Call Me...Vengeance: Book 1 in the Vengeance MC Series by Natasha Thomas

isn’t the first time I’ve made a road trip like this. And, I’m a grown woman, Jay, I know how to take care of myself.”
     
    “Got it,” he grunts. “Get some sleep, Beth. You’re gonna need it.”

CHAPTER FIVE
~ Beth ~

Road trip rule number one; Never ask, are we there yet?
- Life Hacks 101
     
    Driving the long stretch of road between Richfield, Utah, and who knows where I’m stopping next, gives me a lot of time to think about how I got here and where I want to go next. And I mean that in the figurative sense, not a literal one.
     
    Born and raised in, Knoxville Tennessee, my parents were everything you’d imagine wealthy, self-centered, carbon copies of their affluent parents to be. My Mother, Philippa, was a true Southern Belle. Statuesque, perfectly coiffed hair, manicured nails, etiquette classes, good breeding and all class. She married well, lunched well, and catered dinner parties well. Anything else, like for example; raising her own daughter? That was left to the hired help. Who would want a little thing like a child to get in the way of tennis at the club or Martini Monday after all?
     
    My Father, Donald, wasn’t much better. In fact, he was probably worse. He was always working or golfing with his colleagues from the law firm he was the named partner and owner of. With the exception of dinner parties my mother organized and mandated he attend, I never saw him.
     
    If it was possible, he had less desire to raise a child than my mother did. Something that was made clear when, at the age of ten, he hadn’t been home for a single birthday of mine since I was four. I doubted he even knew when my birthday was.
     
    I’d always been curious why my parents had a child in the first place if they were so opposed to actually acknowledging she existed. But my curiosity was quickly assuaged when my Grandmother, on my Father’s side, informed me that it was because it had been expected of them. You’re bred well. You’re groomed impeccably, socially and physically. You marry into money. You breed well. Cycle complete. Knowing that, how clinical my conception was, didn’t make things better. It didn’t do anything to ebb the acute pain that came from knowing for sure that I would never have anyone who actually cared for me.
     
    I’m an only child, so I didn’t have any siblings to play with. My ‘circle of friends’ was made up of kids I was forced to socialize with who belonged to the women my Mother drowned her sorrows with every day at two. These children were vetted by my parents before I was allowed to associate with them because God forbid they weren’t of proper breeding and class.
     
    This is why I despise pretentious, uptight assholes now. It also plays a major part in why I rebelled from, what my parents referred to as, my station in life. When you’re mandated to be around people like that night and day, year after year, one of two things happens. One; you begin to adapt, becoming like the people you once loathed. Or two, you recognize them for what they truly are, vapid.
     
    Most of the girls in the friendship circles I was forced into were catty, spiteful, heinous bitches. And the boys, well, they were worse. On the rare occasion I dated, I’d had to endure what can only be referred to as some of the most boring dates known to womankind. The extent of the conversation they were capable of was centered on how wonderful they were, which Ivy League schools they were applying for, and who they knew. High society is all about name dropping.
     
    If I could have gnawed my arm off to escape those dates, I would have. It was as if my Mother set me up with pompous, douchebags on purpose. At the time, I was sure my Mother didn’t know they were like that. How could she? But in hindsight, I realize that she wouldn’t have cared either way. As long as they were fulfilling their obligations as elitists, self-important assholes they were, my Mother probably would have sold her only daughter