at the reception desk. “Why don’t you show it to me, and tell me what you’re thinking of?” He gestured to a lounger behind an elaborately painted screen with lightening bolts and flowers. I hopped up on the padded chair and stretched out, unzipped my jeans and lowered them.

Shane’s eyes followed my movements as I pulled down the top of my panty. He leaned over me, studying the design on my lower abs. A skeleton holding two smoking guns in his bony hands. No words, just the symbol. And even though Finger had cut his F over it that last night at the motel in South Dakota, that fucking ink remained.

Their brand. Med’s brand.

I wanted it changed forever. Now.

“Turo told me you do good work,” I said.

Translation: You keep quiet when you have to.

Shane’s eyes darted to mine and hung there. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

“Good.”

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