Crave (Bayonet Scars #5.5)

by Jc Emery

  “You meant what you said?”

  “Meant what?” I ask. I can barely respond. This position allows him to go deeper and for me to feel him in a way I didn’t know I ever could. I balance myself with my hand on the bed behind me, half suspended in his lap, and his arms are curled around the back of my shoulder blades to drive into me as hard as he can.

  “Said you love me,” he says. “Like hearing it, but I want to know it’s real and not bullshit.”

  “Not bullshit.” I barely get the words out. My arms shake from the exertion of the position. He pulls me up and into him, not breaking our connection, and then lays me down on the bed, never ceasing to stop the slow, steady rhythmic way he’s fucking me.

  “Good,” he says. His face screws up, his body stills, and he takes a deep breath before jackhammering into me so fucking fast and hard that my body is forced into another orgasm. Just as I’m coming down, he adjusts my legs, tilts his hips, and buries himself as deep as he can inside me. And he comes. He moans, a deep, guttural moan that almost sends me over the edge again. Watching him lose himself is the best, and that’s saying a lot considering the fact that I’ve just had the two most powerful, intense orgasms I’ve ever had in my life just a few minutes earlier.

  “Just fucked you bare and came in that sweet, perfect fucking pussy of yours. If that’s not love, Legs, I don’t know what is.”

  Chapter 6

  It’s another day on the road before we get to Detroit, but when we do, it’s too late to do anything but let ourselves into the house, via Elle’s spare key, as quietly as we can. Walking into Amber’s house makes me feel like a bastard because the weight of the situation finally hits me. Elle brings us through a small living room and down a hallway, then into a finished basement. It’s a sparsely decorated space, but a few telltale objects give away the fact that this isn’t just a space for guests—it’s a space for my woman.

  We didn’t turn any lights on upstairs because, according to Elle, Amber’s daughter, Piper, has been fussy without her big brother at home. So it’s not until we’re downstairs that I see any pictures of Amber or her kids. The walls aren’t overrun with family photos, but there’s a sizeable collection, and about a third of them include my woman in them. I start with the oldest photos and check them out in what looks like chronological order. The first one is of Elle and Amber when they were young, and the next one is a few years newer. A little boy with dark brown hair and light brown eyes sits on Elle’s lap, but his eyes are on his mom who’s right next to them.

  There’s a few more photos with Elle and the little boy who slowly grows from a chubby toddler into a massive-as-fuck teenager. He smiles less in the latter photos, has awkward posture, and generally looks annoyed with the world. He’s his father’s son, all right. Even if I didn’t already know Wyatt is his dad, I would now. The kid is big for his age, which isn’t much a surprise since Wyatt is six foot five, so while he might have the body mass to deal with Rig, he doesn’t seem to be confident in his body just yet, and that fucks me up. Rig’s in a bad place, and he’s hated Wyatt for years. I don’t know the history behind Wyatt’s letting his old lady leave him while she was pregnant, but I do know my VP. The man he is now would claw his way out of the depths of hell for this boy he doesn’t even know.

  “He’s cute, right?” Elle says as she comes to stand beside me.

  “Looks like his dad,” I say.

  “Like I said.” She smiles through her words and gives me a coy smile. It only lasts for a moment before it disappears.

  I pull her back into my chest and focus my attention on the rest of the framed photos. The more recent photos show a little girl with dark hair just like Zander. Though Amber’s changed her hair color numerous times over the years, I’ve deduced that she has naturally dark hair, not too far off from Wyatt’s coloring. It’s weird being in Amber’s house, looking at her family photos, all the while knowing her sister as well as I do and yet not knowing Amber at all.

  “You like kids,” I say. I always got the vibe from Elle that she wasn’t into kids. I never thought she hated them, but she never struck me as particularly maternal.

  “I like some kids,” she corrects. “Zander was the first kid I didn’t dislike. I think it’s because he came out of the womb being a little asshole. He’s a good kid. Well, he’s never knocked over a liquor store—at least I don’t think he has. He’s got an opinion on everything, can justify it, and wants to take on responsibility like he’s fully grown. I respect him—always have.”

  “You want kids?” I haven’t thought about it much before, but shit’s gotten domestic with Elle and quick, so I figure it’s important to ask. Especially since I rode her bare and have no clue what kind of birth control she uses, if any.

  “Eh,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders. “Never thought it was my thing. I’d love any kid I had, but I never really saw myself as a mother.”

  She’d be good at it. Watching her with Izzy yesterday made me curious to know if she realizes how much kids like her. Even a teenage boy with major attitude is smitten with my woman.

  “Need a refill?” Amber asks from across the kitchen. I eye my empty mug and nod my head. I haven’t said much to her, and it’s not because it’s really fucking early in the morning. I have questions and she has answers, but I’m in her house, drinking her coffee, and she’s in a fragile place, so I’m doing my best to not be a dick.

  Amber’s dark, reddish-brown hair is up in a messy bun. Other than her hair, she’s put care into her appearance. It’s not even seven yet, but she’s got a face full of makeup, tight jeans, high-heeled boots, and a short-sleeve shirt. She refills my coffee and brings me the milk and sugar. I give her a head nod as a thank you and add a splash of milk and a heap of sugar to my mug.

  “I appreciate your being here. Elle’s my girl and you being here tells me she’s your girl now, too. That means we’re in each other’s lives, and I know you got shit to say, so I’d rather you just say it so we can move on,” she says. Her words take me by surprise, causing me to choke on my coffee. When I regain my composure, I find her fighting a smile.

  “Not my place,” I say. “I’m just here to watch my woman’s six.”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” she says with a huge smile. “Just because I’m Wyatt’s old lady doesn’t mean you can’t be honest. Actually, I’d respect you more if you told me what kind of bitch you think I am.”

  “You want honesty?” I say.

  She comes to sit across the table from me, leans back in her chair, and takes a sip of her coffee. “I demand it,” she says evenly.

  “Okay, then. I’m trying to work out how fucked I’m going to be when my brothers find out about this shit. We don’t know each other, but I know your sister really fucking well, and I trust her judgment. Called her after Elle passed out last night to get a feel for how to handle you.”

  “Then you must hate me if you’ve talked to Michele.” She says it with a smile on her face, like she’s pleased with the idea.

  “Said you’re tough as nails and mean as hell, and if I think I’m going to be able to handle you, then I’m stupider than she thought.”

  “She’s right,” she says with a real smile on her face. For the first time since we started talking, she doesn’t look combative. Neither of them have to say it, but I can tell they miss one another.

  “This situation is fucked, but it isn’t on you. Wyatt and I made our choices, and we have to live with the consequences.” She pauses, looking nervous, and blows out a breath. I give her a few minutes of quiet and wait. She’s thinking on something and then says, “Elle tells me he’s different now—that I should give him a chance.”

  “He is,” Elle says. I lift my eyes and find she’s walking down the hall toward us with a little girl in her arms. The kid has curly, dark brown hair and big brown eyes, and she’s got her head resting on Elle’s shoulder. She’s watching her surroundings like a baby hawk waiting for breakfast. “And you don’t really have mu
ch of a choice now, do you?”

  Amber’s eyes shoot from Elle to me where she stares at me, pleading. Fuck. I don’t want to be in other people’s business, but I keep fucking ending up smack dab in the middle. First with Nic and Duke and all that shit. So much for being a good guy. Then with Cheyenne and Jeremy—goddamn kids—and all hell breaking loose there. Now this. For fuck’s sake. I’m not doing it again.

  “It’s bad enough I’m here without any of my brothers knowing. I can’t go back and keep this from them.”

  “I know,” she says quietly. “I just don’t know how I’m going to explain Piper.”

  Amber hides her eyes from me by tilting her head down. Elle crosses the room and hands the little girl over to her mother. I put two and two together and realize there’s a piece to this puzzle I haven’t asked about yet.

  “Who’s her dad?” I ask with a head nod in Amber’s direction. She shifts her daughter to her hip, her eyes lock on mine, and she takes a deep breath.

  “Wyatt.” She doesn’t redirect her gaze or flinch. There’s not a bit of shame in her features. I’m silent for a long while, searching for some kind of response that doesn’t include shooting myself in the fucking head.

  “How the fuck does that even make sense?”

  She shrugs her shoulders like I’m asking how she got a stain on the ceiling instead of how she has two of my brothers’ kids and he doesn’t seem to know about either one of them.

  “Love doesn’t always make sense,” she says and then turns away from me. She walks across the kitchen and starts preparing breakfast with one hand while Elle makes herself a cup of coffee. They move around each other like they’ve been doing this for years. Just when I think Amber’s done speaking, she comes back to the table and sits down with the kid in her lap, feeding her breakfast. “I’ve screwed up a lot—especially with Wyatt—but I love my kids, and I don’t regret them or how they came into this world. I’m too selfish to feel bad, and I’m okay with you, the club—even Wyatt—hating me for it. Just help me get my boy back, and I’ll face Wyatt. I will. But for now, I just need my son back.”

  Elle comes to stand beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. As small as it is, her touch calms me down a little. It grounds me.

  “We’ll get him back,” I say.

  Elle’s mobile rings from her pocket. She answers it quickly, says very few words to the person on the other end, and hangs up within thirty seconds of answering.

  “We got him,” she says. “Rawlings Camp Grounds in Huron National Forest.”

  “You sure?” Amber asks. Her voice is shaky and she looks scared. Scared to hope this could all be over soon, maybe. Scared to find her boy hurt.

  “Pretty sure. Beats sitting around here with our thumbs up our asses,” Elle says.

  “Then we better get going. I’ll have my neighbor watch Piper,” Amber says. She grabs her mobile and arranges for her neighbor to come over as soon as she can. Elle and I stand from our seats and head down to the basement to get the duffle full of weapons and ammo. We need to head out soon if we’re taking this motherfucker down today.

  “We got more important shit to do today, but we’re revisiting this topic of fingers in your ass, babe.”

  “Get my nephew back and you can put whatever you want in my ass,” she says with a wink. I immediately go to thinking about Candy Castle and my strategy the next time I have a few minutes to play, because if I don’t, I’m going to be sporting a chubby, and I really don’t have time to get off right now.

  Chapter 7

  The front door chimes as it opens, making me cringe. I hate those stupid security features. They don’t actually do anything useful, but they sure make it hard to sneak in and out of places—something that can be dangerous in my line of work.

  The woman behind the counter lifts her head and taps the worn laminate countertop with the tip of the pencil in her hand. A crossword puzzle is open in front of her, about half filled in, with eraser shavings scattered everywhere. She’s got a face full of lines—worry, laugh, and age—and a cynical eye. This could either work in my favor with a no bullshit approach, or it could go the other way with a no bullshit response. Going with my gut, I pull out the most recent photos of Rig and Zander that Amber could find and place them on the counter on top of her crossword puzzle.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I need to know if you’ve seen either of these guys.”

  She stares at me for a long time before she shrugs her shoulders and shoves the photos off her crossword puzzle, nearly pushing them to the floor. I catch them before they drop and put them right back where they were. This time, I keep a hand on the top of them so she can’t pull that shit again.

  “Listen, you want to get back to doing your thing, and I want to get this job done. The sooner you help me out, the sooner I help you out by leaving.” I lift both photos up for her to see them. “Now, this man kidnapped this boy. He’s a friend of the family who’s in a lot of trouble and got desperate. He’s armed and dangerous, and the longer he has the boy, the more likely he’s not safe.”

  “Don’t look like much of a boy to me,” she huffs. “More like a baby giraffe.”

  “Yeah, he’s fourteen, and he’s tall for his age. He’s also got a smart mouth but too little common sense to know when to shut up. What he does have, though, is a mother and a baby sister who love him. The family wants this resolved quietly, if you understand me.”

  “I might have seen them,” she says. “Can’t be sure, though.”

  I hate this game. So. Fucking. Much.

  “How much is it going to cost to jog your memory?” I ask. She pauses for a long moment to think on it. “I don’t have time for you to figure out how much you can bleed me dry for. Just throw out a number.”

  “Five hundred,” she says with raised eyebrows and a stern expression. I laugh and shake my head.

  “Lady, I have a fully loaded piece and two tarps in the back of my truck. You better rethink that number.”

  “Fine. No need to get nasty. Fifty bucks.”

  I pull out two twenties and a ten and slide it across the counter to her. She straightens up, grabs the money, and checks the computer to her right. In a few clicks, she nods to herself, and turns the monitor toward me. A window in the corner of the screen has what looks like a digital log book for reservations. Covering the rest of the screen is rolling video surveillance of Rig and Zander checking in.

  “This them?”

  “Yeah, where are they staying?” She doesn’t answer my question right away. I’m close, so fucking close to getting Zander back and putting Rig in the ground. I tap the counter top and lean in. She huffs—again—and waits another minute.

  “Cabin twenty-eight,” she mumbles and turns the monitor back her direction. After grabbing a map of the camp grounds, she circles one of the cabins toward the back and shoves the paper at me. “They checked in two nights ago. Seemed fine at the time.”

  “Thank you,” I say and take the paper. “I hope they haven’t checked out yet, or I’ll be back, and I’ll be bringing my man and the boy’s momma, and they’re not nearly as pleasant as I am.”

  “They’re there,” she says loudly. Her voice is rough irritation. If I sounded like her, I probably wouldn’t talk much either. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I find this kid and there won’t be any,” I say and walk out. I open the passenger door to the truck and climb in, directing Diesel, who’s at the wheel, to cabin twenty-eight.

  “The lady at the desk says they haven’t checked out yet. She has surveillance footage of them checking in. Zander looked fine despite the fuzzy footage. No limp, no awkward body language. We’re getting your boy back, babe.”

  Amber reaches up and squeezes my shoulder as she says, “Thank you.”

  Diesel pulls up the truck to cabin twenty-five and parks. He cuts the engine and turns to face us as he checks the guns he has on him to make sure they’re fully loaded and the safeties are off. Nobody wants a shoot-out,
but we have to be ready for anything. Amber hands me my guns, knife, and handcuffs from the duffle bag. I strap my M9 into my bra, via the most uncomfortable holster I’ve ever worn, and my .22 to my hip. The knife gets strapped to my ankle, and the handcuffs hook onto my hip holster.

  “I take lead. V-formation. Elle takes lead on extraction,” Diesel says as he climbs out of the truck. We follow his lead and walk around to his side of the truck. My eyes scan our surroundings, but nothing really catches my attention. Amber rolls her shoulders and stares at Diesel blankly. Her jaw ticks.

  “He’s my son.”

  “And you’re too emotional. You’re desperate—as you should be—because you’re his mother. Bad enough I’m the only remotely objective person here, but I can’t send you up there to pull your own boy out. I don’t care how smart or good of a shot you are. Plus, Rig called Elle. It makes the most sense.”

  “Fine,” she says and walks away. She’s checking out the other cabins and cars. None of them are particularly close by, but it’s smart to soak in as much of our surroundings as possible before we head in, especially since we don’t know what we’re walking into.

  With Amber distracted, I take a minute to be with Diesel. I place my hands on his pecs and sigh heavily. I refuse to think either of us is going to get hurt. It just doesn’t feel like that kind of day, but I need this time with him before chaos ensues.

  “Thank you,” I say. He opens his mouth to respond, but I stop him before he even gets started. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing or remind me that you have my back. Just let me thank you for doing something you don’t have to do.”

  “You never have to thank me for being here for you.”

  “But I do.” I’m pushing the topic, even though we really do need to get moving, because I want him to hear me. Not every man is so willing to put his ass out on a limb like this. Not every man cares enough.