The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Nah, I fake it well though don’t I?”

  “Extremely. What happens after work?”

  He cocks his head, pretending to be thinking but I see the smirk he’s trying to hide and the mischievous look in his brown eyes.

  “Well, a man’s gotta eat,” he says.

  “Yeah, I rarely cook,” I reply.

  “I wasn’t talking about food, pretty girl.”

  And there it is.

  My cheeks turn cherry red as he wiggles his eyebrows and laughs.

  “No comment,” I huff.

  “Red looks good on you.” The laughter dies on his lips as does the playful banter and all that’s left is the live wires of electricity sizzling between us.

  I lied.

  If he keeps looking at me like that I’m going to most definitely fall for him.

  I’m fucked.

  Clearing my throat, I change the subject in an attempt to resurrect that playfulness I’m starting to crave.

  “So, were you ever going to tell me you were in jail?”

  “No.”

  “Well, now that I know are you going to tell me why you were?”

  He brings the coffee mug back to his lips, hiding his smile before he takes a sip. I raise an eyebrow expectantly as he shrugs his shoulders and places the mug on the counter.

  “I’ve got a thing for bologna and cheese,” he finally answers with a smirk.

  Bastard.

  “Good,” I tell him, spinning around to drop my empty mug in the sink before I glance over my shoulder at him and smile sweetly. “That’s what we’re having for dinner.”

  “Well played, pretty girl,” he laughs, stepping around the breakfast nook. “You know…” He starts as he comes up behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist and his hands toy with the belt of my robe, wrapping the end around his wrist. “I’m starting to get hungry,” he whispers against my ear.

  “There are eggs in the fridge,” I mumble.

  “I don’t want eggs, Gina.” He yanks his wrist back and my robe becomes undone. His other hand moves from my waist and slips between the folds of my robe, spreading it open and exposing my body to his touch. My body melts into his as his fingers glide over my stomach, circling my belly button before inching lower and lower until his fingers are right where I want them.

  Teasingly, his fingers trace the lips of my pussy as he nudges my legs apart with his.

  “This is what I want,” he gruffly whispers as he spreads open mouth kisses down the side of my neck. My body aches for his touch and I arch my hips, grinding against his hand, begging him to do more than gently stroke me.

  His hand leaves me and slides up the silk covering me until his fingers pause at my mouth.

  “Help me out, pretty girl. Make my fingers disappear inside your mouth like they’re going to when I push them up your pussy,” he rasps.

  “Stryker.” His name sounds like a curse on my lips, a filthy word that women love to say and men love to hear.

  “Go on, pretty girl. Get them wet.”

  It’s easy to give in to his demands. It’s easy to fall for his dirty promises, and lucky for me he’s a man of his word, always following through with every dirty deed he says he’s going to perform.

  I wrap my lips around his fingers and suck them deep into my mouth, proving to him he’s not the only one who can play this game of his. I swirl my tongue around the two digits, generously lubing them with my saliva and take them as far back as my gag reflex allows.

  How’s that for a dirty promise?

  Judging by the growl that vibrates against my shoulder I’d say pretty fucking good.

  Maybe having Stryker as my bodyguard won’t be so bad.

  At least there will be this.

  So much of this.

  But with this comes all the other stuff girls swear they won’t do. They swear they can separate their hearts from their bodies and let sex just be sex. They swear not to fall for the guy that’s unattainable.

  They fail.

  I wrap my hand around his wrist and slowly pull his fingers from my mouth as he slides the robe from my shoulders and it pools around my feet. Stryker spins me around and sets his dark eyes on me.

  Feral.

  Hungry.

  So damn sexy.

  He moves quickly, pressing his hard body against mine and cages me against the counter. Without hesitation he shoves his wet fingers deep inside me, curling them, making sure I feel him everywhere a woman needs to feel a man.

  “You like that don’t you,” he growls, bending his head to rub his stubble over the skin between my breasts. Like the hickey he left the first night, he marks me as his, the tiny hairs are coarse against my smooth skin and the abrasions quickly appear on my skin.

  He could take a Sharpie to my tits, scribble his name and I wouldn’t care. Not as long as he kept moving his fingers in and out of me. Circling, teasing, outright finger fucking me. Yeah, he could brand me any fucking way he pleased.

  My breath becomes ragged.

  Sweat beads on my forehead.

  Goosebumps prick my skin.

  I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

  His mouth closes over my nipple, his teeth scrape against my sensitive bud as his fingers curl even deeper and I’m done.

  Just done.

  I curse his name.

  And I come.

  I come harder than I’ve ever come in my life.

  Sure I’m dead; I close my eyes and wait for Saint Peter to meet me at the gates.

  “Still didn’t get a taste,” Stryker mutters as his mouth leaves my chest and he drops to his knees.

  Saint Peter doesn’t come.

  But I do.

  Three more times.

  Then I’m the one on my knees, proving I’m a woman of my word and my promises can be just as dirty as his.

  That, and that I have a killer gag reflex.

  Stryker

  I should make an appointment with my shrink at the VA because if I wasn’t crazy before the PTSD then I’m sure I am now. The worthless doctor couldn’t help me deal with my anxiety or my depression but maybe he can write me a prescription for dementia. Clearly, I’ve got something wrong with me because I offered to be Gina’s bodyguard thinking, no, believing with everything in me, that I could keep her safe.

  Look at my track record.

  Not even a gold fish is safe with me.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I pull myself together as I walk through the corridor of the hospital and make my way to Linc’s room. According to the nurse at the front desk, he’s still out, but she assures me that’s normal given his condition. Who am I to argue?

  I’m about to walk into his room when I hear a familiar voice.

  The blonde cousin.

  I wonder who the fuck her father is. Is that Gotti guy still floating around New York?

  I’m fucked.

  Did I mention I’m fucked?

  “It’s really you,” Celeste whispers.

  She can’t be talking to Linc; at least I don’t think she can be. He’s unconscious.

  “I thought it was you that night but…” She pauses, “…all the tattoos.”

  “It’s been a long time, Cel,” Cobra replies.

  “It doesn’t seem that long, Jagger,” she whispers.

  Well, look at that Cobra’s got a name.

  “Cobra,” he corrects. “My name is Cobra now.”

  There’s a silent pause and I peek inside the room as Celeste lifts her pager from her scrubs and stares back at Cobra, Jagger, whoever he is to her.

  “I’ve got to go,” she says. “I hope your friend recovers quickly.”

  “Thank you,” he replies, tearing his gaze away from her to stare back at Linc who looks like he’s in a full body cast.

  Knocking on the door, I clear my throat before she turns around and realizes I’ve been eaves dropping.

  “Hey,” I greet them as I step inside the room and tip my chin to Linc. “How’s he
doing?”

  “Excuse me,” Celeste says, brushing past me as she flees the room like whatever history they revisited was one born from hell.

  “It’s too soon to tell whether he will walk again,” Cobra reveals as I pull a chair to the other side of Linc’s bed and sit down. I run my hands over my head and peer at my helpless friend lying perfectly still in the bed.

  “That’ll kill him,” I mutter, lifting my gaze back to Cobra.

  “I know,” he agrees, bowing his head. “But we need to stay positive because you know as well as I do the minute Linc wakes up and realizes he can’t move his legs, can’t walk, can’t ride…can’t do shit but lie there—he’s going to lose all will to fight.”

  “Even if that happens, if he can’t move his legs at first, that’s just temporary, right? He’s not going to be a paraplegic, is he?”

  “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t even think the doctors know.”

  Silence coats us like a blanket and we both stare at Linc, hoping for the best, understanding we must prepare for the worst. He’s the first to break the silence and turns to me as he does so.

  “Where’d you wind up last night?”

  “Some girls house,” I say vaguely, not ready to share Gina or my role as her bodyguard with anyone. “What about you?”

  “Deuce got us a sweet deal on some motel off the side of the Staten Island Expressway. We’ll probably crash there until we know where the club stands.”

  “Any word yet?”

  “They admitted the Bulldog and Reina but Blackie was discharged. I saw him this morning, and he told me the cops roped off the compound and deemed it a crime scene which means no one knows when we will get in there.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and leans back against the chair bringing his hands to rest under his head.

  “The guy with the bomb was the same guy Jack sent into the Corrupt Bastards' clubhouse sniffing for intel.”

  “He’s the father of the kid who tried to rape Jack’s daughter, right?”

  “Yeah, he came to the clubhouse not too long ago, and the cops came charging in, arresting us all on bogus charges. Blackie got us released and brought Ronan, that’s the guy with the bomb; he brought him back to the clubhouse. Riggs roughed him up and wired his watch before sending his ass back to Boston as our eyes and ears. Charlie Teardrops must have gotten wind of it and sent him back to us with the bomb.”

  “Teardrops,” I repeat the name as it begins to click in my head.

  “Yeah, you know the guy…he took over as the Bastards’ president after Blackie and Jack ended the previous president. Didn’t Linc fill you in on all this when you got out of the can?”

  I don’t answer him immediately because Rocco’s voice rings in my head reminding me of this morning when he said every gang member with a tear drop tattooed to their face might be looking to fuck with him. Fucking with Rocco meant fucking with Gina and her safety. But this, this is too coincidental or maybe it’s not.

  Maybe Rocco knows what the fuck he’s talking about.

  “Anyway, Blackie didn’t come straight out and say it but I think he’s working on retribution for our club, for the prospects…for Pipe.”

  I lift my head, shaking away my thoughts and look back at Cobra when he mentions Pipe.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Not good. Deuce went by his house this morning but I haven’t heard anything since.”

  “And Wolf?”

  “He’s in ICU.”

  I slap my hands to my knees and pause for a minute before standing up.

  “I’m going to go pop in on him and see how he’s doing,” I say, watching as Cobra nods. “I’ll catch you later,” I add, before turning my gaze back to Linc. “Take care, buddy.”

  “Hey,” Cobra calls out as I turn and head for the door causing me to pause and look over my shoulder.

  “You want me to get you a room at the motel or will you stay with the girl?”

  “Yeah, get me a room,” I tell him, tipping my head in appreciation before walking out of the room.

  The room would sit empty until I got whatever was salvageable from the clubhouse, then I’d store it there, but as for sleeping there—well, that’s a different story.

  I’m not leaving Gina until I know for sure she’s safe.

  Until I’m sure the men responsible for blowing up the Dog Pound aren’t the same men looking to make a territorial move on her brother by putting a target on her head.

  Then and only then will I leave her side.

  -Seventeen-

  Stryker

  She wasn’t kidding about the bologna sandwiches.

  “What’s the matter?” she questions through a mouthful of bologna.

  I divert my eyes from the triangular cut sandwich in front of me to the chef who made it with such love and watch as she raises an eyebrow and takes another monstrous bite.

  “You cut my sandwich into triangles,” I point out.

  “Did you want me to cut the crust off too?”

  I lift one half of the sandwich and devour more than half of it with one bite before I lean back in my chair and stare at her as I chew.

  Swallowing, I lift the rest of the half to my lips pausing before I shove it into my mouth.

  “She’s not just a pretty face but a smartass too,” I state, winking at her. “You might just be my dream girl,” I add, popping the rest of the sandwich into my mouth as she laughs.

  I never realized how sexy a woman’s laugh could be.

  “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach…” She points, eyeing the fancy plate in front of me, “…do you love me yet?”

  “Sweetheart, I’d get down on one knee if I thought you’d say yes,” I tease, lifting the bottle of water to my lips as I wink at her.

  “I’d never marry a man without knowing his last name. A girl has to practice writing it at least a thousand times before she even considers taking it as her own. I mean what if it’s something godawful like Cornbanger? Can you imagine? Gina Cornbanger.”

  The water flies out of my mouth and she shrugs.

  “What? It can happen. My fifth grade teacher’s name was Iris Dick.”

  “You’re lying.”

  She leans over the table and takes the other half of my sandwich from my plate and takes a huge bite.

  “My mother saved all my report cards you want me to whip them out for you?”

  I feel the smile tug the corners of my lips and realize I haven’t smiled this much in a really long time.

  “Kincaid,” I blurt, watching as she narrows her eyes in confusion. “That’s my last name.”

  At my statement her eyes widen in surprise but she quickly recovers testing my name on her tongue.

  “Gina Kincaid,” she says, before shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know…what do you think?”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say flatly. “But maybe you should practice writing it a thousand times before you commit.”

  “You’re probably right,” she replies.

  “You ate my dinner,” I accuse, pointing to my empty plate.

  “I did,” she confirms, before shrugging her shoulders. “What can I say? I’ve got a thing for bologna and cheese.”

  Winking at me, she leans over and takes my empty plate, stacking it over hers before dropping both of them into the sink and turns back to me.

  “Now that I’ve fed you what am I supposed to do with you?” she questions, crossing her arms under her chest as she fakes a frown. “I mean I wasn’t really expecting to entertain, especially when there’s a Patrick Swayze marathon on TBS.”

  Pushing back my chair, I stand and make my way over to where she’s leaning against the sink. I brace both hands on the counter, caging her in and dip my head so my eyes become hypnotized by hers.

  “Sorry to cramp your style, pretty girl,” I rasp, mesmerized by all the different shades of green her eyes turn with every word I say. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “That
’s my line,” she whispers.

  “Not with me it’s not,” I tell her as I lift my hands from the counter and push them through her hair. “I’ll give you one movie but when the credits start rolling, you take your clothes off and do as I say.”

  “Does that line really work?”

  “I don’t know ask your panties.”

  “Point for Mr. Kincaid.”

  I may have scored the point, but she won the fucking game, making me sit on her couch with a hard on while I pretended to give a fuck about some guy named Johnny and the shy girl who carried a watermelon. I’ll give the Swayze guy credit, he could fucking dance, and I swear that song Hungry Eyes was made with Gina in mind.

  Especially after the movie finished, and she held up her end of the deal.

  One look at her naked body, the come hither expression planted on her pretty face, and she knew what the expression hungry eyes truly meant.

  The next day we started our routine.

  Me and my big mouth.

  I didn’t think it through. I figured she’d hop on the back of my bike, we’d take the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan and I’d drop her off at her office. I’d check out the area, scope out the douchebags she worked with and once everything was copasetic, I’d get my ass the hell out of dodge and return when the stock market closed for the day.

  My bike, or what was left of it was part of a crime scene.

  Not that it mattered because her wardrobe consisted of a bunch of skirts. Lots and lots of skirts, all of which are sexy as fuck but not something you wear to take a ride on the back of a Harley.

  And my pretty girl, the modern woman she is doesn’t own a car. Nope, Miss Independent Woman was all about the Uber app. So, I took her to work in an Uber…a fucking Uber.

  You better believe my ass got on the train after that.

  Only to repeat the same shit the next day and the day after that. By the third day I felt like I lost a nut. Thankfully, Cobra called me on my way to the train station to tell me Blackie pulled some strings and got us access inside the compound. I’d be able to dig through the debris and get what was left of my shit and hopefully find my bike had survived the blast.

  No, such luck.

  Peeling back the yellow tape that line the gates of what was once home to the Satan’s Knights, I freeze in my tracks, finally understanding what the term ground zero means. Most think it originated after the towers collapsed in Manhattan, but ground zero originated after the atomic bombs in Hiroshima. It’s what we call the point of the earth’s surface directly above or below an exploding nuclear bomb.