Page 20 of Judge's Mercy

Maybe he’s right and instead of vengeance, I should be figuring out how to move on. It would be nice to not have everyone look at me like I’m on the verge of a breakdown. It would also be nice not to actually break down. Especially not in a brothel where Judge has to come rescue me. Maybe then he’d stop treating me like a grenade about to detonate and more like a woman he’d like to know. For a split second today, I almost believed it was possible. When we were on his bike, my arms around him and my cheek resting on his back, I thought this could be my life, and God, did I want that.

Then I woke up from that dream and remembered why I flipped out. That man tonight was just another in a long line of men to take things from me that I wasn’t offering. But why am I so sure Judge would be any different?

It’s crystal clear that if I want to move on, I have to get some kind of revenge. Since the actual men who violated me are either dead or behind bars, I need surrogates. The men on this list are every bit as vile. It’s time they knew how I felt while I was naked, my body battered and bruised from punches and kicks, only to be tossed in the middle of a circle jerk. They should be forced to go through the humiliation and degradation I experienced covered in spunk while obscenities were shouted at me. They called me a whore, a cum slut, and, in disgusting detail, described all the things they’d do to me if they could. I’m not proud that I begged them to stop.

It was wasted air anyway; none of them had an ounce of humanity. So fuck them, fuck healing, and fuck Judge for making me doubt myself.

I unfold the papers and look over the eighteen names. A couple are out of state, so I put them at the bottom of my revenge list. I’ve never killed before, so I should hone my skills before crossing state lines. That leaves eleven names, eleven men who will pay the ultimate price for not only what was done to me but for the things they thought they’d get away with.

Standing up, I stride to my room and pull a black hardshell suitcase out from under my bed. After entering the secret code, I open it and take stock. Living with the Sergeant at Arms for the Sons while I recovered ended up being the best thing to happen.

Since I had just been through a traumatic event, Lucky had no problem outfitting me. The Sons have a firing range set up in a warehouse on the opposite side of the Honey Pot’s ten acres. So, a few times a week, he took me out there and taught me everything I needed to know. Turns out, I’m a good shot. At the time, I just wanted the gun so I’d feel safe once I left Tinleigh and Lucky’s sofa sleeper and went back to my apartment, but now it feels like kismet. Like I was meant to do this.

A rush of adrenaline shoots through me, knowing everything is coming together. I don’t know what it says about me that I’m giddy at becoming Reno’s next serial killer, but I also don’t care because I’ll be making the world a better place. The sheer number of children and women who will be saved is worth any price I pay with my soul.

My alarm wakes me after only a few hours of fitful sleep. I wouldn’t even get up if I didn’t have somewhere important to be. So, I peel myself out of bed and get ready. The dark circles under my eyes are startling, but it’s nothing a little concealer won’t fix.

I don’t know if my difficulty sleeping was due to the anxiousness that was now my new normal, or if it was excitement over meeting Rigger this morning. Of all the Sons, he’s the one who gives the least amount of fucks, making him the perfect accomplice for the next stage of my plan.

It was risky setting this up at the Garage, an auto shop the club owns, since it’s right next door to the clubhouse. If Tinleigh, Lucky, or hell, even Judge sees me, my life will get a whole lot more complicated, but again, Rigger’s a dick, and if I asked him to travel too far, he would’ve said no.

An hour later, I’m chewing on my nail and watching as Rigger circles the bike while the man selling it stands to the side, chest puffed and hands on his hips, making himself look big like he’s encountering a bear. I roll my eyes because Rigger could make this asshole piss himself with just a look.

I ignore the men as Rigger asks question after question and the dude stammers his answers. Tilting my head, I try to picture myself on the bike. The 2016 Harley Davidson Street 750 only has five thousand miles on it, which isn’t a lot for a car, but I couldn’t even guess what that means for a bike. To my untrained eye, it looks to be in perfect condition, and even though the appearance doesn’t matter to me in the least, I’m not mad at the black satin body with chrome accents. It’s a beautiful bike.

“How much you asking?” Rigger’s question sounds more like a dare for this guy to try and price gouge.

He gulps, and his eyes go shifty, making me grin. “Uh. . . Well. . . I was asking sixty-five hundred, but for the Sons, I can go down to six.”

Rigger makes a disapproving noise, tilting his head to the side. “How about fifty-five hundred and I let you come to a party at the clubhouse this weekend?”

“Really? Shit. I mean, yeah. I can do that.”

Rigger flashes me a questioning glance with eyes so green, they don’t look real. I push off the aluminum siding of the Garage, envelope of cash in hand. “We have a deal.”

A half-hour later, the deed has been signed over, the douche who sold me the bike is gone, and I’m the proud owner of a Harley.

“Why the sudden interest in riding?” Rigger asks.

I hook a leg over the bike and straddle it, taking in every detail. “Looks fun.”

“Seems like you’ve been on a hunt for danger lately.” His tone is casual as he leans against the building, pretending to be interested in whatever’s on his phone, but I know it’s all for show. He found out how badly I fucked up at the ranch, and now I have his full attention. The Honey Pot is his baby. He conceptualized that place and brought it to life, so he has a special interest in everything that goes on there.

“It’s not that deep.”

“It is when the club has to clean up your messes,” he says with a slight edge. I realize his willingness to help me out with the bike wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart. He just had things to say and needed the chance to say them.

“I’m sorry for what happened at the Honey Pot. It was all my fault.”

“Yeah, it was, and if anything like that ever happens again, you’ll be out. No more protection, no more clubhouse?—”

“I never asked for any of that. You all pushed it on me.”

He pushes off the wall, tucking his phone in his pocket. “You’d be dead on the side of the road if it weren’t for us.”

“I was kicked out of a car in front of the clubhouse. It’s not like you came out and found me.” Now I’m the one puffing my chest and trying to look big. “Plus, I only had some broken bones. Nothing that would’ve killed me.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re being an ungrateful bitch, but if that’s how you feel, then fuck it. I’ll make sure you never have to see any of us again.” He storms off toward the shop but stops midway and turns back to me. “Since help from the Sons is so offensive, you might want to reimburse everyone for the cash they donated to keep you afloat. I’m assuming that’s what bought the bike.”

---