Anguish, p.1Bella Jewel
Jokers' Wrath MC, Volume 3
Published by Bella Jewel, 2014.
Table of Contents
ANGUISH | Copyright © 2014 Bella Jewel
CHAPTER FIVE | MACK
CHAPTER NINE | MACK
CHAPTER TWELVE | MACK
CHAPTER FOURTEEN | MACK
CHAPTER SIXTEEN | JAYLAH
CHAPTER NINETEEN | MACK
CHAPTER TWENTY | JAYLAH
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | MACK
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | MACK
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | JAYLAH
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR | JAYLAH
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE | MACK
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN | MACK
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE | MARCUS
CHAPTER FORTY | JAYLAH
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE | TWO MONTHS LATER
EPILOGUE | TWO HOURS LATER | JAYLAH
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Copyright © 2014 Bella Jewel
Anguish is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events portrayed in this book either are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, establishments, events, or location is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Please do not take offence to the content, as it is FICTION.
A massive thanks to all the blogs on my tours. You’re amazing for taking the time to share and review for me; you’ll never know how much that means to me.
A special thanks to Love Between The Sheets for always having time to organize my release day blitzes and cover reveals. You ladies are super amazing and I’ll always appreciate the effort you’ve given me.
Thanks to Lisa from Three Chicks and Their Books for always reading an ARC before releasing and helping me out. Thanks to Kylie from Give Me Books for always sharing and reading for me, too. You girls are amazing. I adore you.
A massive thanks to Ari from Cover it Designs for this gorgeous cover. You never disappoint.
To Lauren, my crazy, awesome editor. You do such a great job. I couldn’t do it without you. I adore you, lovely.
To my girls, Belle Aurora and Sali. For always reading and helping me create the best work I can. For always talking to me and making me smile. I love you two, my besties.
And of course, to my admin, MJ, for ALWAYS keeping my page running beautifully. I couldn’t do it without you, girly.
A massive thank you to Kris Scharr, for coming up with the amazing name of Joker’s Wrath MC, as well as picking the name of a character to show throughout the series. You’re a gorgeous girl and an amazing fan. Thank you.
And, last but certainly not least, to my loyal readers. You make this real for me; never stop giving such love and passion. You make our journey so amazing.
This book is dedicated to my very own biker, my husband. Thank you for the countless hours you have put in to helping me out with my work, or just keeping the kids busy while I write.
You know I’ll love you forever, my big man.
“You stole my fuckin’ drugs.”
The foot at my throat presses me further into the cold, scratchy pavement. I gasp, my fingers clawing at fleshy ankles. His skin doesn’t budge; my nails are too short to break the flesh that I’m so desperately scraping at. It does nothing to move him, or send him on his way. Instead, he pushes harder, cutting off more of my air supply.
“That’s not exactly how it went down,” I croak, struggling.
“You were meant to deliver them; instead you fuckin’ sold them, and ran with the money.”
He’s right about that. I did take the drugs and sell them. I had good reason—my boyfriend was in trouble, and I was doing anything I could to get him out of trouble. I didn’t think ahead. I didn’t realize that I’d then owe a very unhappy drug dealer money. Not my finest moment, that’s for damned sure.
“I had no choice . . . I was helping someone I care about.”
He presses his boot down further into my throat, and my air supply narrows down to a dangerous level. My head pounds as the blood and oxygen are cut from my brain.
“I bet that person ain’t here helpin’ you tonight, now, are they?”
No, he’s right about that. Samuel is probably sleeping with someone else. The moment his debt was cleared, he left me. The dirty, cheap fucker left me. Now I’m dealing with the backlash. A furious drug dealer who wants his money.
Money I don’t have.
“Don’t I get,” I gasp, “one chance to get your money?”
He glares down at me through angry grey eyes. I squirm again as my vision starts flittering in and out. Shit, I’m going to pass out and he’s probably going to kill me, or worse, drag my helpless body away to do God knows what with.
“I have m-m-m-money,” I croak.
“If you had money, you wouldn’t have stolen my drugs.”
“I . . .” God, I’m on the edge. “I can get it. I s-s-s-swear.”
He stares at me, and for each second he does, my vision swims. Then, much to my relief, he lifts his boot off and reaches down, hurling my weak body up. He pulls me close, so close that our noses touch. My knees wobble and I have to push all my focus into not falling flat on my face and giving him another chance to take me.
“Listen, and listen fuckin’ good. You’ve got two weeks, and trust me, that’s me bein’ fuckin’ generous. Get my money, or I come for you.”
“Don’t try and run. You do, I’ll fuckin’ find you.”
I close my eyes, take a deep, burning breath and nod again.
Then he’s gone.
And I know . . . I just know . . . I’m in deep, deep shit.
“You can’t be serious, Jaylah!”
I turn and scowl at my best friend, Josie. She’s leaning against my kitchen counter, her face scrunched, her pretty little nose turned up. I glance at her arms, which are crossed angrily across her ample chest. She’s a tiny, busty, ball of sass. It’s why I adore her.
“It’s a job, it gets me away from the house. If I’m away from the house, I’m not so easily tracked,” I point out, popping a piece of carrot into my mouth and chewing loudly. Josie glares at me.
“He’ll find you no matter where you are!”
I shake my head, wagging my finger at her. “It’s only been a few days; I still have a week or so left. I don’t know if I’ll have that kind of money before then, so being away is safest.”
“He’ll come here . . .”
“And I won’t be here.”
“What if he goes after me? Or someone else you care about?”
I give her a ‘really?’ look. “My parents live six hours away and their surname is completely different to mine, since I changed it. He wouldn’t find them easily. Besides, I’ll tell Dad and he’ll be ready. You live two hours away; I hardly think he’s going to go after you. The person he’d likely go after is Samuel, and personally, I’m not going to complain if Samuel gets his ass kicked.”
She drops her head into her hands and sighs loudly. “Even if it does get you away . . . you’re forgetting one vital piece of information.” She lifts her head. “You’re not a fucking nanny!”
I snort, choking on a piece of carrot and throwing myself into a coughing fit. When I’m done, I straighten, patting my chest and rasping, “How hard can it be? Changing nappies, feeding . . . it’s a piece of cake.”
“It’s a child . . .” She gapes. “You know—not a dog!”
I wave a hand. “It’s live-in, it’s good pay, and it’s only a baby.”
“Babies poop, and cry, and spew . . .”
“So do dogs,” I point out.
“Jesus, Jay. There’s got to be something else.”
I take a step closer. “I have Gregor after my ass. He doesn’t play nice. I need somewhere he can’t find me. He won’t find me there; it’s some distance away. I can pay him off, and then it’ll all be over. It’s a thousand dollars a week, including food and a room! All to look after one baby.”
Josie sighs and shakes her head. “I can see there’s no talking you out of this. At least go and make sure it’s what you want before saying yes.”
I smile. “Good news—I’m going right now to meet the child and his father.”
“Oh, God,” Josie groans.
“It’ll be fine.” I wave my hand, grabbing my keys with the other. “You’ll see.”
It’s not fine.
Oh no. It’s far from fine.
I’m standing in front of what is quite possibly the most dazzling man I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s Native American, of that I’m sure. He’s got these chocolate eyes and dark hair that, I won’t lie, makes me want to punch him. It’s that beautiful. Long and thick, flowing around his shoulders. He’s tall and muscled, wearing a leather vest over a dark, tight tee.
Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy.
“Ah . . . are you, um, Mack?”
He looks me up and down, slowly. “Yeah.”
God. His voice. Like melted honey, mixed with cream . . . oh, man.
“Oh, good. I’m Jaylah. I’m here for the, ah, nanny position.”
He quirks his eyebrow. “You’re a nanny?”
My spine straightens and I put my hands on my hips. “Excuse me, buddy, but I’ll have you know I’m the best damned nanny there is.”
He stares at me, expressionless. He’s a hard man; you can see it in his eyes and the firm expression that seems set on his face.
“What did you expect?” I go on. “Mrs. Doubtfire?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile.
“You available all day, every day?”
I tilt my head to the side. “I don’t get a day off?”
I cock my eyebrow. “You want me to babysit . . . every day?”
He stares at me, like that’s already obvious.
“What are you, like some fancy businessman or something?”
I already know that’s a joke before it’s finished leaving my lips, but I say it anyway. He gives me a ‘seriously?’ look, and I realize it really was a stupid question.
“Okay, well, clearly you’re not a businessman.” I laugh sheepishly. “But what could possibly keep you so busy you need me to look after your kid seven days a week?”
“None of your fuckin’ business,” he snaps.
“Keep your shirt on,” I huff. “I was only asking.”
“You either want the job,” he says, his voice low and deep, “or you don’t.”
“I do,” I point out. “But I have a life, you know. Friends and stuff.”
“You can visit them, with the baby.”
He does that staring thing again.
“Only one thousand dollars a week? To basically be the child’s . . . mother?”
“One and a half if you start now.”
“One and half thousand?” I breathe.
“No, one and a half fuckin’ dollars.”
Oh, a smartass. Nice.
“And I live . . . here?”
He nods sharply.
“And . . . you live here?”
He looks like he wants to slap my stupidity right out of me.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
He nods. “Come in.”
“Wait, aren’t you going to ask me some nanny questions? Like, what are you going to do if my child runs onto the road and gets hit by a car?”
He gives me a strange expression. “He’s a baby. Come in.”
“What about if he chokes?”
“Baby . . .” he grinds out. “Drinks fuckin’ milk.”
“Climbs through a window?” I call out, following him inside.
“Plays with your hairdryer?”
He stops, turns, and gives me a mortified expression.
“What?” I say, shrugging. “You have nice hair . . . it’s only an assumption.”
Okay now he looks like he wants to punch me, or throttle me.
“I mean seriously . . . you’re not going to ask me anything?”
He growls. “You a murderer?”
I gape. “Ew. No.”
He narrows his eyes. “Yes or no?”
“Ah, kind of.”
He nods and continues, like that’s an acceptable answer. “You capable of heating a bottle?”
“Gettin’ up when he cries?”
“Then you’re hired. Now move.”
We step into a really nice, really modern place. The cool floor is pleasant against my feet as I follow him into the lounge room. I skid to a halt when I see all the people on the lounge. There are a few really pretty girls, but the rest are males. Big, burly males that look like they’ve dropped out of heaven and been rolled in leather. They’re gorgeous.
They’re also . . . oh, no.
Oh no, no, no.
Mack nods to one of the girls and she stands, walking over to me, a baby wrapped up in her arms. She stretches it out to me with a smile. God, she’s pretty, like a mini Pocahontas or something. Her eyes sparkle with humor at my expression. I reach out, take the baby and hold it close. I’ve never held a baby . . . shit . . . where’s his head?
“I’m Santana.” She smiles, warmly. “Welcome.”
I turn back to the group, who are all staring at me, and I’m about sure I’m going to pass out.
I know who they are. I’ve seen the news.
Motorcycle club. The biggest in the city.<
Oh God. I’m a nanny for a biker.
This should be interesting.
“You have to take me to get clothes,” I say, following Mack towards the kitchen, his baby tucked tightly in my arms. “I can’t look after the baby and get my things at the same time. I don’t have a seat. You’re going to have to watch him while I go and—”
“Seriously?” I cry. “You wanted me to start right away and I am, but I need to get all my things and—”
He spins around and glares at me. “Then go and fuckin’ get them. Take the baby; get the seat. I don’t fuckin’ care just do it.”
The baby? Not his name. Not my son. I narrow my eyes and watch as he swings the fridge door open and pulls out a beer, then he turns back to me, brown eyes burning holes through me.
“Are you always this moody? If so, I think we need some sort of call . . . so I know when you’re not approachable.”
He stares at me, lip curled in disgust. “Call?”
“You know, like a bird call. Ka-kaw! Ka-kaw!”
He blinks. “Are you fuckin’ nuts?”
“No.” I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “Are you?”
He gives me an unfathomable look, one that says he has no idea how to take me. “You’re the one makin’ fuckin’ bird noises—no, scratch that. No fuckin’ bird makes noises like that.”
“They do,” I say matter-of-factly. “I’ve heard them.”
He looks to the ceiling for calm.
“Well . . .” I encourage, tapping my foot against the tiles.
He mutters a few choice curses, and looks back to me. “I don’t make bird noises and I don’t do calls. You stay away from me; I stay away from you. Take care of the baby. I’m at the club half the time so you won’t need to worry about anything else but that.”
“Does the baby have a name?” I mutter sarcastically.
“And his mother?”
“None of your fuckin’ business.”
“That’s apparent,” I mutter.
He shoots daggers in my direction. “You do your job, we’ll be fine.”
I roll my eyes and turn, staring down at the bundle in my arms. He’s definitely like his father. All dark hair, brown eyes and gorgeous olive skin. My guess, he’s only about two months’ old. He’s tiny, and squishy and adorable. I’m not a huge fan of babies, or children for that matter, but this one . . . he’s cute.
Anguish by Bella Jewel / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes