Vengeance City: The Completed Series

Chapter 1

“Ugh! How long do we have to sit here?”

Zander’s constant whining makes me want to put a bullet through his skull, or maybe even my own, at this point.

We’ve been doing this shit for years. Recon might be something we do less of nowadays, but we all know if the boss says we do it, then we do it.

So how is it possible he can still whine about it this much?

I think he likes to hear himself talk.

Spencer’s in the backseat, looking bored as he reclines in the seat with his feet kicked up on my center console–regardless of how often I tell him to keep them off the leather.

Spencer never cares, not really. Very rarely, he’ll sink into something so profound that he doesn’t come out for a while, but those times are far and few between. For the most part, he’s as laid-back as they come.

Everything about him screams relaxed in a way that set me on edge when we were younger.

His wardrobe consists primarily of jeans and t-shirts, most of which have seen better days. Paired with whatever shoes he grabs, some days it’s sneakers, other’s boots. I’m not sure he even looks at what he picks.

Tonight, he skipped his regular leather jacket and went with a simple black hoodie that swallows him in size.

If I had to guess, I would assume that’s why he chose it: comfort.

It does a good job of masking his size, which is impressive since he’s not a small guy.

Without tighter clothes to show it, you wouldn’t know he’s got as much muscle as he does under there.

I might almost believe that’s why he wears shit like that.

That is if I for one moment thought he put any thought into his appearance.

I know better, though.

He couldn’t care less most of the time, other than his hair, although even that gets minimal effort.

His dark blond hair is closer to brown nowadays, though it used to be light when we were kids.

He has an undercut, the sides short and the top long, falling just above his ear.

It’s the same style he’s had since middle school, not too different from mine or even Zander’s.

Most days, he leaves the top shaggy, but occasionally, if he deems that the situation calls for it, he’ll style it.

Today, it didn’t.

It would appear that recon doesn’t scream “dress to impress” to anyone but me. So, in typical Spencer fashion, he probably finger-combed it just enough to ensure it’s not sticking straight up.

He fucking hates when it does that.

Somehow, this works for us, though, despite our differences.

Zander is our energetic one, Spencer is our chill, and I keep us all on task so we don’t end up dead. I don’t know how I got saddled with that responsibility. It feels like bullshit if you ask me, but it’s been this way for as long as I can remember, and it’s gotten us this far.

Rolling my eyes, I choose to ignore them, instead keeping watch on this stupid building like we were ordered to. Unfortunately, someone has to do it, and apparently, I’m the only one who doesn’t have a death wish tonight.

“You better cool it, Zan. Rick looks like he’s seconds away from making your face have a very intimate conversation with the windshield tonight.

” Spencer gives a dry chuckle at the thought, and while my idea was a little more violent, I don’t correct him.

I may threaten to kill both of them almost daily, but we all know I wouldn’t.

Well, we know I wouldn’t most of the time. Putting his head through the windshield, though, now that I could get behind.

My lip twitches in what I’m sure is an unsettling smile, and I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror, catching Spencer’s gaze.

He’s always been able to read me pretty well, especially when I’m on the verge of handing out beatings.

His slight smirk lets me know he’s not opposed to us duking it out.

It’s too bad we’re on the boss’s time. Spence might be up for it, but someone needs to watch the building.

Like I said, I have to keep us not dead.

“Awe, come on, Spence. We both know Ricky loves me.”

With a huff, I turn my attention back to the building. From the corner of my eye, I see him bat his long lashes at me, but I ignore him- as if his charm could ever work on me.

Zander might be the smallest of the three of us, but he’s never let that stop him from going toe to toe with us.

He’s the first to push our buttons and throw punches; despite his size, he can easily hold his own.

His emotions can go from happy to pissed and back again in a few moments, and while it used to be confusing, now it’s just him.

Some might say he’s a little manic; I say he’s a little fucking psycho.

He’s not quite as built as Spencer is and definitely not as big as I am.

Whereas I make a point of building muscle and bulking, he’s leaner.

He’s always been lanky, but now he has more of a swimmer’s build—not exactly lacking muscle, but typically underestimated.

It’s something I think he actually enjoys. It gives him more reasons to fight.

His dark hair is shaved short on the sides and long on top, hanging down just below his chin.

It’s long enough that some days he pulls it back in a pony, while others he lets it be wild, simply pushing it out of his face every two seconds.

Somehow, it works with his chaotic energy, which usually would make anyone else look like a douche.

It’s his eyes that give him such an easy in, though.

We all have our strengths between us, but Zander has always been our sweet talker. Whether it be with girls, parents, teachers, or just about anyone else, they all fall victim to his baby blues with just a couple of bats in their direction mixed with a few smooth words.

I won’t lie; it’s useful as fuck, but it can also be annoying. He’s too aware of how good everyone thinks he looks and doesn’t hesitate to use it to his advantage, even when he shouldn’t. His smooth talking only further inflates his already massive ego.

Zander’s covered in tattoos, with a lip piercing, gauged ears, and a fuck everything fun-loving kind of attitude. While his tattoos make him look rougher, somehow, it all only makes people flock to him more, which is fine. He lives for attention.

I prefer people leave me the fuck alone, and they do.

He knows I loathe it when he shortens my name like that, but I know him well enough to know he’s fishing for a reaction. I ignore him instead, refusing to be his entertainment for the night.

Why the fuck did I think letting him sit shotgun was a good idea again?

“Besides, we all know you guys need me and my pretty face.” He leans over Spencer's legs, getting in my face with a smirk, and there goes my ability to ignore him.

Pushing a hand to his so-called pretty face, I shove him back into his seat and away from me.

He slams into the door laughing before he rights himself again, leaning back and propping his feet up on the dashboard.

“What is with you fucks and putting your shoes all over my car!”

My rage boils over, and I slam my fist into the steering wheel. Neither of them so much as flinch. They’re more than used to my quick temper where my car is concerned, not that they give a fuck.

I turn my attention back toward the building, running a hand through my hair in frustration.

We fall silent again now that Zander has gotten some of his energy out at my expense. I look at the clock and have to hold back a groan. It’s only nine-thirty, and we’ll be here until midnight, at the very least.

“It’s gonna be a long night,” Spencer comments as if reading my mind.

“Just wake me up if anything interesting happens, boys.” Zander throws his arms behind his head and scoots lower into the seat to get comfortable. I don’t even argue because I would rather him sleep than annoy the shit out of me for the next two and a half hours.

Just like we always did, we do as we’re told, and by we, I mostly mean me.

We’ve been taking orders from the boss, Froggie, for the last few years.

As runners, we did what was asked, kept our eyes open, and eventually moved up to the muscle.

Now, as the head of the clubs in our territory, we oversee the distribution and have our own runners.

Working our way up the ranks comes with more responsibility and more jobs, but we’ve worked our asses off to get where we are.

When we first started, all we did was recon. Nobody puts new blood in a position to fuck shit up. Well, nobody smart, at least, and Froggie is anything but stupid—even if his name might be.

We were seventeen when we first started, and back then, even sitting in the car and seeing nothing for six hours was a thrill.

Now we have experience. We run our part of the city under Froggie’s eye and have our own men to run our recon for us. Even so, when the boss asks for you specifically, you fucking do it. No matter how boring it may sound, you sound fucking happy to do it.

People have died for less than not following Froggie’s orders, and I’ll be damned if I go out for that.

It’s just after eleven thirty, and nothing has happened. I’m unsure if I’m mad about the lack of action or happy we had time to relax. Either way, I push it aside. It’s not like we had a choice but to be here, no matter what happened.

I push Zander over, suppressing a laugh as his head slams into the glass, abruptly waking him up. Oops, I guess I shoved him harder than I needed to, but the fucker deserved it for earlier.

“What the fuck, man!” Zander yells, rubbing at the now red spot on his forehead that will probably be a nice bump later. There’s no real heat in his words, and I shrug. He’s yet to pull his knife on me, so he must not be too upset.

“Shouldn’t have been sleeping on the job, Zan. Maybe next time, instead of waking your bitch ass up, we’ll just let Froggie know,” Spencer says with a shrug as if it’s no big deal, but we all know it is.