Satan has arrived.
Pay up motherfuckers.
Running straight for hell, I spot three Bastards locked and loaded, ready to take us out. It’s then, that fucking moment, watching as Riggs steps in front of Blackie and sprays the three men full of lead, that it all becomes clear. He is an asset to his club because he has the most to lose. He fights harder than anyone because he has heaven waiting for him and this shit, this hell, it will not tear him away from that. He’s got heart, and that shit is what keeps him breathing.
Riggs waves us through the front door and the first sight I catch is a woman dancing in fire, screaming at the top of her lungs.
A sight like that makes you wonder why anyone brings life into this world.
But then one wouldn’t know the answer to that unless he decides to stick.
Unless he decides to go all in and man the fuck up.
Unless he decides to be the man that protects his daughter from this shit.
Unless he vows for her never to know ugly.
In this life, I wonder if the woman in front of me ever knew beautiful, if she ever got to know heaven. Her screams resonate inside me and my sister’s face flashes before me. I fight for focus, blinking as I watch Deuce shoot the woman so she doesn’t feel the flames eat away at her.
In this life, I pray my sister never suffered a fate like that.
In this life, I swear my daughter will never know that kind of ugly.
Mine.
It’s the final thought I have before I transform into the motherfucking reaper and take out the whores and bastards creeping from the crevices.
Fighting for what is ours, we kill with no regret.
Retribution is alive in all of us and it’s raining down on these cocksuckers.
The club divides, taking out targets left and right, but it’s Pipe who makes me freeze in my tracks. He screams his wife’s name as he spins in a circle firing away.
In this life, Pipe is desperate.
He’s a man lost.
A man without a heart to go back to.
In this life, I decide I don’t want to be Pipe.
I want to be Riggs.
I want to be the guy who is an asset to his club because he’s got a little girl at home he needs to protect.
Her.
Skylar.
Intuition.
It knows the game.
Better than you.
Better than I.
I should have listened to my gut and turned right instead of left, but I couldn’t peel my eyes away from Pipe and as a result my shoulder catches a bullet. The scream rips through me as I reach for my shoulder, level my arm and shoot back, tearing the fucking ear off the motherfucker who shot me.
Shot me but didn’t catch me.
You gotta catch me to kill me.
And now you have to try a whole lot harder because I got heart waiting for me.
Stryker finishes the bastard by blowing his dick off.
All in the name of brotherhood.
The shots die down as Blackie calls Pipe over and hands him a knife. Biting through the pain, I focus on the lost soul as he cuts the tear drops tattooed to the face of the president of the rival club.
In this life, when a man bows down to pray he cuts the flesh from the man who stole his wife’s life. Then he flicks his skin from the tip of his rusted knife and slices his neck wide open.
In this life, a man delivers death.
And he takes his revenge.
I close my eyes as the pain washes over me and I stumble to the floor. Stryker moves quickly. Pulling the belt from his jeans, he wraps it around my shoulder and ties it tight to stop the bleeding.
“I’m fine,” I grind out. “I just can’t ride back.”
“We’re going to need a cage,” he shouts.
“I’ve got one a mile out waiting for us,” the president of Bergen County replies.
In this life, I order Stryker to call Rick Grayson, and this time when he answers, I wait for him to give me Celeste’s address.
Then I close my eyes and say her name.
“Skylar.”
In this life, there are two things that make the world go round.
The innocence of a child.
And the sins of a father
.
-Twenty-two-
Celeste
Turning onto my side, I stare at the baby monitor perched on my nightstand. At the black and white image of my little girl sleeping peacefully.
Not mine.
Ours.
“You make that girl by yourself?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you don’t get to decide my part in her life.”
Sighing, I roll onto my back and gaze up at the ceiling. Giving in to another sleepless night, I push off the covers and let out a deep breath.
A million different thoughts, fears and dreams all twist in knots as I climb out of bed and make my way toward the kitchen. Before I told Cobra the truth, I played all the possible scenarios in my head. I thought I was prepared for anything and I wasn’t surprised when he walked out the door. The anger and vicious words he spat didn’t shock me either.
I was prepared for everything.
The turmoil he passed onto me, the wonderment of our daughter having a place in his life—I had thought of everything.
I completely expected one of us to walk away, knowing we both would need time after the ground stopped shaking. Time to stand on level ground and decide what happens next.
So why am I up at four o’clock in the morning pouring myself a cup of coffee?
My heart and soul knew the answer to the question and a moment later the universe answers when my doorbell rings.
Placing the mug on the counter, I walk around the breakfast nook and pad through the living room. Placing one hand on the knob I lean my forehead against the door and close my eyes.
“Who is it?”
“Blondie, it’s Deuce, be a sweetheart and open the door,” he calls from the other end.
Dread churns in the pit of my stomach as I swallow down the lump stuck in my throat and push down my fears.
No, no, no.
Why is here?
Where is Cobra?
With trembling hands, I unlock my door, prepare myself for the worst and pull it open. My eyes widen, darting between Deuce and Cobra, then down to the blood staining his shoulder.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, spreading the door wide as my gaze sweeps over Cobra.
“It ain’t as bad as it looks,” he growls.
His baby blues darken as they pierce into me.
“The hard headed son of a bitch wouldn’t let me take him to our doc, insisted I bring him here,” Deuce explains, repositioning Cobra’s arm around his neck.
“Fuck,” he hisses, wincing in pain.
“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” Deuce cringes, turning his eyes back to me. “I think we stopped the bleeding so he shouldn’t make too much of a mess,” he adds, flashing me a smirk. “So what do you say, sweetheart, you going to let us in or what?”
“Of course,” I stammer, moving around to help Deuce bring him inside. “Let’s get him over to the couch.”
“No, the blood will stain your couch,” he grinds out, moaning as we move him through the small living room.
“Then you’ll just have to buy me a new couch,” I whisper.
“Add it to the list of arrears,” he grunts, falling back onto the couch with a groan.
“He might be a little drunk,” Deuce offers, dimples on full display.
“How drunk?”
“Well…you know…we gave him a little whiskey to take the edge off the pain,” he states. “Just a smidge.”
“Whiskey,” Cobra mutters. “Every sip tastes like you.”
“Yeah, let’s hope he’s talking about you,” Deuce says, scratching the top of his head before turning back to me.
“I’ve got it from here,” I tell him, looking back at Cobra.
He opens
his eyes halfway and the corners of his lips twitch.
“Do you now?”
“Yeah, that’s my cue,” Deuce declares. “Bullet grazed his shoulder. Stryker is going to want his belt back so hang onto that thing. If there are any complications, don’t take his ass to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Sweetheart, no offense, I know they’re your people and all, but hospitals are cop callers. We don’t need none of that right now. If there are any issues, call me and I’ll get him to the club doctor. My number is programed into his phone,” he says, handing me Cobra’s phone. “Take care of him.”
“I will,” I promise, following him toward the door.
He steps into the hallway, turning back to face me and appears to debate what to say next. Shoving his hands into his pockets he lifts his dark eyes to mine and quirks his lips.
“Makes sense.”
My eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“What does?”
Smiling, he shakes his head and I see the exhaustion in his eyes.
“Everything about him makes much more sense now.”
“He told you?”
“Wouldn’t be on your couch if he didn’t,” he says evenly. “Call me if you need anything,” he adds as he starts to walk away.
Swallowing, I start to close the door but Deuce turns back to me. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a bag of M&M’s.
“I almost forgot,” he says. “Son of a bitch made me stop off and grab these too.”
Taking the bag from his hand I smile slightly before he walks away. Drawing in a deep breath I walk back into my apartment and close the door. My eyes slice to my couch and the man sprawled across it, grunting as he tries to undo the belt tied to his shoulder.
“Don’t do that,” I order hoarsely, making my way over to him. Placing my knee on the cushion beside him, I lean over and gently undo the knot on the belt. “Easy,” I whisper as he cringes. Untangling the belt, I reach over and drop it onto the coffee table. Feeling the intensity of his stare I urge him to lean forward and carefully remove the leather vest from him.
“Shit,” he hisses.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, leaning back to rake my eyes over his face, watching as he briefly distorts in pain. “I’m going to get some supplies. I’ll be right back, okay?”
A grunt escapes his lips and I take that as my answer. Sliding off the couch, I step around his long legs but he grabs the hem of my t-shirt and stops me from going anywhere.
“Whatcha wearing under there?”
Raising an eyebrow, I look at him.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Tell me.”
“You’re bleeding all over my couch and you want to know what I’m wearing underneath my shirt?”
“Take my mind off the bullet, baby,” he rasps.
“God, how much did they give you to drink?”
“Not much,” he argues. His fingers twist my shirt as he closes his eyes. “Deuce poured most of it on my shoulder before any of it went down my throat.”
I bite back the chuckle because really there isn’t a thing funny about any of this, but seeing him like this brings back memories. Like the nights when we used to sneak out and drink beers in my dad’s garage.
Then we were young and stupid.
Now, I have no idea what we are.
Maybe we’re still a little stupid.
“Nothing,” I answer. “Now sit still and let me clean you up.”
His lips jerk and a faint grin works his rugged features.
“I knew it,” he mutters.
Rolling my eyes, I leave him to his drunken, wounded stupor and go to the bathroom to fetch half my medicine cabinet. If someone told me I’d be cutting Jagger’s shirt off his body or that I’d be cleaning and stitching a flesh wound, well, years ago I would have told them they were out of their minds. Now, I’m not so surprised.
When I return to the living room, his eyes are closed and his breathing is labored. Thinking he’s sleeping, I gently pull at the t-shirt that’s caked with blood and cut it down the middle.
“Look at you,” he mumbles.
“Lean forward,” I instruct, laying the scissors down beside him. With a little probing, he pushes off the back of the couch and I remove his t-shirt. He lets out a stream of curses as I clean the wound, gently wiping away the dried blood with a swab.
“Been all over,” he says hoarsely.
My eyes lift from his shoulder to his face and meet his. Everything goes still as he lifts his hand to my cheek.
“Seen a lot of shit and these hands are as dirty as they get. I’m not a good guy, Celeste.”
Sadly, there is truth to that.
I think as girls we like to believe we can save the bad boy. We like to think their lives were incomplete until we walked into them. We like to think we’re their saviors and that we can change them; make them see the error of their ways. In a perfect life, the right woman would walk into the damaged soul’s life and he’d repent his sins and change his ways.
As young girls, we read fairy tales. They resonate with us, spark our dreams and naively we believe we can be a princess too. We wait for our prince to come and expect to live happily ever after.
A girl doesn’t realize until she becomes a woman that fairy tales come in all shapes and sizes. There are all types of love in this world and most of the time it’s not perfect. Most of the time love is a struggle. A girl doesn’t realize that men are flawed. They make bad decisions, choose the wrong road and get a little lost.
A woman recognizes good intentions. She recognizes the soul of a man, something a young girl doesn’t even think about. A woman knows she can’t save the bad boy, but she loves him anyway because deep down she’s wise enough to accept what she can’t change.
Deep down, a woman’s heart is big enough to love the fractured and flawed.
He blows out a breath, forcing me out of my head.
“I’m almost done,” I say softly.
He doesn’t respond and I begin to stitch him, mentally noting to thank my mother for the sewing kit she stuck under my bathroom sink.
“Aren’t you going to ask a million questions?”
“No, I think I’ve got all the answers I need,” I say. “This will hurt a little so grab onto the pillow or something,” I warn.
I should have been clearer when I said something because as the needle pierces his skin he grabs a hold of my tit.
“Ouch!”
“You said grab something.”
“I said a pillow.”
“I grabbed the first thing I saw.”
“I guess some things don’t change, huh?” A soft smile plays on my lips before I make another stitch and he takes another handful.
“Some things,” he agrees. “But a lot changed too. We have a kid,” he rasps.
Pulling back the needle, I grab the scissors and cut the thread. Satisfied with the closure, I turn to his sobering eyes.
“We do,” I answer.
“Can I see her?” he asks hoarsely, his tone barely audible. “Is she here?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “She’s sleeping.”
His eyes flicker and I watch his throat as he struggles to swallow.
“All night I was trying to picture what she looks like, wondering if I’d get the chance to see her.”
Wincing, he drops his arms to his sides and shakes his head.
“I don’t know how it will work. How to be what she needs or what you need, but I know I thought about dying today and the only thing that kept me from being reckless with my own life was knowing there was new life waiting for me.”
Honest words.
Raw emotion.
A woman can recognize those things too.
Unfolding my legs, I stand in front of him and hold out my hand.
He slips his hand in mine and works himself off the couch.
I’ve dreamt of this moment.
This is the fairy tale, the very first page of o
ur story. Everything before this moment was part of the prologue. The piece that sparks your interest. But this isn’t like any fairy tale you’ve known before. This isn’t the story your mommy read to you before bed. I’m not a princess and he isn’t a prince. We’ve both made mistakes. We’ve both made wrong turns and a shit ton of bad decisions. I’m the woman who spent most of her existence living in the shadow of someone else and he’s the man who lived a life of mayhem.
This is the story of two broken people.
Two lost souls.
Two survivors.
Two people who know how ugly the world is.
Two people who did one thing right in this life.
Two people who brought beautiful into the world.
This is the story of Cobra and Celeste.
Leading him down the hallway, I pause in front of our daughter’s room and take a deep breath. He’s about to lay eyes on her for the first time and no amount of dreaming could have ever prepared me for how I feel right now.
I glance over my shoulder.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Heart pounding loudly in my ears, I push open the door and bring him inside. A few steps in, I freeze and turn to him.
This isn’t my moment.
This is his.
I release his hand and tip my chin toward the crib centered in the room.
“A beautiful sky awaits,” I whisper.
He stares at me for a brief pause before swiping a hand over his face. My heart pounds as he makes his way toward her. Drawing in a ragged breath, he places both hands on the rails of the crib and stares at her, drinking every inch of her in.
Awe.
A woman recognizes that too.
“Mine,” he whispers.
Tears escape the corners of my eyes as I watch the prince of mayhem fall in love with heaven.
A woman, this woman, recognizes love at first sight.
-Twenty-three-
Cobra
My head pounds and pain sears through my shoulder as I blink open my eyes. Beneath an airbrushed sky full of clouds and surrounded by pink walls, my gaze darts to the empty crib in the middle of the room and the memory of last night slams into me.
Beautiful, so fucking beautiful.
A mass of blonde curls, chubby cheeks and lips like an open rosebud.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 46
