The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  I never would’ve seen Linc.

  And Stryker wouldn’t have been able to sink his claws into me again.

  Slipping back into the booth, I place my glass on the table so my shaking hands don’t spill the damn thing and give away how much I’m affected by him.

  I’m like a sixteen year old girl with a crush and no idea what to do next.

  “Is he looking at me?” I ask, blowing out a breath as I stare back at my cousin.

  “Is who looking?” She lifts her head and I know my answer the moment her eyes widen. “Um, if you’re referring to the guy with the huge arms who is wearing a baseball hat…yes…yes, he’s staring over here.”

  “Don’t look at him!”

  “He sees me,” she says, arching an eyebrow and waving slightly.

  “Celeste!”

  “What?” She turns her attention back to me briefly before diverting her eyes to Stryker and smiling. “He’s cute.”

  I throw my head in my hands and groan. Deciding that won’t help much, I go for the tequila, bring the straw between my lips and sip until the slushy drink burns my throat.

  “Remember the biker I told you about?” I start, bringing my hand to my temple—brain freeze is a bitch.

  “No fucking way,” she replies, her eyes wide as saucers. “That’s the king of orgasms? Wait, what did you say he had pierced? Was it his cock?”

  “His nipples.”

  “Right,” she sighs as she continues to stare back at him. “I’m confused,” she says, turning back to me. “Why are you hiding from him?”

  “I’m not hiding,” I sneer, shrinking back into the booth.

  “Right, okay. Well then you can sit up straight because he’s leaving.”

  “Already?”

  I straightened up, grabbing my purse and pull out my compact. Holding it up I pretend to check my makeup as Stryker’s back and the unmistakable patch on his leather jacket comes into view.

  “He probably got tired of you ignoring him,” Celeste says pointedly.

  “I wasn’t ignoring him. I said hello,” I argue.

  “He’s seen you naked that deserves a little more than a hello.”

  I don’t bother answering her because the truth is I didn’t want to walk away from him. I wanted to stand there, have him continue to hold my hand and reenact our first night. I wanted his playful banter, his dirty promises, and everything that followed. What I didn’t want was to be the doormat when he was done. Clearly, I wasn’t a good candidate for one night stands.

  There’s something there. I’m not crazy, well, not that crazy. It may be one sided, he may feel nothing for me, but I can’t shake the connection I feel toward him. It’s bizarre. I don’t know him, essentially he’s a stranger—my beautiful, mysterious stranger. I think it’s how I felt when I was with him that provokes me. It’s the only logical explanation I can give myself.

  The plan to paint the town red fell flat after seeing Stryker, add Celeste being called into the hospital and our night was cut short. The Uber car dropped her at Lutheran Medical Center and drove me home.

  Reaching for the door handle, I watch a group of boys run past me and down the block. I turn my eyes back to my apartment and it’s in that moment when everything stops. The moment I see Stryker sitting on my stoop staring at me through the window of the car.

  I blink, expecting him to disappear, but when I open my eyes again he’s walking straight for the car. Quickly I snap out of it and open the door, hanging onto the control I can already feel slip away from me.

  Keeping my face neutral, I step out of the car and stare back at him, waiting for him to explain why he’s standing in front of my house, but he remains silent. I feel the weight of his stare as he drinks every inch of me in, finally reaching my eyes.

  “Linc told me,” he says finally.

  I furrow my eyebrows as the car pulls away from the curb and I cross my arms against my chest.

  “What?”

  He gives me a slight shake of the head before he holds up his hand and wiggles his five fingers.

  “Five facts,” he starts, reciting the words I said to him before I pulled him into my apartment that first night. My lips part, nothing but a short breath escapes as he presses his index finger to my mouth, silencing me. His lips quirk, teasing me with that smile of his before he pulls his finger back and holds it in the air between us.

  “One, I can’t get you out of my head,” he admits, raising another finger between us. “Two, I suck at this shit,” he sighs, cocking his head to the side as he assesses my reaction before continuing. “Three, I want more of you,” he rasps. “A whole lot more.”

  I swallow back the words I want to say and get lost in the way he stares at me.

  “Four, I know you went to the Crazy Taco tonight hoping I’d be there because…pretty girl, you want more too, don’t you?”

  He gives into the smirk as he closes the space separating us and holds up all five fingers again.

  “Five, your panties are soaked,” he whispers, blowing his breath against my lips. He reaches out, winding his finger around the denim belt loop of my jeans and tugs me against his hard frame. “Your turn, pretty girl,” he says huskily. “Five facts.”

  Pressing both my palms against his chest, I push back and narrow my eyes at him.

  “You want five facts, Stryker, fine. Here’s five hard facts. One, I’m not wearing panties,” I whisper through clenched teeth as I poke my finger into his chest. His cocky smirk disappears as his mouth parts and his eyes grow darker in color.

  “Two, I’m over it. Three, you most definitely suck at this,” I add, rolling my eyes for extra emphasis as I dig my finger deeper into his chest. “Four, I did not go there because of you. I went there because I’m a sucker for a margarita. And finally—”

  Before I can process what’s happening, my words die as Stryker throws his body over mine and we tumble onto the concrete.

  “Get down on the double,” he shouts, laying his body over mine. Hitting the concrete face first and struggling to comprehend what was happening, I push myself up and glance over my shoulder to see Stryker reach for the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

  Pop, pop, pop!

  “I’ve got you,” he rasps, cocking his gun and aiming it down the block.

  “Stryker, no!” Pulling back I grip his shirt. “Stryker!”

  Pop, pop, pop!

  My pleas fall on deaf ears and I watch in horror as he pulls back the safety and aims the barrel of the gun toward the kids innocently shooting off caps on the corner of my block.

  Pop, pop, pop!

  -Ten-

  Stryker

  They are no more than thirteen years old, huddled in the corner, speaking that shit I don’t understand as their eyes roam searching for their target. I hear the tank in the distance; watch the excitement come alive on their faces as they separate and start running, kicking up sand with their bare feet.

  “Boys rolling in on the Ali-Baba, these little fuckers are going to try to intercept that,” Rogers observes, staring down the scope of his rifle. “Seems like the time for me and you to settle that Big Dick Contest once and for all, Comrade,” he says, referring to the argument we’ve been having over who has more experience in training and combat.

  Rogers continues rambling on as I stare at my target, watching as he disappears into the building across from us. I wait for him to emerge from the door but after a moment my senses take over and my eyes start darting from window to window, the red light on the end of my scope ready, looking for its mark but coming up short.

  Shots are fired below us and Rogers moves quickly to set off a round, putting a bullet in the back of the head of a boy trying to kill our brothers who are trying to protect the citizens from the looting pricks taking advantage of their country being at war.

  I keep my stance, waiting for a sign of life from the building across from me and then I finally see it. The kid throws open the metal door leading out to the roof an
d aims his rifle at Rogers. Without hesitation, I pull the trigger back on my gun and watch as my bullet collides with his face.

  No more than thirteen years old and shot dead by a United States Marine.

  By me.

  His body falls and I turn to Rogers who is too busy pumping lead into the enemy to realize the bride he left back home was this close to being handed a flag for his time served as she bared witness to a twenty-one gun salute. Fucking morbid isn’t it? But that’s reality; reality is the price of war is measured in the loss of human life. Ours, theirs and the eighteen percent of troops that commit suicide when they go home.

  “Stryker!” A woman sobs, jolting me away from Rogers and my eyes dart around following the sound of her desperate cries.

  Green eyes hit me and they hit me hard, awakening me from the hell I’ve succumbed to.

  “Please, put the gun down,” she begs. The eyes I’ve become infatuated with are full of unshed tears and a sickening feeling creeps inside of me as I realize I’m the one responsible for the state of distress she is currently in.

  I tear my gaze away from her face and stare at the gun in my hand before letting my eyes travel toward my target.

  Kids.

  Innocent kids fucking around on the corner.

  “It’s okay,” Gina soothes. “Give me the gun,” she whispers, nodding her head reassuringly. I blink, desperately turning my head from side to side waiting for the concrete to turn to sand and the boys on the corner to attack me. I search for Rogers but he isn’t here. He’s buried already, his wife had her twenty-one gun salute and the flag she received sits on her mantle.

  Slowly, I lower the gun and regretfully stare at the woman underneath me. Her pretty face is covered in scratches from being thrown face down on the concrete and blood drips from her temple where her skin is split open. She reaches for the gun but I shake my head and tuck it into the back of my pants before crawling off her.

  “What the fuck did I do?” I ask myself, staring down at her as she moves to sit up.

  “I’m fine, Stryker,” she insists, brushing away the hair that sticks to her face. “Hey,” she whispers, reaching out for me. I shove her hands away, wrapping my arms around her and help her onto her feet.

  “Give me your keys,” I say as she stands tall and I cup her chin, inspecting her pretty face for all the ugly my fucked up head caused. “I don’t think you need stitches but I’ll know better once I’ve cleaned you all up.”

  “I’m fine,” she admonishes, reaching up to close her hands around my wrists. “But, you’re not. What just happened, Stryker?”

  Her voice is soft, sincere, and laced with concern. None of which I deserve. None of which I want. What I want is to rewind the clock and be a normal guy easing his way between the sheets of the prettiest woman he ever laid his eyes on.

  “Keys,” I say, holding out my hand as I tear my eyes away from her face unable to stare at her anymore. I thought I’d never tire of looking at her, welcomed the vision of her when I closed my eyes at night, but right now, looking at her was torturous.

  Instead of placing the keys in my palm she slides her hand into mine and drags my reluctant ass closer to her.

  “We’ll play it your way for now,” she states. “Only because there is something incredibly sexy about a guy wanting to kiss my boo-boos away,” she jokes, squeezing my hand. “But after I’m cleaned up and the blood staring back at you is gone and all you can see are my eyes, you will give me five facts about what just happened.”

  “Five facts,” I repeat, following her up the stairs of her brownstone.

  “And for every fact you give me I’ll give you something in return,” she adds, looking over her shoulder at me and winks, trying to hide the wince the simple gesture inflicts.

  Silently, I let her lead me up the stairs to her apartment but once we’re inside I take the lead, slipping the leather jacket from her shoulders before taking both her hands in mine and bringing her into the bathroom.

  “Sit,” I order, nudging her toward the toilet seat as I reach for a towel and turn on the faucet.

  “You sure are bossy,” she comments, tucking her hair behind her ears as she angles her head back and stares at me. “I bet you were a Lieutenant or a Sergeant when you were on active duty.”

  I bend down, opening the cabinet and ignore her question. I owe her an explanation but nothing I say will wipe away the image she has planted in her brain. Words won’t erase the monster I become when my head brings me back to my darkest days. The monster Gina now knows too.

  “Do you have peroxide?”

  “Probably not,” she admits. I lift my eyes to hers and watch as she chews on her lip. “You’re not going to give me anything are you?”

  “Oh, I’ll give you something,” I reply, winking at her as I close the cabinet.

  My attempt to change the subject doesn’t work and I’m not surprised. Gina isn’t the type that lets shit die. She isn’t the woman who floats around in the background and doesn’t ask questions or speak her mind. She’s the woman that comes at you, demanding you give her everything she wants—all the answers, all the confessions you want to keep secret. She’s the girl that makes you a prisoner to her eyes.

  Turning the faucet off, I squeeze out the towel and move between her legs, bending down so I am level with her face and start to gently wipe away the blood.

  She flinches but allows me to continue until the traces of the nightmare are gone and all that’s staring back at me is my pretty girl. I run my thumb over her temple, careful of her injury and assess it.

  “I don’t think you need stitches,” I say finally, crouching down in front of her.

  “Of course I don’t,” she whispers. “I told you I was fine.”

  I nod as I cover her knees with my hands and draw in a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, pretty girl,” I rasp, lifting my gaze back to hers. “I’ll make it up to you,” I add, rubbing my palms over her thighs, squeezing them tightly, my fingers digging into the denim covering the soft skin I crave against mine. “Let me erase the monster from your mind and remind you of the guy you came looking for tonight,” I tell her as I undo the button on her jeans.

  “We’re back to that?”

  “No point in denying it, sweetheart,” I say, watching as she leans back and arches her hips so I can draw the zipper down.

  “You don’t play fair do you?”

  “What’s the fun in that?” I reply, slipping my hand inside her jeans to find the lace covering her. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” I slide my finger beneath the lace and trace a line between the lips of her pussy. “You told me you weren’t wearing panties.”

  “Mmm, yeah, I lied,” she moans, gripping my shoulders as she lifts her ass from the seat. “Just because I’m giving in doesn’t mean I’m not going to ask a bunch of questions afterward.”

  “After what?” I ask, pulling my finger out of her pants and bringing it to my lips. “Talk dirty to me, pretty girl.”

  “After I make you forget whatever it is that haunts you,” she whispers, leaning forward to take my face in her hands. Leaning her forehead against mine, she stares at me and I swear it’s like she’s looking into my irises hoping to find the answers to the questions she’s dying to ask. All the questions I’ll ignore.

  “You’re going to make me forget?” I ask as I thread my fingers through her dark hair, winding the ends around my wrist and gently tugging it.

  “Yeah, I am,” she states. “I can do that.”

  I wish you could, pretty girl.

  I lean into her and brush my lips across hers.

  “Stay the night with me and let me help you forget,” she murmurs against my mouth, her fingers clutching my jacket pulling me closer as she stares back at me waiting for me to agree.

  “I can’t promise you tomorrow,” I admit, hating the way her eyes dull from the rejection of my words and the frown that works her mouth—I fucking hate that even more. “But I can
promise you tonight,” I add, covering her frown with my mouth as I kiss her thoroughly, affirming the promise with my lips.

  Bombs sound in my head.

  Cries ring in my ears.

  The trigger goes off.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  My lips attack hers in an attempt to bury the noises in my head and I beg my mind to resign and give my tortured soul to her on a silver platter.

  Make me forget, pretty girl.

  Take away the torture.

  My palms slide under her ass and I lift her off the seat. Stumbling slightly, I pause to gain my balance as she wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. She takes my face in her hands and takes control of the kiss, sliding her tongue over mine as she tugs the hat from my head and throws it behind her.

  I pin her against the wall in the hallway with my hard body and let my hands run down her neck until they reach her breasts. Cupping them in my hands, squeezing them until she moans into my mouth before I reach for the hem of her shirt and drag it up over her stomach, over her breasts and finally over her head. Throwing her shirt behind me, I bend my head and wrap her lace covered nipple with my mouth. She arches her back against the wall, giving me more of her, just as desperate to have me devour her as I am to take her.

  Take. Take. Take.

  It’s what I do.

  I take out every fucking nightmare, every mortifying experience a man who suffers from PTSD can have—I take it all out on her body.

  And she lets me.

  I reach behind her, unclasp her bra and free the pair of tits that are saluting me, begging me to take my aggression out on them. It’s her whole body that speaks to me; offering to take away the destruction war has left inside of me. A stronger man wouldn’t be so selfish, a stronger man wouldn’t drag anyone else into hell, but I’m not strong. I’m fucking weak and not just against the demons inside me but I’m weak against those eyes.

  So fucking weak to those eyes.

  “Look at me,” I growl, rolling her nipple between my teeth as I peer up at her. “You're mine tonight.”