The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

“Blackie went shopping?” I quip, raising an eyebrow as I pull out a stick of beef jerky.

  “Fuck no,” he mutters, pointing to the bag. “That’s all Lacey right there,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Lucky bastard, that one is. I still think I would’ve been a better fit for Jack’s daughter,” he says.

  “You met her once for five seconds before Blackie claimed her,” I point out.

  “It was love at first sight,” he deadpans.

  “Why don’t you tell Blackie that,” I suggest.

  “Thanks, but I like my dick hanging between my legs,” he says. “Anyway, get your ass into gear, big guy, Blackie pulled some strings and got us access to the clubhouse.” He pauses for a moment, scratching the back of his neck. “He’s planning something, something big. He didn’t say what or when but I saw it in his eyes, he’s hungry for it.”

  He’s not the only one.

  But I know revenge and it doesn’t come easy nor is it cheap.

  Some pay with their souls and others pay with their lives.

  I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, grabbing the bag before I start for the bathroom.

  “I’m going to call the hospital and see if there is any change on Wolf or Linc,” he says. “Any idea where Stryker is?”

  I turn around and shrug my shoulders. Three days ago, he showed his face at the hospital and told me to get him a room here, but he never showed that night or any night since.

  “He mentioned staying with some girl,” I tell him.

  “Well, call him, tell him to put his dick in his pants and meet us at the clubhouse. We’re going to need all hands on deck,” he says before turning and heading toward the door. “Oh, and it’s your turn to sit with them tonight,” he adds before closing the door behind him.

  We take turns staying at the hospital. An order that came down from the Bulldog himself, making sure no one gets a chance to fuck with our brothers while they’re unable to defend themselves. It’s something we would have done regardless if our president demanded we do so or not. Last night, Deuce spent the night bouncing between Linc and Wolf, and tonight I would do the same.

  Hopefully Celeste won’t be working, but I don’t have that kind of luck. No, I get fucked every which way possible. Not only will she be working, but she’ll probably be the nurse scheduled to care for one of my brothers. Who am I kidding, she’ll most likely be taking care of both of them.

  I knew once the patch was on my back there was a chance fate would intervene and I’d see her again. Still, I hung onto hope and prayed she got the fuck out of New York, that she made a life for herself somewhere our past couldn’t haunt her anymore.

  I lasted three weeks before I gave in and parked my bike across the street from her parents’ house, learning they still lived three blocks away from my childhood home. However, she didn’t live there anymore, and I struggled with my conscience over whether or not I should have Rick get me her address. In the end, I chose to leave her alone, knowing I’d never be what she needs. I’ll always drag her down. It didn’t matter that I came back—my life, the man I was now wasn’t good enough for her.

  I did a damn good job at avoiding her, making it a mission not to run into her by chance. I tempted fate and spat in its face until a couple of weeks ago, when I saw her at some Mexican joint. She didn’t see me and I left before she could, realizing she used to feel me before she saw me. We were done, over—dead and buried.

  She deserves better than leather.

  Maybe she has that now. Maybe she has someone who takes good care of her.

  Fuck, I hate that idea.

  I hate thinking there is another man that calls her his.

  I may have made peace with losing her, but that doesn’t mean shit when I see her. No, when my eyes lock with hers—she’s still mine. That cuts deeper than any knife, it does more damage than a magazine full of bullets. Having her in front of me not able to touch her makes me wish my enemies were able to catch me. It makes guarding my brothers pure fucking torture.

  Sighing, I turn on the shower and glance at myself in the mirror.

  “You should’ve chased heaven instead of hell,” I scold.

  I should have chased her instead of giving my life to the man who took my family from me, but I was too focused on revenge to care about anything else.

  Shaking my head, I force her out of my mind and order myself to focus on my club. I’ll deal with Celeste later. Most likely after I’ve run into her again. After I leave the hospital and wrap my hand around my dick, playing a fresh memory of her on repeat. Maybe she’ll throw me a bone, bend over and give me a glimpse of that sweet fucking ass.

  Realizing I’m fucked beyond measure, I step under the spray and take a cold shower. I resolve to avoid Celeste at all costs, meaning Stryker needs to pull his head out from between the legs he’s been buried in and take a turn watching out for Wolf and Linc.

  Twenty minutes later, after I’m dressed and ready to go, I call Stryker and tell him to get his ass to the Dog Pound. On our way to the compound the hospital calls, informing us that Wolf has woken up and is asking for us. Deuce and I make a quick detour to the hospital and check in on the crazy fuck.

  Big fucking mistake.

  We’re not there five minutes before he pulls the oxygen from his nose and orders us to find the table, the same table he nearly lost his life trying to save. I didn’t understand the fucking attachment to the damn thing. Sure, the reaper carved into the wood was a nice touch and all that, but Wolf had a heart attack dragging that fucking thing through the debris and now he didn’t give a shit about anything else but that slab of wood.

  He tells us the story behind the table, revealing that before Jack became president, he lost his young son. It was his predecessor, Cain, who talked Jack out of taking his own life. Cain built the table with his old man, the same guy who runs the shooting range our club operates out in New Jersey. The table survived the exchange of power and Wolf claims it’s the foundation of our club. He preaches that as long as we have that table we can hold church anywhere. Personally, I think the man has a screw loose somewhere, but who am I to judge. I’m just learning how to take root somewhere. Maybe if I stick around, if I live past thirty, maybe then that table will mean as much to me as it does to the rest of my brothers.

  Jack’s a loose cannon, making it hard to decipher when he’s having a manic episode or simply being the Bulldog. None of us want to disappoint Wolf or be the men responsible for Jack taking a trip to crazyville so we vow to search for the table.

  When we arrive at the compound, we peel back the yellow tape and stare at the destruction, wondering where to begin. That’s when I spot Pipe sitting on top of the broken bar where he found his wife. He’s nursing a bottle of booze. Neither of us go to him, knowing well enough he wants to be by himself. We leave him to his misery and start sifting through the dirt and debris.

  We spend hours sweating our balls off and still don’t find the fucking table. Something changes. Somewhere between the hospital and digging through this shit, staring at the terror that tried to ruin our club—we grow an attachment to the fucking table. The three former nomads, the men that swore they were meant to roam the world alone—those men, us, we vow to find the glue that holds this brotherhood together.

  We vow to find the fucking table.

  -Nine-

  Celeste

  Being a single mother is fucking hard and most days I feel like a failure. For me it’s the pressure of knowing I am the only one making the decisions on my daughter’s behalf. That I am solely responsible for the person she will become. There is no one to share the hard stuff with, no one to make sure I’m making the right choice. There is only me, and I have to be perfect for her because she deserves nothing less.

  The thing is; I’m not perfect.

  I’m like the furthest thing from perfect.

  I’m flawed just like the rest of the single mothers out there trying to do it all. I forget to give her a vitamin every d
ay, I almost never pack her favorite toy when we go out and I cry almost every night because she still doesn’t sleep through the night. I swore on everything I would never let my daughter see me cry. It’s not that there is anything wrong with crying, but I never want her to think I’m crying because I regret her. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how exhausted I am or how much I doubt myself, I never want my little girl to think she’s to blame or that my life would have been better without her.

  Because the truth is I didn’t have a life until I had her.

  After Skylar’s birth I stopped living for Alexandria’s memory and started living for my daughter. Her birth wiped away the sadness from my life and filled it with so much joy. I never knew how full a heart could be until I looked into her eyes and knew we belonged to one another. For the rest of my days I’d be more than just Celeste Spinelli. I’d be Skylar Alexandria’s mother and she’d be the precious gift that pulled me from the darkness that has consumed me since I was fourteen years old.

  I think I’ll always harbor guilt over what happened to my friend but it's overshadowed by the guilt I feel every time I leave my daughter. When I first returned to work, I was miserable. Like every new mom, I hated leaving my daughter and wished I could stay with her forever. I needed to support my girl, and I don’t know about you, but we don’t have a money tree in our yard—we don’t even have a yard.

  My parents have always been the outcasts of our family, choosing the working class life over the life of a criminal, and both continue to work full time. My mother is a para in an elementary school and my father has a small auto body shop in the neighborhood. Neither of them could have watched my daughter full-time, so I had no choice but to enroll her in the hospital day care center. However, when I work overnight I take Skylar to them. She sleeps there and before my mother goes to work she drops her off at the hospital. The bouncing around is where my guilt comes into play but I push past it, take my girl in my arms, and the moment I’m off the clock I forfeit sleep for playtime with her.

  I tell myself the days are endless; the nights are long. These years will be over in the blink of an eye. I won’t get to hold her forever. One day she’ll grow and find her own place in the world and I’ll look back on the sleepless nights and wish for them again.

  I am a mother, I may not be the best mother, but I get up every day and try to be the kind of woman my daughter will one day be proud of. When she looks back at photographs, I hope she sees beyond the circles beneath my eyes and the crazy hair I always seem to have. When she looks back, I hope she recognizes the unconditional love in my eyes—I hope she feels it.

  Shifting the car into park, I glance into the rearview mirror and smile back at my girl.

  “Is my Skylar bear ready to see Mema and Papa?”

  My heartstrings tug when she claps her chubby hands together excitedly.

  “Mema,” she cheers.

  I hustle out of the car, grabbing her overnight bag and remove her from her car seat. Latched onto my hip, my girl and I head for my parents’ humble semidetached house. My father’s at the door waiting for us wearing his work uniform and a smile from ear to ear. Watching my father spread his arms wide for his granddaughter will never get old. They weren’t thrilled over the circumstances, but once she was born the disappointment diminished and they fell just as hard for my girl as I did.

  My dad quickly takes Skylar into his arms and winks at me.

  “There’s Papa’s girl,” he says as he twirls her in the air. Bringing her back to his chest he leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “You’re late,” he states.

  Blowing a stray hair from my eyes, I shrug my shoulders and loop Skylar’s bag through his arm.

  “What else is new?” I reply sarcastically, glancing over his shoulder. “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’ll be home in five minutes,” he says, adjusting the strap on his shoulder as he balances Skylar in his arms.

  “Mema!”

  “Mema will be here soon, sweetheart,” he tells her before turning his eyes back to me. “Go, I’ve got her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  My dad has really stepped up to the plate with Skylar. He’s even started to change diapers now. Granted he almost always puts it on backward—he tries.

  “I’ve got everything under control,” he promises, waving me off with a flick of his hand.

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly, feeling the twinge of regret as I lean in and pepper kisses across Skylar’s cheeks. “Mommy loves you, sweet girl.”

  Skylar watches as my dad waves and then mimics him, lifting her hand to wave at me.

  “Mama, go bye-bye!”

  “Okay, I get off at eight in the morning so tell Mom to drop her at the day care center for an hour and I’ll grab her from there. If you have any problems call the hospital and have them page me. Oh, and she only gets one bottle at night before bed,” I tell him, wagging a finger at him. “No popping bottles all night, dad.”

  “But—”

  “No, no buts, Dad. She’s playing you because she knows you always give in to her,” I say, leaning in to give him another quick kiss on his cheek and another on top of Sky’s head. “Okay, I love you guys.”

  I hastily turn around before I lose my nerve and hurry down the small walkway back to my car. I push aside the guilt and put my game face on. Today I’m going to make a difference in the world. It won’t be a big difference, but I’ll give my smile and my kindness to my patients in the hope that I brighten at least one of their days.

  It doesn’t take me long to get to the hospital, and thank Christ for that because I’m already thirty minutes late. I swear I’m going to be late to my own funeral.

  Today I’m scheduled to work the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. This is a fucking picnic compared to the emergency room. I clip my badge to my scrubs, make my way to the nurse’s station and stare at the board, familiarizing myself with the patients and their room numbers. My gaze lingers over one in particular—Alfonse Scotto.

  Most of the nurses here can’t stand him and nobody is a fan of the heavy traffic he seems to bring to the CICU. Security has been called on several occasions because the big bad bikers don’t seem to understand that there is only one visitor allowed in the unit at a time. Actually, I think they understand just fine and simply don’t give a fuck. There is always one of them standing guard over Mr. Scotto and by the grace of God it hasn’t been Jagger—or rather, Cobra.

  “He’s all yours,” my co-worker Linda says, pointing to Mr. Scotto’s name on the dry erase board.

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “He’s not that bad,” I argue.

  “Tell that to the poor guy he keeps hollering at,” she says, tipping her chin toward his room.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting to contain the chuckle. I’ve observed Mr. Scotto in his glory and the poor schlep, Duck, no, that’s not his name. Deuce, that’s it. He’s been here night after night and has been tried and tested by the old geezer.

  “I don’t care how gorgeous the men are parading in and out of that room, that man in there is Satan himself,” she says, pointing an accusing finger toward Mr. Scotto’s room.

  “Well if the leather fits…” I joke, stepping behind the counter of the nurse’s station. I bend down and reach into the small fridge beneath it and pull out two chocolate pudding cups and shove them into my pockets.

  “It’s all about taming the beast,” I tell her with a wink. “Watch and learn, sister. Watch and learn.”

  “I’ll pass, but since you’re such a fan, his catheter needs changing too,” Linda says pointedly.

  The smile fades from my lips and I cringe. Grabbing her tablet off the counter in front of me, she turns and walks away. The sound of her laughter trails behind her as I turn my gaze to Mr. Scotto’s room. Sighing, I grab a plastic spoon as he shouts at Deuce. I can almost picture the poor guys face as he runs his fingers through his dark hair in frustration. Something I’ve seen him do about a dozen times in th
e last two visits.

  I should have grabbed a pudding for him too.

  “Now, drag your ass to Meat Supreme and get me a hero. I want salami, roasted peppers and fresh mozz on Italian bread. Make sure they load that baby up with oil and vinegar too,” Mr. Scotto orders as I knock on the door and make my presence known.

  Stepping into the room, I hear Jagger’s familiar voice. His tone is angry but his voice is like whiskey, warming me all over as it washes over me while he chastises Mr. Scotto.

  “You just had a fucking heart attack, Wolf,” he sneers, lifting his eyes to me. He doesn’t acknowledge me as anything more than a nurse when he points a finger at my patient. “Please tell this hard-headed son of a bitch he can’t have a fucking salami sandwich.”

  “Who said anything about a sandwich? I believe it was a hero,” Mr. Scotto corrects as he slams his fist on the control panel on the side of the bed trying to lift himself into a sitting position. However, it doesn’t quite work for him and he winds up reclining it further back.

  “Look what you made me do!”

  “Man, you’re lucky she’s here right now,” Jagger hisses.

  “Mr. Scotto, calm down,” I soothe, sauntering toward his side. I press on the button, inclining the bed. “I bet if I take your blood pressure right now it’ll be through the roof,” I say, removing my finger from the button. “Is that better?”

  “Yes, darlin’,” he croons before slicing his eyes back to Jagger’s and glares at him. “Now let’s get something straight, Cobra. Ain’t no one going to tell me what I can and cannot do. The day someone tells me I can’t fucking eat whatever I damn well please is the day they put my fat ass in the dirt.”

  “You keep eating like that and you’ll be in the dirt sooner rather than later,” he replies.

  As he moves across to the other side of the bed, I get a whiff of his cologne and my eyes involuntarily close for a brief moment. Feeling the intensity of his gaze, I force myself to stare at my patient and ignore the way my body heats under his watchful eye.

  “Tell this putz I’m fine,” Mr. Scotto demands.