“What’re you saying? That he gets away with it? Because that’s not acceptable, not to me or the woman inside who can’t fall asleep for more than an hour.”
“Yankovich didn’t rape your girl, his goons did,” Jack clarifies.
“Under his order. They raped her under his command,” I seethe.
“You want to listen to me or you want to fly off the fucking handle?”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste the metallic of my own blood as I wait for Jack to tell me whatever bullshit he thinks will make this right.
“According to Spinelli, Yankovich will be making another attempt at transporting the cargo through the harbor. He showed me the new lease he obtained with Triton after he botched the first one and this shit went down with your girl. He doesn’t want to sabotage the containers, he wants to go guns blazing as the fucking boat pulls from the dock, not knowing if he’s transporting drugs or girls. Drugs we can dispose of. Hell, we’ve been doing it for years, but women, we’re not equipped for that. We can’t do that so we’re going to have to fuck him before he fills those containers, maybe right before he plans on loading them. We’ll grab his men, put the brakes on the shipment and send Yankovich a warning. Let him know we’re onto him, that we’re coming for him. We will let that Russian cocksucker know what he did doesn’t fly around here.”
I know he means well and I know what he’s saying is true. We don’t even have a clubhouse these days, we’re running our club out of Pipe’s garage and we don’t have the strength of Bergen County behind us this time. Rocco is hardly an ally; he’s more like a fucking nuisance than anything. But knowing all that doesn’t change the need for revenge.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he warns. “You haven’t known me all that long but by now I’d like to think you know me enough to know I don’t turn my back on the things that hurt me and mine. Now you might not realize it or maybe you’re too set in your ways to acknowledge it, boy, but you are property of Parrish and that means something. It may mean nothing to you but it means everything to me. You’re hurting, that girl you hid from me, she’s hurting too, and this old body of mine will not take that lying down. You’re not a nomad anymore, none of you are. You have a home and it’s right here in this town. These streets aren’t just mine they’re yours now too. You think Wolf went and mortgaged his house because he likes to throw his money away? That man is so fucking cheap he probably has the first cent he ever made, but he and I have been down that road. The road where you’re the only one traveling it. It’s a lonely road, brother, a damn lonely road. Wolf won’t let Linc rot in a hospital bed and I won’t let you rot here behind these walls with the girl you love. I won’t let Cobra rot either, mourning a sister he never got a chance to bury. So right now, right here, I give you my word, I will make this motherfucker pay. I will make him pay if it’s the last thing I fucking do in this world, if it’s the last thing I do as the president of this club.”
He pauses, pushing the mug against my chest and I finally take it as I look into his dark eyes.
“I’ve got a daughter, one that by some miracle of God escaped the horror of rape, but I want you to understand that I’m taking this as seriously as I would if it was her…if it was my daughter you found in that alley. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” I say hoarsely.
“Good, now listen closely because this is the good part,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m going to call you. It might not be today, may not be this week or even the one after that, but your phone is going to ring and when you answer it, I will be on the other end ordering you to get the fuck out of here for a few days. You’ll take your girl someplace safe where you can leave her alone for a few hours, you’ll give me the address to where you’re headed because the Bulldog will come for you. I’m going to take you to the three men that harmed your woman and I’m going to give you a rusted pipe and a fucking filthy knife. Then I’ll unleash you on those cocksuckers.”
His words set my mind in motion as I picture the three faceless men who broke my pretty girl and set free all the ugly. All the possibilities play out in front of me. How I’ll use the rusted pipe, the pieces of their bodies I will cut, the blood that will stain my hands. The man on top of the roof in Afghanistan is long forgotten. He doesn’t need a rifle; he no longer hears the cry of a helpless boy. He is the man driven by the cries of an innocent woman who he loves.
“You got a place in mind?”
I lift the mug in mock salute as I stare at him.
“I’ll take her home.”
His eyes flicker for a moment before we’re both startled by a loud bang. The mug falls from my hand, shattering against the floor as I rush into the bedroom with Jack on my heels. I run toward her as she rips the clothes from the hangers and throws the shoes behind her. I don’t think she realizes she’s screaming as she throws the contents of her closet all over her room.
Skidding to a stop behind her, I take her in my arms as she begins to crumble.
“I’ve got you,” I shout over her sobs. “Baby, I’ve got you.”
“They told me I wanted it. That I wanted them to do the things they did to me because of the way I was dressed,” she chokes, collapsing against my chest. “I didn’t want it. I didn’t want them to touch me. I didn’t want it,” she chants.
I drop down to the floor, take her in my arms and cradle her against me as I raise my head and meet Jack’s gaze.
“You better make that phone call sooner rather than later,” I tell him.
As soon as Jack calls I’ll take her to the only place I know for sure she’ll be safe.
After I shot my father and handed in my patch, I swore I’d never go back to Albany.
Looks like I’m going against my word.
Shouldn’t be hard for a guy who already went against his word when he walked away from the woman he swore he’d keep safe.
Soon.
Just a short while until Jack calls.
Soon the pipe and the knife will be in my hands.
Soon.
-Thirty-six-
Gina
Mind.
Body.
Soul.
They’re all meant to be one, yet my mind is completely detached from my broken body. My body wants to give up, it wants to wave a white flag and admit defeat, but my mind demands me to fix my face and pretend I’m the girl the world expects me to be.
As for my soul, that died in the alley.
I feel Stryker move beside me and quickly, desperately, I turn and grab a hold of the back of his shirt before he can climb out of bed.
“Don’t go,” I plead.
My mind is telling me I’m being ridiculous, that I’m probably driving the man crazy, but my body is begging him to protect what is left of it.
Guard me.
Save me.
“I’m just going to get a glass of water,” he says softly, turning to face me.
Torn between my anxiety and feeling like an imbecile I shake my head and fist his shirt in my hands, watching as his eyes drift toward the death grip I have on the cotton t-shirt.
“Gina,” he soothes, prying my fingers from his shirt before he lifts my hand to his lips. “It’s okay, I told you I wouldn’t leave you and I’m not going to.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, pulling my hand away from him. “I’m being ridiculous,” I say angrily, wishing my mind would reunite with my body.
“You’re not,” he assures me.
I lift my gaze to his and search his eyes, expecting to find pity, but all I find is exhaustion and compassion.
The last few weeks have been a blur but what I do remember is Stryker. He’s been by my side since the attack, taking care of me as though I’m a child and not his girlfriend. He makes sure I eat, and when I fight to stay awake at night only to end up passed out on the couch it’s Stryker who carries me to my bed. He’s the one who soothes me when the vivid nightmares haunt me, whispering fact after fact into my ear in a desperate attempt t
o focus my attention on anything other than the truth.
My eyes glance over his shoulder at the clock on the side of my bed. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and I’m still in bed. He’s still in bed.
This isn’t living.
I don’t know what the hell this is.
I should be working, trading stocks and making a killing in the market. He should be riding around on his motorcycle doing whatever it is bikers do. Instead, we’re lying in bed chasing my demons away. What about his demons? What about his nightmares? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own traumatic experience that I completely forgot about his PTSD and the demons that he struggles with.
For a moment I wonder how long we can possibly go on like this. How long until he’s had enough? How long until I have? When is it time to quit? And I don’t mean quit each other but quitting life in general. I suddenly understand why he tried to kill himself and how he found the nerve to hold a loaded gun to his head.
He wanted so badly to surrender to the nightmare just as I do.
“Hey,” he says, tipping my chin with his finger. “What’s going on in that head of yours, pretty girl?”
I shake away the thoughts—those thoughts aren’t me. They’re not what I’m made of. I am stronger than that. I am not a quitter.
How can I quit life when I’ve got him?
The doorbell rings and I pull my hand back, folding both of them on my lap.
“You should get that,” I say, ignoring his question and the dark thoughts invading my mind.
“How about I set the shower up for you first?” he offers, shrugging his shoulders. “You always seem a little better after you shower.”
That’s because I scrub my body until there are abrasions from the luffa, trying to scrub away the memory of their touch and scent. Is it crazy that I can still smell them? That I feel their scent is embedded in my skin?
Probably.
“That’s a good idea,” I reply robotically and force a crooked smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. He stares at me and I know he misses who I used to be. I should cut him loose, set him free from this disaster, but I’m too selfish.
I need him.
Funny isn’t it?
I used to think that maybe he needed me.
That we found one another so I could help him heal, and now here we are, he’s the one doing the healing.
He nods his head and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me alone in the bedroom. The pounding on the door becomes louder, more urgent and I follow Stryker into the bathroom, wrapping my hand around his wrist as he reaches to turn on the shower.
“I’ve got it,” I tell him, brushing his hands away and twisting the knobs myself. “Go answer the door.”
He doesn’t believe me and he stands there for a few minutes waiting for me to crumble before he takes my face in his hands and presses his lips to my forehead.
His hands used to be all over me, now he barely touches me. Part of me wonders if it’s because he’s no longer attracted to me, if he is as disgusted by my body as I am, while the other part thinks it’s because he’s afraid I’ll freak out if he touches me.
“I’ll be right outside,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I murmur as he drops his hands from my face and hesitantly steps out of the bathroom. The door clicks as it closes and I glance at myself in the mirror.
The bruising has faded, the swelling has gone down and the cuts and scrapes have healed. I look like my old self but I feel ugly, used, abused—fucking destroyed. Bravely, I keep my eyes glued to the mirror as I strip off my clothes and will myself to remember this body belongs to me and not the men who attacked me.
It’s mine to save.
Mine to heal.
Mine to love again.
Finally, I make my way into the shower and let the water stream down on me. I don’t scrub my skin raw and I wonder if that’s a sign of healing or if I’ve lost the will to even do that. By the time the water runs cold I’m ready to get out and decide that I’m not going to go back to bed. Maybe I’ll clean. After my mother found out she had cancer she used to clean to forget. You could eat off the floors in our house, and anyone who visited wouldn’t have thought the woman who polished those floors was dying.
Wrapping the towel around my body, I open the door and step into the bedroom. I hear muffled voices from outside my bedroom door but I ignore them and move to stand in front of my closet.
I want so badly to be able to put those clothes on but every time I look at them I think of the words they whispered in my ear. Not willing to have another meltdown I turn and grab a pair of sweats from my dresser drawer and a fitted t-shirt. After I’m dressed I throw my wet hair in a ponytail when Stryker knocks on the door.
“Babe, you dressed?”
I pull open the door expecting the worried gaze I’m used to but instead Stryker looks pissed.
“What?”
“We’ve got company,” he hisses as he rubs a hand over his bald head in frustration. I brush past him, creeping into the hallway and spot my brother on the couch. I haven’t seen him since the motel but he’s called Stryker daily for an update. I don’t think he can face me. Even now, his face is covered by his hands and he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.
Guilt.
It will consume you.
Tear you apart.
Ruin you.
“I can kick him out,” Stryker whispers against my ear. “Just say the word and his fancy ass will be on the curb.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“Fine, but he’s not alone,” he adds, causing me to turn around.
“Who else is here?”
He remains quiet for a moment before he blows out a ragged breath.
“Your family.”
Immediately I think of Celeste, but she came over yesterday and I remember her saying she had an eighteen hour shift at the hospital.
Curiously, I turn around and start down the hallway.
Pausing midway as my mind betrays me and suddenly drags me down into the depths of hell. In a flash I’m no longer in my own house but in that narrow alley.
I cry.
I scream.
No.
But it’s all ignored as I’m dragged across the concrete.
“No!”
“Gina!”
I kick, I smack, I even throw a punch and then my arms are pinned to my sides and I feel the hot tears slide down my cheeks.
I’ve got you.
I’ve got you.
“I’ve got you,” Stryker chants, enveloping me in his arms as he pulls my back against his chest. We slide to the floor and my body trembles as I sob uncontrollably.
“Let it out,” he whispers. “Let it out.”
I don’t know how long we sit on the floor in the hallway—seconds, minutes, an hour—but I spot the dress shoes in front of me and I remember I was walking to greet my brother when I lost my shit. I lift my gaze slowly and meet his somber face.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
“Gina?”
I divert my eyes over his shoulder and spot Aunt Grace behind him. She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, and for the first time in my life I can make out the resemblance her and my mother share. She walks toward me, glances at Stryker and I feel his arms loosen around me as she crouches down in front of me.
“My sweet girl,” she whispers, touching my cheek. “It’s going to be okay,” she says softly. “You’re going to be okay.”
No, I’m not.
I don’t tell her that though.
Instead, I stare at her until she brings me into her arms and hugs me, like a mother holds her child. Only she’s not my mother, she’s my aunt; my aunt who I haven’t spoken to in years.
I lift my head from her shoulder and stare at my brother, watch as he shoves his hands into his pockets before he turns and walks down the hallway.
“Your brother told me what happened, sweetheart,” she murmurs softly, her hands caressing my b
ack gently. “He thought maybe you could use a reminder of your mom. I’m not her, I’ll never be her, but I think I know what she would do if she was here.”
My gaze darts back to Rocco just in time to watch him walk out the front door.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Stryker mutters as I turn to my aunt.
“My sweet girl, come here,” she whispers.
She’s right.
She’s not my mother.
But she’s the closest thing I have left to my mother so I let her hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay. I confide my feelings, tell her all the things I wish I could tell my mother, and then when there are no more tears left to cry, I fall asleep in her arms.
And I dream.
I dream of my mom.
-Thirty-seven-
Gina
I think bikers get a bad rap.
We’re meant to see them in one light—as criminals. Society labels them a gang when in all actuality, they’re nothing but a family. The term brother is used loosely amongst them but only those close to them truly know they are one hundred percent actual brothers. Maybe not by blood but by choice, and sometimes that’s all you need in this world. Sometimes, most times, the family you choose is the family that sticks with you through thick and thin, through the ugly.
I’m sorry I ever let society get their hooks into me. I’m sorry I only saw the ugly and never looked for the beautiful, especially since that beautiful has been so kind to me.
Since my attack, Stryker’s brothers have gone above and beyond. I know they are doing it for him, because he is one of them, a Satan’s Knight, but still, I’m sure they all have lives of their own to carry on with. For example; there’s Jack Parrish, he’s been here too. He’s seen me at my worst more than once and each time he looks at me with compassion, something you wouldn’t think to find in the eyes of a biker, at least not one known as the Bulldog.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 27
