Page 8 of Fury

“Back through here, then.”

Dave moved around me, leading me away from the chilling bodies, along the corridor of reflection rooms, back to the safety of the reception. He knocked softly on his own office door, listening for something I couldn’t hear, and then gently nudging the door inwards.

“Ms Fischer. I have a gentleman here to see you.”

A gentleman I was not. I couldn’t hear the response, but Dave pushed the door fully open, then stepped away.

She looked up at me as I stepped across the threshold, a piercing stare, blonde hair falling around her shoulders, lightly curled, bouncing as she got to her feet and stepped out from behind the old desk. Her suit was navy. Fitted across the bulge of her chest and nipping in at a slim waist, before the rest of it flared away, accentuating the curve of her hips. The matching navy skirt ended just past her knees, showing off the muscled arc of her calf and the delicate ankle that led to the cream stilettos.

“Heidi Fischer,” she held a delicate hand of manicured nails out towards me.

My hand engulfed hers. The callouses of years of labour feeling much more rough against the smoothness of moisturised flesh. I’d expected her to do that limp-wristed, delicate shake that women did. But she gripped me tightly. A show of control. Control I’d take from her soon enough.

“And you are?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence as I stared at her hand in mine.

“Fury.”

“Fury? Nick name?”

“Bike name.”

“Bike name?”

“I’m the Vice President of the Northern Kings MC.”

“Sit down, Mr….”

“Fury. Just Fury.”

She smiled gently. But it wasn’t friendly. Just professional tolerance.

“Please, Fury. Have a seat.”

Chapter Four

The huge man in front of me gripped my hand. Far too tightly than was necessary. I’d come across men like this before. He exuded power and challenge, and that arrogant look on his face told me he was used to getting his own way. I gripped back, making sure the gesture was slow and steady. A message that I wouldn’t be fucked over.

“Fury.” He told me, stating it like it was a name that I should know.

“Fury? Nick name?”

“Bike name.”

“Bike name?”

“I’m the Vice President of the Northern Kings MC.” And now that sounded familiar, and I suddenly made the connection. Guess Dave had followed my instructions after all.

“Sit down, Mr….”

“Fury. Just Fury.”

So, it was like that, then.

“Please, Fury. Have a seat.”

I watched him lower himself into the fabric office chair in front of the dated desk. The chair creaked, and for a moment I was sure I’d seen it move, and I half expected it to cripple under his frame, but it held true, settling into place without another whimper.

“How can I help you?”

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