Beware a Woman Scorned

By B R Lewis

After suffering years of mental and emotional abuse, Isabella breaks free from the destructive relationship which has her in its hold.
A chance meeting with a stranger in a bar gets her thinking, and after some persuasion she vows revenge on her manipulative ex-boyfriend.
With the assistance of a local biker club she devises a plan and sets in motion a chain of events which pushes her to her limits and sees her repeatedly breaking the law.
Does she have the courage to see it through?
Will she get the ultimate revenge and destroy the man who tried to destroy her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: B R Lewis
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005924409

B R Lewis

I am from Wales in the UK and I truly believe it to be one of the most beautiful places on earth, which is why I decided to set my 1st novel there.I was introduced to books at an early age and never went anywhere without my latest read. In school I found a new passion in creative writing and always dreamed about writing my own novel.Follow your dreams and never give up.

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Beware a Woman Scorned

B R Lewis

First published in Great Britain in 2022

Copyright © 2022 B R Lewis

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Chapter 1

As I stand outside the old, Tudor style building, rain drips inside the collar of my unzipped leather jacket and runs down my neck. A shiver goes through me, but I am unsure if it is fear, excitement or just the cold.

An array of motorbikes are lined up on the pavement and I cast a nervous eye over the powerful machines. Their shiny exhausts gleam under the soft glow of the streetlight and I watch, mesmerised, as raindrops trickle over the bodywork.

A man appears from around the corner and staggers towards the building, his long hair hanging in wet, scraggly strands against his dirty denim jacket. I discreetly avert my face and pretend to study something on the floor, but thankfully, he ignores me, shoves the door open and disappears inside. A blast of warm air hits me and I reach out to catch the door before it closes, then stop as I realise my hand is trembling. Doubts cloud my brain. Am I doing the right thing?

Memories which I try to suppress begin to surface. Yes, I must do this. In order to regain my life, I need closure. For too long, I have been a door mat and let people push me around and bully me in to doing what they wanted. Tonight, those things would stop. This is the dawn of a new me.

I just wish the new me was feeling a bit more confident.

I take a deep breath and thrust open the heavy, wooden door. Immediately, the stench of stale beer and cannabis accosts me, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Before I can change my mind, I step over the threshold.

The door bangs shut behind me, alerting the bikers to my presence. Dressed in leathers and scruffy jeans, with beards down to their chests, they do their best to appear intimidating. Two men cease their game of pool and look up. One leans against the table and takes a swig of his beer, while the other rests against his cue. On the other side of the pub, ten pairs of eyes all turn in my direction. No-one utters a word and the room is so silent you could hear a pin drop. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out I am trespassing on their turf.

Their gaze follows me as I walk across the room, their eyes literally burning a hole in my back. All of a sudden, my leather trousers seem tighter, and I resist the urge to pull my low-cut top up to cover my ample cleavage. My knee-high boots, with their eight-inch heel, click noisily on the sticky beer-stained floor. Someone lets out a slow wolf-whistle and my cheeks start to burn. My legs wobble like jelly and I falter. Every bone in my body is telling me to turn and run back out. But no, I have to continue. I reach the bar and pull up a stool and settle my curvy backside on the ripped, faded fabric.

‘What can I get you?’ the bar tender asks.

‘Lager please.’ I am not overly keen on the substance, but it’s important that I blend in.

‘Not from around here, are you?’ he asks, as he pours my drink.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Just an observation. This isn’t the place for a pretty lady like yourself. These men eat ladies like you for breakfast.’ He places the pint glass down in front of me, but doesn’t let go. ‘Drink up and move on.’

‘I don’t want any trouble. I am looking for someone, goes by the name of Basher.’

The bar tender raises an eyebrow, and surprise registers on his face.

‘Don’t know anyone by that name,’ his gaze lowers and I can tell he is lying. He releases my glass, picks up a towel and makes a great pretence of wiping an already dry glass.

A guy of about sixty and reeking of alcohol staggers over and sits down next to me. I resist the urge to move, but the smell is overwhelming, and it takes immense willpower to stay sitting.

‘Wh…what you drinking?’ he slurs.

‘I’m still working on this one for now, thanks,’ I lift my untouched glass for him to see.

‘Hmm.’ His tongue runs over his lips. ‘Fantastic figure.’ His eyes roam hungrily over my body, and I instinctively cross my arms to hide my chest. ‘Aargh!’ he yelps as someone yanks him from behind and pulls him from the stool.

‘Beat it, Mogsy.’ A gruff voice says. ‘I told you before, you should treat women with respect, not carry on like some randy tom cat. Sorry about that, sometimes he drinks too much and forgets his manners.’

I turn my head and meet the stare of a man roughly the same age as myself. His long, straw-coloured hair hangs down to his waist and his beard is tied in a plait. He is wearing faded jeans, a t-shirt and a black biker jacket covered in patches. Standing at over six feet tall, I should be wary of him, but something, maybe sixth sense, tells me I am safe with him.

‘It’s fine, no harm done,’ I shrug, pretending that Mogsy’s behaviour doesn’t bother me.

‘You play?’ he cocks his head in the direction of the pool table.

‘I used to, years ago.’

I slide off the stool and follow him across the room. A group of women sitting at one of the tables, regard me with suspicion as I pass, but I avert my eyes.

‘Here you go,’ bearded guy hands me a cue and I chalk it like a pro. ‘You break.’

The white ball is already placed in the centre, and I line up the cue and lean over the table. Too late, I realise my mistake. A chorus of whistles erupts breaking my concentration. I look up, and the men in front are all gaping at me, or rather at my cleavage. Heat creeps up my cheeks and I become aware that the men behind are now all staring at my leather-clad ass. Ignoring them, I pull back the cue then push it forward. The white ball careers down the table towards the triangle of red and yellow balls. The balls separate and three reds slide into the pocket.

‘Not bad,’ Mr Beard says, then pockets four yellows in a row.

‘Well done, babe.’ A woman in a short, denim skirt and a skin-tight vest sidles up to the table and puts her arm around the bearded guy. As she kisses him, she sends me a side-long glance of triumph. This is her man. I hide a smile; she might as well pee on him to mark her territory.

In the background the juke box starts up and a heavy metal song pumps through the speakers. The bass is cranked up so loud, the floor vibrates under my feet.

I pocket another two balls before my opponent finishes me off.

‘With a bit of practice, you could be quite the challenger,’ he extends a calloused hand and I tentatively take it. ‘Why are you looking for Basher?’

The question throws me. I was so engrossed in the game, I forgot why I am here. Playing for time, I pick up my glass and take a swig of the foul, watered-down beer.

‘Do you know him?’ I ask, reluctant to release any information.

‘Might do.’ He leans against the table, pulls a cigarette from his pocket and takes a drag. A cloud of smoke fills the air and without meaning to, I cough.

‘Where can I find him?’

‘Oh, now that is going to cost you,’ he glares at me from under his lashes and blows out more smoke.

Of course, I should have realised this was going to come down to money. These aren’t the kind of people who would do things out of the goodness of their hearts.

He takes off his jacket, revealing a tattoo of the devil just as a new song starts to play. All hail the devil, fight in his name. How apt. An evil glint has entered the bearded-man’s eye and suddenly I no longer feel I can trust him.

‘Name your price?’ I ask.

‘What are you willing to pay? I suppose it depends on how badly you want the info.’

‘Please, I am not flush with cash, and I need to speak to him,’ Although I have an adequate sum of money, it is earmarked for something else. ‘Fifty pounds.’

Beard man raises an eyebrow and gives a gruff laugh. ‘Don’t insult me. Two hundred, and I won’t just tell you where to find him, I will take you to him.’

A gasp escapes me, and he grins, knowing I can’t afford to fork out two hundred pounds for an address. All my money is stashed away ready for the next part of my plan, but unless I can find this Basher person, my plan won’t get off the ground. Perhaps I should try a little haggling.

‘One hundred.’

He shakes his head, ‘One fifty.’

‘One two five.’

He picks up his beer and jacket and begins to walk away. I start to panic, my only chance of finding Basher is about to leave.

‘Okay. One fifty.’ Have I just made a deal with the devil himself?

‘Follow me.’

He stoops to whisper in the ear of his woman, and if looks could kill, I would drop dead right now.

He leads me to a door at the back of the pub, I go through and enter an empty room with a stage. The door closes behind us, shutting out the din of the music, and suddenly I am conscious we are alone.

‘Do you have the money on you?’

With shaking hands, I dig in my purse and pull out a wad of notes. He takes them off me and makes a big deal of counting them.

‘So, what do you want Basher for?’

‘You said you would take me to him if I paid you,’ my voice rises in anger, but inside I am all a quiver. I can’t believe I fell for his lies. No, actually, I can believe it, because I am desperate, I will do anything to put my plan into action.

‘And, I did bring you to him. I am Basher.’

Before I can think, I raise my hand and strike him across the face. He played me all along. ‘You bastard, you just conned me out of my money.’

Basher rubs his cheek and laughs, ‘Oh come on. A strange woman comes into my domain and starts asking questions about me, what was I supposed to do?’

‘You could have introduced yourself like a normal human being.’

‘Nah, was more fun my way. Anyway, enough banter, I assume you need my assistance?’

‘Yes. An acquaintance informed me that you are the person who can help me. I have been wronged, treated badly by someone I used to care about and…’

‘You want a little revenge?’ Basher prompts.

I swallow hard. Revenge is such a strong word. Is that what I am after? I prefer to use the word karma, it sounds nicer. Call it what you want, either way, this person deserves everything that is coming to them. Hopefully, with Basher’s help, I can get them to admit their wicked ways and feel some remorse about how they treated me. I haven’t slept well in almost two months. Once I execute my plan, I know I will sleep easier knowing I have hurt them as much, if not more, than they hurt me.

‘Yes, I want revenge, I have come up with an idea, but I can’t do it alone. Will you help?’

‘Maybe. You better tell me what you have devised first, then I can make an informed decision. Don’t worry, what is said in here will remain confidential. Of course, if I do agree, it is going to cost you, but we can decide on a price later.’

I lean forwards and whisper my plan to him. His eyes widen and he grins.

‘Wow, I got you all wrong. I wouldn’t want to get on your wrong side. Don’t know how you came up with the idea, but if you can pull it off, you are one hell of a smart lady. It’s a little different to what I normally undertake, but I think this sounds like it could be a lot of fun.’

‘How much is this going to set me back?’

‘Five thousand up front, and another five when the job is done.’

I hold out my hand, ‘You got yourself a deal.’

I smile, Jasper won’t know what hit him. He is going to rue the day he ever messed with me.

Chapter 2

The next morning, I roll over and clutch my head. I am so out of practice. Two pints of beer, and I feel like death warmed up. My mouth is dry, and my breath smells like something crawled inside and died. I haul my aching body out of bed, and head to the shower. The warm water is refreshing and wakes me up.

Invigorated, I pull on a white blouse and a plain, grey suit, straighten my waist-long hair and plaster on some make-up. With a final twirl in front of the mirror I can’t believe the transformation. Last night I was sexy, rock-biker chick, today I am professional businesswoman. It’s like I am staring in a play and have multiple costume changes.

A horn toots impatiently outside. I grab my stilettos and briefcase, and rush down the stairs. A shiver of excitement runs through me as I clamber into the waiting taxi. This is actually happening. The next stage of my plan is about to be put in to action. Part of me is still surprised that Basher agreed to help. The fee might be steep, but it will be money well spent to see the expression on Jasper’s face when I exact my revenge.

The taxi pulls up outside DriveTo, the car rental place. I pay the fee and exit the vehicle. The car lot is full of shiny executive saloons, and I admire them as I totter past in my six-inch heels.

‘Good morning, miss,’ an eager sales agent greets me as I push open the door. ‘How can I be of assistance?’

‘Hello. I have a car booked. Isabella Delaney.’ My tone is blunt, and implies I am in a rush. The suit must be rubbing off on me. Nobody messes with Isabella the businesswoman.

‘Ah yes, here is the paperwork. Do you have your driving license and ID?’

I hand over the necessary items and pace the floor as Gary (his name is on his badge) makes photocopies. The wall-clock chimes the hour, and I make a point of looking at it.

‘This won’t take long,’ Gary points at the piece of paper on the desk. ‘Can you sign here please?’

I take the pen and squiggle a hasty signature.

‘That’s the paperwork complete. Come with me.’

He picks up a collection of keys and hurries outside. I follow as fast as my heels will let me, whilst trying to maintain my act of successful, elegant entrepreneur. Gary heads towards a sleek, black convertible. Oh, very nice. The car is perfect, and the exact image I am aiming for.

I do own a car, but I can’t turn up to my next appointment in a battered fifteen-year-old Ford, I need to be seen in something that screams money, and the Mercedes is ideal.

Gary hands me the key-fob and I adopt a neutral expression that suggests I drive around in cars of this calibre all the time. Inside, excitement floods me, I can’t wait to get behind the wheel of this beast.

Half an hour later, I turn into Foresthall industrial estate. I lessen the pressure on the accelerator and try to read the numbers on the units. There it is, number 48, just ahead. A bright green hatchback with Hamlets Estate Agent written on the door, is already parked outside my destination. I steer the Merc into a parking space and turn off the engine. My hands are shaking. Come on Isabella, you can do this.

The warehouse is a modern, square building, situated in a built-up part of the estate. Even at first glance I can tell, this is not the place for me. A lorry thunders up the road and pulls into the factory opposite, swiftly followed by two white vans. No, this place is far too active, I need somewhere quieter, more rural. But, as I am here, it won’t do any harm to take a gander.

‘Miss Delaney? Estelle Hamlet.’

A well-dressed woman of about fifty, heavily made-up and reeking of perfume approaches me with her hand extended. I am not a hand-shaker, but I don’t want to appear rude, so I clasp her hand and give it the briefest of shakes. Besides, don’t business people usually conduct meetings with shaking hands?

‘Yes, I am Isabella Delaney.’ I say matter of fact. ‘Is this the property?’

Estelle nods vigorously and consults the information sheet attached to her clipboard. ‘The warehouse is a relatively new structure, erected eight years ago. Constructed from brick with a steel frame.’

‘Shall we go inside?’ I glance at my watch, trying to hurry her along.

‘Of course.’

We enter through a red door next to the roller shutter. The room, with a concrete floor, is vast and empty. A staircase is nestled against the back wall leading up to a balcony or viewing area. We ascend them and go through a connecting door which takes us to a spacious office with a window overlooking the factory floor.

‘It’s pretty much, what you see is what you get. I suppose, being empty it is easier to envisage what you will doing here,’ the agent turns a questioning gaze in my direction.

I smile and nod, refusing to divulge any information about why I need a warehouse. Some things are best kept to myself, or I might get locked up.

‘I have seen all I need to. Thank you, but I don’t think this is what I am searching for.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Estelle’s face falls as her commission flies out of the window. ‘Do you have an idea of what you want? We might have something more suitable on our books.’

‘Somewhere more remote. I like peace and quiet when I work. Also, I prefer older buildings, something with a bit of character.’

The agent dabs furiously on her tablet. ‘I don’t think we have anything that meets that criteria.’

‘Never mind. I