The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Chase,” I mutter against her lips.

  Her mouth goes still, and she leans back to search my eyes.

  “Chase,” she whispers, testing my name on her tongue.

  “Sounds good,” I say, because it does. It sounds all sorts of good, good enough to want to be Chase Kincaid again and not just a drifter named Stryker.

  “Chase,” she repeats, this time with a smile on her pretty face.

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “Fuck me, Chase,” she demands.

  Gladly.

  Four hours later my dick is dead. After breakfast, said dick makes a comeback and I fuck her in the shower. Staying naked all day, we watch football and order a pizza. I spend the day teaching her the game and by the time the Giants take the field she knows what a touchdown and a field goal are and who the quarterback is.

  Progress.

  Her brother never calls me and I honestly forget about him. I forget every goddamn thing, where I’ve been, the things I’ve seen and the shit I’ve done. I laugh with her, smile at her—I live, I simply fucking live.

  When night falls, she’s lying in my arms, tracing the tattoos on my arm with her index finger and that’s when I give it to her.

  The truth of who she is.

  “I’m keeping you,” I say against her hair.

  “Oh, you think so, huh?” she teases.

  “Look at me,” I order, watching as her head rises from my chest and she looks up at me. “I told you we didn’t need a label, that we should just be who we are and fuck everything else,” I say, running my finger down the bridge of her nose. “I lied. I want you to be my old lady.”

  She remains quiet for a moment.

  “Aww you want to grow old with me. That’s cute.”

  “Gina.”

  She bursts out laughing as she sits up, taking the sheet with her and tucks it under her arms.

  “Relax, Stryker, I’m a Netflix junkie and I binged on Sons of Anarchy. I know what you’re saying,” she grins. “You want me to be your girlfriend.”

  Such a ridiculous word.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I stare at her and reach out to pull the sheet from her body.

  “You’re already my girlfriend,” I tell her. “Just thought you and everyone else should know.”

  “Just take it,” she says, shaking her head with a smile. “Just take my heart.”

  With pleasure, pretty girl. With pleasure.

  “You sure about that? I won’t give it back.” I run the back of my hand down her face and lift my gaze to hers. A man can both lose himself and be found in those eyes of hers, but the only man that will is the one she’s staring at now.

  “Promise?”

  “Swear it.”

  She throws her arms around my neck and I smile as I wrap my arms around her.

  My girl.

  My pretty girl.

  -Twenty-seven-

  Gina

  I handed Stryker my heart, the piece of me I’ve kept guarded for so long. I think that’s what makes it so sweet. After giving up on finding someone to entrust the only fragile piece of me, the most unexpected person came along and asked to claim it.

  To claim me.

  My heart.

  Now his.

  I didn’t believe today could get any better; that he could give me anymore of himself, then he did when gave me his name. He fell asleep in my bed, in my arms and before I did, allowing me the opportunity to watch him unguardedly.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here on my side, my head propped on my hand as I stare at him, but I could remain this way until the sun rises. Knowing few, if any at all, have had the privilege of a stolen moment like this—I ingrain every piece of him to my memory and fill all the voids inside my heart with his features. The same as he has done night after night since the first time he stayed with me.

  Suddenly the features I’ve memorized begin to change as his eyebrows draw together and his lips pucker. I study his expression, watch as his entire face contorts with pain as he groans, all the while still sleeping.

  “Stryker?” I say softly, unsure if I should wake him or not.

  His head jerks from side to side but his eyes remain closed. My eyes travel the length of him as his body goes as stiff as a board and his hands ball into fists at his sides.

  “Motherfucker!” he shouts, before releasing an anguished scream.

  “Stryker,” I yell as I close my hand around his bicep and try to wake him. “Baby, wake up.”

  His eyes are squeezed tightly shut as his body shakes and his jaw locks. I glance down at his body, searching for a way to soothe him when I see the blood staining the white sheets by his leg. I scramble to my knees and peel back the sheet with trembling hands. Instantly, I spot the open wound that wasn’t there before and I lift my hand to his face.

  “Stryker!”

  His eyes snap open as his hand wraps around my wrist and those soulful, brown eyes of his flicker with vengeance. Before I can tell him he’s okay, before I can tell him about his leg, he throws me off of him. My reflexes defy me and I fall backward onto the floor.

  “Ouch,” I cry as the back of my head collides with the night stand. Shocked, I try to regain my composure, remembering he’s not in his right mind; that he’s been tortured defending our country and hasn’t healed.

  This isn’t him.

  He was having a nightmare.

  He’s still working through it.

  He’s bleeding.

  I need to help him.

  Ignoring the pain in the back of my head I scramble to my knees.

  “Stryker, it’s me…it's Gina…your pretty girl, remember?” I plead with him, crawling to the side of the bed as he swings his legs over the edge and glares at me. I turn my head, unable to witness the torment in his eyes and turn my attention to his leg, wondering if he even realizes that he’s bleeding; that he has a hole in leg.

  “Fuck you, you terrorist cunt,” he sneers.

  His hands wrap around my neck and with a strength I’ve never seen before, he lifts me by my neck and slams me against the wall.

  “Stryker,” I choke.

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” he hollers. “You made me do it. You! You’re the reason I fucking killed that boy.”

  “Please,” I rasp, reaching for his hands.

  He stares at me blankly, blinking slowly as I struggle to breathe. Then as quickly as his hands latched onto my neck, they fall and I fall to the floor gasping for breath.

  “Oh my God,” he whispers, backing away.

  Bringing my hands to my bruised neck I lift my head and watch as he retreats. Staring at me in shock, he swipes his hands over his face.

  “No, no, no…what did I do?”

  “I’m okay,” I croak, forcing myself to my knees as his hit the edge of my bed and he drops back onto the mattress.

  “Stryker,” I rasp, taking a deep breath before I continue. “Look at me, I’m fine…”

  I’m not fine.

  I’m scared shitless.

  My throat is on fire and my lungs feel like they’re as bruised as my neck.

  But he’s worse. His mind is a million miles away in a dessert surrounded by terrorists and war. He’s still bleeding and I have no idea why.

  He peels his hands away from his face and looks back at me, staring at my face for a moment before his gaze drops to my neck.

  “Stop,” I order. “I’m okay…please believe me when I say I’m okay.”

  “What have I done?”

  Dread churns inside me and I realize I’ve lost him. He’s not my Stryker, he’s a prisoner of war and I don’t know how to rescue him.

  “You’re bleeding,” I tell him as I hesitantly reach for his leg, unsure how receptive he will be to my touch. His eyes remain fixated on my neck and he doesn’t answer. A moment later he glances down at his leg and winces.

  “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me what to do,” I whisper. He didn’t pus
h my hand away from his knee so I bring my hand to his face and slowly turn his eyes to me.

  “Show me how to help you,” I plead with him.

  His lips part but no words escape them and instead he shakes his head, gently removing my hand from his face. He glances down at my other hand and turns back to me.

  “Please don’t touch me,” he all but whispers.

  Obeying his wishes, I drop my hand from his knee and continue to stare at him expectantly, waiting for the next words he speaks.

  “I can’t do this,” he says, looking away from me.

  “Stryker, please look at me,” I whisper.

  “I can’t look at you.”

  “Fine, don’t look at me yet, but you’re bleeding…”

  He doesn’t look at his leg but places his hand over his knee where mine was just moments ago.

  “Shrapnel,” he mutters, before he forces himself to stand.

  “Stryker, sit down,” I order. “We need to clean you up and see how bad the wound is.”

  Finally, his eyes turn back to me and he shakes his head.

  “We aren’t doing anything. I’ll handle it.”

  “No,” I defy. “Let me help you.”

  “Don’t you understand? I don’t want your fucking help. I don’t deserve your fucking help.”

  “Stop it!” I reach for him but he flinches and limps a few steps out of my reach.

  “I told you not to touch me,” he growls.

  “Fine, I won’t touch you.” I tell him, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry.”

  He continues to look at me and I begin to think he’s coming back to me but then he turns around and grabs his clothes from the chair.

  “What are you doing?” I ask nervously.

  Of course he doesn’t answer me as he slides his arms through his sleeves and tugs his shirt over his head. He sucks in a breath and leans against the wall, taking the pressure off his leg momentarily.

  “Sit down before you hurt yourself,” I command, crossing the distance between us. He pushes himself off the wall and pins me with a glare.

  “Would you stop?” he growls. “Look at you, look at what you’re turning into.”

  “What I’m turning into?”

  “What you’re turning into,” he repeats, shoving his good leg into his cargos, before screaming out in pain as he lifts his injured leg and forces it into the pants.

  “You’re going to make it worse. It has to be cleaned out and what if there is still more inside trying to work its way out of your body?”

  “For the love of God, shut up. I can’t listen to you anymore. Do yourself a favor, a real big favor and go into the bathroom, go on and go…GO!”

  “Stop yelling at me,” I snap.

  “Well it’s about fucking time you showed up,” he sneers. “Thought the next words out of your mouth were going to be it’s my fault. Then you’d nail the whole battered woman thing.”

  “I’m not a battered woman,” I shriek. “I’m not a victim! You weren’t yourself.”

  He laughs as he bends down to put his boots on.

  “My mother used to say that line too, pretty girl. Right after my father downed a bottle of whiskey and beat the fuck out of her.”

  “Was your father a drunk or was he a veteran who was scarred from the horror he lived fighting for our freedom?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he growls, turning his back to me.

  “Sure it does. Your father chose to be abusive. What just happened was not by choice.”

  Abruptly he turns around and stalks toward me to the best of his ability. I narrow my eyes as I stand my ground and wait for the ignorance to pour from his mouth, but instead he catches me off guard by rearing back his hand. I flinch and step out of the way before his hand can collide with my cheek, but the blow never comes and when I turn to him he nods in satisfaction.

  “Point proven,” he whispers.

  “That’s not fair,” I cry out.

  “What isn’t fair is tomorrow when you look in the mirror you’re going to see the bruises on your neck, bruises that should never be there but you won’t care. You’ll make excuses for me and that’s not fair. It’s not fair to the strong girl I selfishly weakened by making her mine.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I can’t even look at you,” he whispers. “I can’t fucking look at you knowing I put my hands on you, Gina.”

  “It wasn’t your fault!”

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” he screams right back at me. “Don’t be that woman.”

  “Stryker,” I plead, tears falling from my eyes as I frantically try to stop him from what he’s about to do.

  “I’m not that guy, Gina. Honest to God, I’m not the guy who puts his hands on a woman. Once is enough for me. I won’t be the man that hurts you,” he rasps.

  “You’re hurting me right now.”

  “Words, they’re just words,” he mutters. “You’ll forget them but you won’t forget that I almost choked you. I could’ve killed you.”

  “You’re being dramatic,” I sneer.

  “No, pretty girl, I’m being real,” he whispers. “I promised you I’d protect you, I just never figured I’d be protecting you from myself.”

  “Please stop this,” I cry. “Please, let’s just cool it okay? Think about what you’re doing.”

  “I know what I’m doing and I should’ve done it before I let it get this far,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Stryker don’t leave. You just need to talk to somebody. They have these…” My voice trails off as I run my fingers through my hair trying to find my words, “…they have dogs for men and women who suffer from PTSD. We’ll go tomorrow and get one, maybe it will help.”

  He steps forward and his eyes soften as he lifts his hand. I breathe a sigh of relief and close my eyes, anticipating his touch but it never comes. He shoves his hands into his pockets and takes two painful steps backward.

  “I’ll make sure your brother knows he needs to make arrangements for your safety.”

  I want to scream.

  I want to shake him.

  I want to fucking smack him for making me this vulnerable girl.

  More than anything I want to heal him.

  I want to take the nightmare he’s living and bury it.

  I want to be his hero.

  But he doesn’t ask me what I want.

  He walks out the door, leaving a trail of blood and the pieces of my broken heart in his wake.

  -Twenty-eight-

  Gina

  Someone banging on my front door drags me from sleep. I lift my head from the carpet and for a moment I wonder why I’m on the floor. Then the horror of the night before smacks me in the face as I stare through my swollen eyes and spot Stryker’s blood stains on the rug. The knocking on the door persists and I scramble to my feet. My eyes burn and the lids feel like lead. I guess crying yourself to sleep will do that to you.

  I haven’t cried like that since my mother passed away.

  Death.

  It gets me every time.

  The death of my mother.

  The death of my relationship.

  Both endings left me an emotional mess.

  Wearing nothing but Stryker’s t-shirt, I make my way to the front door and pull it open, praying it’s his apologetic face that greets me.

  A part of me knew he wouldn’t come back, but I still held onto hope.

  Wondering when I became such a girl, and if this hopeless romantic disease I have is just a temporary thing or if I will remain a lovesick fool forever, I stare at my cousin.

  “Christ, what the hell happened to you?”

  The real Gina would have a witty comeback but that girl flew the coop and the one she left behind burst into tears. Being able to count on one hand how many times you’ve cried in your life becomes a real hardship when you fall apart. Nobody knows how to deal with the broken fragments of you and they panic.

  Celeste totally panics, kind o
f ironic considering she’s had her fair share of breakdowns and should be an expert in tears and heartbreak. I suppose it’s different when it’s your own heart you’re scraping off the floor.

  A heart only breaks when you give it to someone and trust they won’t commit the crime of breaking it.

  I can’t tell if I’m more sad or angry.

  Sad it’s over.

  Angry because I allowed this to happen.

  “Okay, deep breaths,” Celeste instructs as she wraps an arm around my shoulders and walks me toward my couch. “In and out,” she whispers.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands and stare back at her.

  “Why does anyone ever fall in love?”

  Her eyes widen at the question but she quickly recovers.

  “Well, that’s easy,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “A world without love isn’t really a world worth living in. Love makes everything worth it.”

  “Then why do people lose it.”

  “Because they’re not tough enough to keep it. Love isn’t easy, it’s a test of will,” she says thoughtfully, pausing to study me. “You fell for the bodyguard slash biker didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I admit miserably.

  “You always have to go big or go home, that’s your problem, Gina. Your first love couldn’t be the devoted nerd who can’t believe he snagged the hot stockbroker. No, you had to play with the big dogs and fall for the bad boy.”

  “He’s not really a bad boy,” I argue, reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table.

  “I beg to differ. He wears a leather jacket with a reaper on his back and declares himself a Satan’s Knight. None of those guys are choir boys and when they hold church I’m pretty sure no one’s passing out communion wafers.”

  “You’re not helping,” I groan.

  “Sorry, you’re much better at this than I am. I’m usually the one in hysterics,” she sighs.

  “Tell me about it,” I mutter. “Maybe I’m over reacting. I mean this all just happened, maybe he needs time to cool off and get his bearings. Then he’ll come back and everything will be fine.”

  “What exactly happened?”

  I glance down at my thumb, bring it to my lips and chew on the cuticle, a nervous habit I developed after my mother’s death.