Call Me...Vengeance: Book 1 in the Vengeance MC Series (6 page)

Driving the long stretch of road between Richfield, Utah, and who knows where I’m stopping next, gives me a lot of time to think about how I got here and where I want to go next. And I mean that in the figurative sense, not a literal one.

Born and raised in, Knoxville Tennessee, my parents were everything you’d imagine wealthy, self-centered, carbon copies of their affluent parents to be. My Mother, Philippa, was a true Southern Belle. Statuesque, perfectly coiffed hair, manicured nails, etiquette classes, good breeding and all class. She married well, lunched well, and catered dinner parties well. Anything else, like for example; raising her own daughter? That was left to the hired help. Who would want a little thing like a child to get in the way of tennis at the club or Martini Monday after all?

My Father, Donald, wasn’t much better. In fact, he was probably worse. He was always working or golfing with his colleagues from the law firm he was the named partner and owner of. With the exception of dinner parties my mother organized and mandated he attend, I never saw him.

If it was possible, he had less desire to raise a child than my mother did. Something that was made clear when, at the age of ten, he hadn’t been home for a single birthday of mine since I was four. I doubted he even knew when my birthday was.

I’d always been curious why my parents had a child in the first place if they were so opposed to actually acknowledging she existed. But my curiosity was quickly assuaged when my Grandmother, on my Father’s side, informed me that it was because it had been expected of them. You’re bred well. You’re groomed impeccably, socially and physically. You marry into money. You breed well. Cycle complete. Knowing that, how clinical my conception was, didn’t make things better. It didn’t do anything to ebb the acute pain that came from knowing for sure that I would never have anyone who actually cared for me.

I’m an only child, so I didn’t have any siblings to play with. My ‘circle of friends’ was made up of kids I was forced to socialize with who belonged to the women my Mother drowned her sorrows with every day at two. These children were vetted by my parents before I was allowed to associate with them because God forbid they weren’t of proper breeding and class.

This is why I despise pretentious, uptight assholes now. It also plays a major part in why I rebelled from, what my parents referred to as, my station in life. When you’re mandated to be around people like that night and day, year after year, one of two things happens. One; you begin to adapt, becoming like the people you once loathed. Or two, you recognize them for what they truly are, vapid.

Most of the girls in the friendship circles I was forced into were catty, spiteful, heinous bitches. And the boys, well, they were worse. On the rare occasion I dated, I’d had to endure what can only be referred to as some of the most boring dates known to womankind. The extent of the conversation they were capable of was centered on how wonderful they were, which Ivy League schools they were applying for, and who they knew. High society is all about name dropping.

If I could have gnawed my arm off to escape those dates, I would have. It was as if my Mother set me up with pompous, douchebags on purpose. At the time, I was sure my Mother didn’t know they were like that. How could she? But in hindsight, I realize that she wouldn’t have cared either way. As long as they were fulfilling their obligations as elitists, self-important assholes they were, my Mother probably would have sold her only daughter into slavery if she thought it would further the family name.

Forget the fact that most of the boys tried to grope me before we made it to dinner or a movie, let alone they were ugly as sin inside and out because none of that mattered. Appearances and good pairings were the only things that factored into the decision about who I would eventually marry. Well, fuck that. Why do you think I got the hell out of dodge?

One date, in particular, stood out in my memory. It went on record as the worst date in the history of dates ever. And just happened to be one my Mother organized. There was more to it than that, but for a long time afterward I refused to acknowledge how much more there really was. I don’t think I was trying to repress what had happened. I wanted to forget it that’s all. I wanted to erase it from my memory and pretend it hadn’t.

My opinion on whether or not I wanted to go out with Oliver wasn’t considered. But let’s just say – if I would have been asked, my response would be – I’d prefer to endure a trip to the Sahara with no water, food, or hope of rescue, and my corpse picked over by carnivorous animals before being forced to date an asshole like, Oliver Markham.

Simply put, Oliver is a world-class douche canoe. It really is a shame he can’t sail away down the longest river, floating out into the ocean to be eaten by a herd of passing Orca. Violent, maybe, but nevertheless true. He is a smarmy, self-involved prick, which I was used to, but Oliver took that title to a whole new level and owned it.

It was a Friday night when Oliver picked me up in his brand new Jaguar his Mommy and Daddy bought him. He planned to take me to Glades Country Club, a place I couldn’t stand. It was ostentatious and filled pretentious men and women who believed they were above the ordinary citizens who served them and cleared their plates. I had worked there as a lifeguard for all of one summer before I was told flatly by my parents it wasn’t a respectable job for a girl like me.

I would have preferred to go and grab a burger or pizza like the other teenagers our age did, but Oliver wouldn’t hear of it. He wouldn’t entertain going somewhere as common as, Larry’s Pizza Parlor on Grand. All of the seniors who attended the public high schools on this side of, Knoxville went there on Friday nights after their football games, and I for once wanted to be part of something like that. Laughing, joking, sodas and slices, but it wasn’t to be. The country club it was.

In retrospect, the date didn’t start off as badly as it could have. Oliver complimented me in front of my Mother telling me I looked fantastic, opened the car door for me, and made a half-hearted attempt at small talk on the drive to the country club, but those were the highlights. Everything went drastically downhill from there.

It wasn’t even Oliver trying to educate me on proper posture, which silver went with what course, or that it’s considered the man’s duty to order for his date that made the date an epic failure. Although, none of that helped.

The fact that spelling, b-o-r-i-n-g out in my head was more entertaining than his company made for lighthearted relief albeit he wasn’t aware that was how I was passing the night with him. Not even Oliver’s incessant chatter about how talented my Father is, how inspiring was all that bad. I mean, I didn’t really give a shit about his opinion of my Father, and if Oliver thought it would get him into Donald’s good graces brown nosing him when he couldn’t lap up all the attention, then he had another thing coming.

“You know, Bethany,” God, I hate it when people call me by my full name. I don’t say anything, though because what would be the point. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re planning on applying to Harvard Law to continue your family’s tradition.”

Say what? I have no idea where he’s getting his information from, but I have no intention, none whatsoever, to go to Harvard or law school at all. If, and that’s a big
if
, I decided to go to college I will be going to study art.

“Ah, who told you those were my plans, Oliver?” I ask knowing what his answer will be.

“I believe it was your, Mother who told mine, who later communicated it to me. Why are you asking? Does it honestly matter how I found out?”

Rolling my eyes, a very unladylike gesture, I reply,

“Because that’s not going to happen, that’s why. I haven’t even looked at a college application, let alone given where I would go any thought.”

“Why would your Mother say that if it wasn’t true? Surely you know it would be a good career path for you. Your Father has a lot of connections, your Uncle’s, Grandfather, and cousin too,” he states, scratching the back of his neck looking confused and annoyed.

Placing both of my hands flat on the table, I sigh heavily.

“Look, can we talk about something else? This isn’t a topic I feel comfortable talking about seeing as I haven’t made any decisions about my future yet.”

An irrational flash of anger crossed, Oliver’s face at my words, and albeit he tried to hide it before I noticed, he wasn’t successful.

“Why not?” he demands. “You should have already made those decisions, Bethany. We graduate high school in less than a week, and anyone who wants to make something of themselves has already applied, and in most cases gained early entry to the college of their choice. Do you plan on sitting around like a pampered princess for the rest of your life? Because without a proper education, that’s what you’re going to be doing.”

I’m not sure where this guy gets off saying shit like that, but I’m glad we’ve already eaten because this date is over.

“Thanks for the advice, Oliver. I appreciate it, but I’d like you to take me home now, please.”

Throwing his napkin on the table, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, leaving some bills on the table, but not enough for a decent tip. Oliver doesn’t wait to see if I’m following him as he strides angrily from the dining room. Something that has me smiling, because I’m not sure if he knows it or not, but everyone is staring at his retreating form. Not very dignified if you ask me.

I thought he would take me straight home when we got into his car, but when we turned toward the interstate, I knew that was never his intention to begin with. My panic rose, curling like a serpent in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know why that was my immediate reaction to his change of plans, but I had a feeling something wasn’t right. About him. About tonight. About everything. Gone was his polished exterior and good breeding, and in its place was a man vibrating with rage, capable of extreme violence.

What happened next can only be described as the worst night of my life.

Oliver pulled the car off the interstate and onto a service road. The tires spun on the gravel shoulder, throwing up dust and rocks in their wake. I had no idea what he had planned, but I knew I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Never. Oliver got out of the car, coming around to my door and dragging me out behind him.

It’s funny, but in stressful situations, you tend to focus on the most ridiculous things. Like in this case; Oliver remembering to lock the car. I didn’t know where we were, but I hadn’t seen another car for over fifteen minutes so I highly doubted anyone was going to steal his prized possession.

I struggled to free myself from the punishing grip he had on my wrist, twisting, turning, squirming to get away from him, but all that served to do was make him clamp his hand down harder. We had walked for at least five minutes before he stopped at a corpse of trees that sheltered us from view if anyone was to pass down the road we were parked on. Pushing my back against one, Oliver tore the front of my dress, groped, pinched, and abused my tender flesh. I fought, pushed, kicked, tried to bite him, none of it had an effect on him, though. He was too far gone. Unreachable.

Screaming and begging wouldn’t work, I tried. Crying, pleading for him to stop only made him angrier. Every whimper made him harder, his erection pushing into my hip as he ripped at my remaining bra and panties. By the time he had me completely naked, my skin red and bruising from the rough possession of his hands, I had screamed my throat raw. Pitiful, hoarse no’s fell from my lips when he thrust inside me for the first time, tearing through my innocence.

There was nothing gentle about the way Oliver treated me that night. He didn’t try to kiss me, something I was glad of. I didn’t want my first kiss to be with a man who was brutalizing me. The sad thought that at least I could have that first with someone was the only thing keeping me sane as the blood trickled down the inside of my thighs. Not even his hands showed any sign of gentling as he took something that wasn’t his to have. Squeezing, pawing, hard, unforgiving hands came down on my body; striking, slapping, reddening the skin as the blood rushed to the surface. Capillaries were broken, welts were left, and hand-sized bruises were evident before he pulled himself free of me.

The burning agony every plunge of his erection made inside of me brought tears to my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. Not one. The pain in my heart was worse. My soul cried out for everything I had lost, was losing, but there was no one to answer its call. I wouldn’t let him think he had broken me. Damaged me beyond repair, though. I wouldn’t give him that power. All I could think of as he tore through my tender flesh was; I hope he finishes fast. I prayed it would all be over as quickly as his temper had surged. But I wasn’t that lucky.