Ravage: Lightning Bolts MC
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
Ravage copyright 2016 by Zoey Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
OTHER WORKS BY ZOEY PARKER
Bounty
Trouble
Monster
A Broken Vow
A Secret Vow
A Sinful Vow
Chapter One
Michelle
“Mom, please. Eat a little bit more of the broth, okay?”
My mother pushed away the bowl I held out, as well as the spoon I dangled near her lips. “No. I’m not hungry.” Her voice was weak, tired. She was a shadow of the woman who raised me. That woman’s voice could scream the roof down when I did something to deserve her anger.
This woman, the one withering in the bed in the house I grew up in, was something else entirely. She was so frail, practically a skeleton. She had always been so plump and curvy when I was younger—not fat, but well-endowed. Her hair had been a thick, lustrous dark brown. The color of coffee. This new woman who I called mother had thin, almost wispy gray hair. She was tired of everything. The pain, the anxiety resulting from wondering how much longer this would all go on. I wondered that, too.
She needed a hospice. Anybody could see that. I took care of her pretty well in the beginning, before cancer robbed her of so much of who she was. It had gotten to the point where she could do almost nothing for herself—she couldn’t bathe or feed herself or even walk without assistance. I nearly carried her from place to place, although her feet were always on the floor and she always made an attempt to hold some of her dignity by shuffling them along.
I put down the bowl of beef broth with a heavy sigh. I knew better than to push the issue; she might have been weak, but when pushed too far she experienced brief flashes of strength. Only a few days earlier I’d ended up wearing a bowl of broth when her hand flashed out and overturned it onto me.
She shifted fretfully on the mattress. I brushed stray hair back from her forehead. “Do you need another pill for the pain?” I didn’t like giving her too many of them, and she didn’t like taking them unless she absolutely had to. It wasn’t a great idea when she hadn’t eaten much of anything either. All either of us needed was for her to vomit after taking a painkiller on an empty stomach. It would be a waste of a pill, too, and they weren’t cheap.
To my surprise, she nodded. “I’ll try to keep it down. I really need it.” That told me how much pain she was in. I went downstairs to fetch one for her.
On the way to the kitchen, where the counter looked like it belonged in a pharmacy, I passed a stack of bills. The pile was big and getting bigger by the day. At first, I’d managed to keep up with it, thanks in no small part to Dad’s life insurance policy. Mom had been smart with the money, setting it aside for a rainy day. There hadn’t been any rainier than the ones we were in after her diagnosis.
Now the money had dried up. Nothing like a Stage III lung cancer diagnosis to tap a person’s finances. Now she was in the end stages, and we were tapped out after so many doctor appointments, hospital visits, treatments, tests, medication. I stared at that pile of envelopes as I counted out a single pill, and to me, they represented every single cigarette I’d ever watched her smoke. When she grew up, people smoked constantly. She’d picked up the habit in her early teens and hadn’t been able to stop. At least when she had me, a late in life baby, she stopped during pregnancy and only smoked outside of the house after I was born. That was something, anyway. She had tried to help me, but she couldn’t help herself.
And I couldn’t help her. The light on the answering machine blinked, and I knew the tape was full with the voices of bill collectors. First call, second call, final notice. It was almost funny, the way they thought they were going to get blood from a stone. We were drowning.
A fist clenched my heart, squeezing tighter. There was a stinging behind my green eyes. I shook myself before the tears started to fall. Mom needed help with her pain. I couldn’t stand around daydreaming.
I rushed back upstairs full of apologies for taking so long. She was asleep when I got there. Naturally, I listened to her breathing to be sure it was only sleep and nothing something else. The sight of her thin chest rising and falling was a relief.
I sank into the chair by her bedside. I wasn’t equipped to be a caregiver, not to somebody at her stage of the game. She needed professional help, a nurse on-call twenty-four seven. Somebody with the skill I sorely lacked. I was a freaking bartender, for God’s sake. If she’d wanted a martini, I could have made one. I’d even listen to her problems while she drank, hoping for a better tip.
My dreams seemed further away than ever. I scolded myself for thinking about my petty problems as my mother laid dying in front of me, but I couldn’t help myself. Every day that went by took me just one day further from being the chef I’d always wanted to be. When I started tending bar, it was a way to put money away for culinary school. It wasn’t cheap. But neither was cancer. It was one or the other, and I chose my mother. I had no other option.
I sighed, taking my head in my hands. It felt so heavy. All the thoughts running around inside, bumping off of each other, made it hard to sit upright. I was only twenty-six. Wasn’t I too young to be worried about cancer and medical bills and researching hospice care? Wasn’t I too young to plan a funeral? Because that was where we were headed. There was no other way off the train Mom and I got on the day her diagnosis was passed down. She was headed for the end of her life. I couldn’t even make sure she was as comfortable as she could be.
She worried about me, too. I knew that. She was sorry to take up so much time. She wanted me to live my life like she always had. I remembered the way she encouraged me to take risks, see what the world had in store. What did the world have in store for her? Numbered days filled with pain and regret? What a treat. I sometimes wondered about the purpose of life if all we had to look forward to was the sight that greeted me every time I walked into my mother’s bedroom.
She had given me so much. I felt as though I was failing her.
The phone rang, and I jumped in the otherwise silent room. The extension was in the hall. I tiptoed out as quickly as possible and shut the door before picking up. “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m calling for Mrs. Rita Adams.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “She’s unavailable.”
The bill collector asked, “When would be the best time to reach her?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try to fit you in some time between the sponge bath I give her every morning and the lunch I can’t seem to her to eat in the afternoon. Or maybe you can call back while she’s throwing up into a bucket because her meds make her so sick. But they’re the meds that are supposedly treating her cancer so she can’t stop taking them, can she? Even though they’re not doing anything but we still have to keep buying them which means we still have to keep paying for them.”
“Um, miss…”
I was on a roll at this point. Nothing could have stopped me. “Or maybe you should come in person. Yeah. That’ll do it. You can help me lift her out of bed so I can change the sweaty sheets, and while you do, you can ask her when we plan on paying the hospital bills. How’s that sound?”
“Miss, I’m sorry to hear of this. However…”
“However, my ass. You people are vultures. Get a real job.” With that, I slammed the phone into its cradle and burst into tears.
I fled to my room, throwing myself on the bed. I was acting like a heartbroken teenager, and I knew it, but my heart was broken and I felt younger and more scared than I had ever felt in my life. Every day took Mom closer to death, and me closer to being alone. With a ton of medical bills.
What could I do to raise the money? I couldn’t possibly get a second job since the first one took me away from her too much as it was. We were lucky to have lifelong neighbors who spent evenings with her while I worked. She was normally asleep throughout my shift, so it wasn’t much work for them. Without them, I didn’t know that I could go to work at all unless I hired a nurse I couldn’t afford. It never ended.
I thought about a Go Fund Me, but there were already so many of them out there started by people in my shoes. I didn’t have the time or the savvy to promote it either. I knew enough to know that just starting one and walking away wasn’t going to help me raise any money. I didn’t want to burden any of my friends with the task, either. They had their own lives to take care of. They didn’t need my bullshit.
Then what? Could I sell something?
It was an intriguing idea, and enough to sit me up on the bed. There had to be something of value in the house—we had never been rich, but we had a few decent things I thought I might be able to get a little money for. The silverware from Mom and Dad’s wedding, for example. Her china—I would never use it. A few heirlooms.
Could I sell them, though? I bit my lip. The idea of the money was a relief, but it would mean parting with things that had meant so much to her. I was already losing my mother—could I stand to lose the things that represented her, too?
I threw myself back with a cry of frustration. No matter which path I took, it always landed me at a dead end. I couldn’t sell off Mom’s things. They meant too much to her, and besides, my memories were the only thing I’d have left when she was gone. I didn’t have much of my own that was worth anything. I didn’t even drive my own car, using Mom’s instead. I had already sold mine off to save money on the payments. It was ridiculous, the bare-bones life I was living. And it was never enough.
My cell rang. Another reminder: my best friend, Mackenzie. Mac lived the life of the “normal” girl in her mid-twenties. I knew she didn’t mean to rub it in my face, but whenever we compared notes she always came out on top.
“Girl, what’s up? I’ve been dying to talk to you.”
I grimaced. “Yeah, well, it’s been the usual thrills and chills over here. Sorry. I’ve been a little distracted.”
“It's okay. I didn’t mean to accuse you or anything. How’s your mom?”
“The same. Worse, actually. But she’s clinging to life. She’s not giving up. I guess there’s something to be said for that.”
“True. She’s always been a fighter. I remember how well she held it together after your dad passed. My parents used to say all the time how strong she was. You inherited that from her, you know.”
My eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t think of my father then. My heart was already too sore, too full of memories. At least a sudden heart attack didn’t leave us with months and months of doctor and hospital bills, I thought, and I hated myself for it.
“What’s up with you?” I asked, needing a change in the subject even if it meant hearing yet another story of Mac’s fabulous life.
“I just got invited out with a bunch of friends tonight. Girls from work.”
I rolled my eyes, reminding myself like I always did that I couldn’t begrudge my best friend for having an actual life. Just because she didn’t face the same challenges I did, didn’t make her any less of a good person or friend. She’d had it easier than me in a lot of ways. I couldn’t be bitter.
“That’s nice. Where are you going?”
“That’s why I’m calling you. I was thinking about suggesting we go to your bar. There will be around a dozen of us, and I thought it might help you out a little bit. I’ll tell all of them you’re my friend.”
I smiled. I should have known Mac had my best interests at heart. “Thanks, doll. But make sure they don’t think you’re telling them they can get away with drinking for free just because we know each other. That can be misleading.”
“Oh, right. Good call. I’ll make sure they know we’re going to support you because you’re awesome.” She lowered her voice. “I know you need the help. I want to help if I can.”
“And I love you for it. I do. Thank you.”
“Besides…” her voice got even lower, to the point where I could hardly hear it, “…there’s something I want to talk to you about, and it’s not something I can talk about here. I don’t want anybody overhearing me. It’s an in-person sort of thing. Make sure you have a break coming up around seven. That’s when we’ll be in.”
“Ooh, so mysterious.” I chuckled, wondering what she had up her sleeve this time. It was probably something about a date she went on or a guy she needed advice about. Mac tended to make her problems my problems—then again, she was trying to help me get extra money together, so I couldn’t complain. “I’ll be sure to have a break coming up then, okay? I’ll see you later on. I hear Mom stirring.”
“Give her my love, okay?”
I promised I would, then hung up. I smoothed down my long brown hair, mussed from rolling around on the bed in a fit of tears. I didn’t want my mother seeing me all worked up. It was the last thing she needed, knowing how lost I felt. I knew her. She would blame it all on herself, as though it was her fault cancer decided to slowly claim her life.
Mom was shifting around on the bed when I walked in. “Who was that on the phone, Michelle? I heard you yelling.”
My cheeks flushed. “Nobody.”
“Don’t lie to your mother.” The voice was a whisper, but there was an edge of steel to it. “Tell me who it was.”
“A bill collector. I got rid of them. Then Mac called. She sends you her love.” Mom’s eyes narrowed. She knew I was deliberately changing the subject. I breathed a sigh of relief when she went along with me.
“How is she?”
“She’s great. Making a killing selling real estate. I told you that, right?”
“Oh, that’s right. She got that great job. Good for her. I always knew she was a smart girl, like you.”
Look where my smarts got me. “Do you still need that pill, Mom?”
She shook her head. “It passed. I want to save them. I was hoping you could turn on the TV. My stories are on.”
I smiled and nodded, obliging her need to keep up with her soaps. There were so few on anymore, but the ones she’d always watched were still going strong.
I sat beside her, watching but not watching. It wasn’t like I needed to pay attention. Mom just wanted the companionship. I remembered sitting with her on sick days or days off from school while sh
e sat with her sewing or knitting and watched her stories. I would sit with her then, too, and feel very grown up.
I didn’t feel grown up anymore. I didn’t want to be grown up. I wanted to turn the clock back twenty years or so. The first thing I would do would be to throw out every cigarette in the house.
The worst part of all was the way money worries were taking away the last days I had with my mom. I should have been given the chance to spend this time learning from her, loving her, telling her what she meant to me, listening to everything she had to say. I wanted the luxury of soaking up the last days we had together. Instead, all I could do was worry about the bills that would surely be waiting in the mailbox.
Chapter Two
One of my rare streaks of good luck had involved finding a job at a popular bar where young people went to spend money. It wasn’t some cheap dive where there was no hope of getting decent tips. We were more of an upscale establishment but relaxed enough that I could wear tight t-shirts with a little notch cut out of the neckline to reveal my cleavage. I was willing to use just about every advantage I had if it meant better tips.