Crush

by J. C. Emery

  JC Emery

  SERIES & TITLES BY JC EMERY

  Men with Badges

  Marital Bitch

  The Switch

  BAYONET SCARS

  Ride

  Thrash

  Rev

  Crush

  Burn (coming soon)

  CRUSH

  a Bayonet Scars novel

  by

  JC Emery

  Copyright 2014 by Left Break Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Find JC Emery on the web!

  http://www.jcemery.com

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  Cover Design by Brenda Gonet at Gonet Design

  http://www.facebook.com/gonetdesign

  Timeline created by The Illustrated Author

  http://www.theillustratedauthor.net/

  Copy Edits performed by Michele Milburn

  Dear Reader,

  While I know the story of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club as surely as I know the sound of my own voice, it’s come to my attention that the overlapping storylines of each book can be confusing. The series is set up so that every book overlaps the one before and the one after in some manner. The fast-moving nature of the series and the first person perspective means that you, as the reader, may have to wait for answers until we get into another character’s head. I have carefully mapped the series story arc as well as the individual relationship arcs to best tell the story that’s in my heart.

  In order to make it easier for you to follow along as we move toward our final conclusion, I have added a timeline as a means of indicating where we are with the series story arc. The timeline does not include the prologue or the epilogue. I hope this helps clear up any confusion that’s occurred along the way.

  Thanks,

  JC

  YOUNG LOVE IS ALWAYS PERFECT. UNTIL IT’S NOT.

  Cheyenne Grady is a total daddy’s girl to her badass father, the sergeant at arms of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club. She’s funny and kind, and she just wants that deep, earth-shattering love like her dad has with her school secretary, Holly. But Cheyenne’s been looking in the wrong direction, because the only good that can come from the way she looks at Jeremy Whelan is a lesson in heartbreak.

  Jeremy always wanted to prospect for the Forsaken Motorcycle Club and wear the same patch as his father. When a life-long dream becomes reality, Jeremy realizes that the outlaw lifestyle is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it easy on relationships. He wants to be a good man, but temptation is everywhere.

  Cheyenne is beautiful and strong and exactly what Jeremy could have forever. As long as he doesn’t screw it up.

  Love is never more powerful than the first time.

  Mature Content Warning: The Bayonet Scars novels are a dark romance series which features graphic sexual content, violence, and foul language that is intended for a mature audience. Each novel features a different couple, though it's not recommended that they be read out of order due to the series story arc.

  PROLOGUE

  July

  21 months to Mancuso’s downfall

  I NEVER FEEL more at home than I do right here on Forsaken land. The black vinyl inserts in the high-as-hell chain link fence that surrounds the compound have the word FORSAKEN painted across them in ten-foot high white lettering. Everywhere they can, the club’s marked this property. Even if one day Forsaken no longer calls this spot home, their mark will remain. After a small fire that was started, due to no fault of my own, Dad and Jim had to repair and repaint one of the picnic tables. They knew how it started, and instead of laying into me, Dad gave me a knife and told me to mark that table as my own. Beneath the table top, in the fucked up scratch marks of a seven-year-old’s handiwork, is JEREMY WAS HERE. I don’t get to come by as often as I’d like, but every chance I get, I sit at that table. In a way, it makes me feel closer to my dad. I’d go there now, but there’s a crowd around my table watching two of the brothers fight it out.

  Nobody’s paying attention to me, which is the way I like it. People pay too much attention and they start asking questions. I slip past the crowd and around to the line of Harleys backed up against the fence. There’s really no order to the way the brothers park in the lot except that they try to make it as easy as possible to get out in a moment’s notice. I don’t recognize all the bikes here. Some of them are familiar, like Ryan’s bike that he’s had custom painted with obsessive detailing that nobody else seems to see but him. Next to Ryan’s bike, on the very end, is Duke’s. Duke patched in before Dad went to prison, and he’s always been good to me. I like the guy and all, but his bike is boring as shit.

  I scan the crowd and find the fight is still going on. Taking advantage of the moment, I run my hand along the gas tank of the black Harley. I’d really like to get my hands on Ryan’s bike, but he has this thing about people’s asses and his dick, so I’ll just stay over here with Duke’s. Duke won’t say it because he’s Forsaken and he’s not a fucking pussy, but I know he lets me hang around the clubhouse because of my sister, Nic. Even before they hooked up, he let me do shit I know Dad would beat me for. Usually I’ll just casually ask him if he’s seen Nic anywhere like I’m there for her. I think he caught on that I was full of shit at some point, but as long as I feed him information, he lets me hang out. He even had a Lost Girl show me how to properly feel up a chick once. That was pretty badass.

  The seat of Duke’s bike is worn. Its cracks show a seat that has seen a lot of miles with its rider. Dad says when he gets out he’s going to hook me up and get me a bike. I can’t wait. More than anything, I just want to learn how to ride. I want to earn my cut and sit in Church with these guys. Dudes like me, who don’t know shit about books and fucking hate math, only got a few choices in life. But even if I was book smart, I’d still want this. The brotherhood is deeper than family and survives shit most relationships never could. I know my sister loves me, and she does the best she can, but I don’t think I’ll ever really know my father and feel like I belong somewhere until I’m one of his brothers. I lower myself onto the seat of the bike and lean up against it. I know better, and I don’t care. For just a moment, I want to know what this feels like.

  There’s noise from the crowd. Grady, the club’s sergeant at arms, is breaking up the fight. After a few choice words, he zeroes in on Nic. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I regret trying to figure it out the moment she eyes me on Duke’s bike and gives me that parental chin nod she’s been practicing, telling me to get off. I stand from my position on the bike and take a step forward to appease her. Shit. She’s not going to let this go later. She never lets anything go.

  People are walking away from Diesel and Duke. Both men are heaving in anger just feet away from one another. Everybody seems to be disinterested in what’s happening now that Grady’s broken up the fun. Everybody but the skinny blonde with a bad attitude who vaguely resembles my sister who’s staring at Duke like he’s dying or some shit. Crap. I knew Nic had a thing for him, but she’s looking at him in a way I’ve never seen her look at anyone.


  Content that her focus is elsewhere, I lower myself back against the bike and indulge in this feeling. Just leaning up against it, I feel powerful. It’s not very large, but this close I can see the small Forsaken symbol shining back at me from the top of the gas tank. The Nordic warrior isn’t a logo. It’s more than that. The warrior is powerful and fierce. He’s indestructible, and nobody fucks with him. At least that’s how I’ve always seen him. Placing my hand over the warrior, I let out a heavy sigh. If my dad was here, he’d tell me the warrior’s history. He’d make sure I understand what it means to be Forsaken and to be allowed to have this symbol on your bike. It means brotherhood. It means family. It means never having to be alone.

  When I lift my head and meet eyes with Duke, I square my shoulders and try my best to not look like a fucking baby. We’ve always been cool, and I’m just admiring the detail work. He’ll understand that.

  “Are you on my fucking bike?” he yells. His voice is deep and scratchy and so much fucking scarier than it’s ever been before. I keep my jaw set and try to keep my breathing steady as he unhooks his arm from around my sister’s waist and walks toward me.

  Forsaken doesn’t like weakness, they don’t like mistakes, and they fucking hate apologies. So I don’t apologize, and I don’t move. I go for the truth, pat the gas tank, and say, “I like the paint job.”

  “Off,” he says, gesturing for me to get off. “Before I break your fucking kneecaps.”

  “Chill.” I don’t finish that comment with what I really want to say, which is a string of nonsensical curses mixed in with some good old-fashioned begging. Because, I remind myself, Duke won’t respect begging. As I push off the bike, the chain of my wallet clanks against the perfect black paint job. It startles me, and I move quickly—too quickly—causing a horrible fucking scratch on the gas tank. It all happens so fast, even though he’s moving really slowly, but the next thing I know he’s shoving me away from the bike and holding my shirt by its collar.

  “You scratched,” he says, careful to enunciate every syllable, “my bike.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  The time for respect is over, and now I’m well into pansy-ass begging mode.

  “Sorry?” I say and hope I don’t sound like a total pussy, so I follow it up with a small smirk.

  “You’re going to pay for this, shithead,” Duke says, roughly letting me go. I stumble backward, and when I look up, I find myself guarded by Nic. She’s standing in between me and Duke. His chest heaves a little lighter, but he doesn’t look at her. He grits out, “Move,” as he stares me down.

  Gently, she moves toward him and places a hand on his chest as she says softly, “Please. We need to check your head.”

  He shakes his head like he’s trying to fight against, her but he can’t. Those two are so fucking stupid for each other it makes me sick. She moves to his side and places her hand on his back. It’s a long moment that he stands there glaring at me. He’s practically breathing fire, and when I look at my sister, she’s not looking any more pleased with me. As fucked as it sounds, I feel like I have Mom and Dad staring me down and about to ground me. Which is weird because although Nic totally goes “mom” on me, it’s not like she and Duke are anything official.

  He screams, “Fuck!” Then, in the meanest fucking voice I’ve ever heard, he says, “He’s lucky he’s your brother, or he’d be in the emergency room right now.” His eyes are on me, but the message is meant for Nic. She’s the only reason he’s not beating the shit out of me. And well, if that’s the case, I hope she does something nice for him later, like sucking his dick or letting him fuck her. Because under no circumstances do I ever, and I mean ever, want to piss him off that bad again. In one stupid, selfish moment, I lost all those months of trust and respect I’d built up with him. There’s no fucking way he’s ever going to trust me enough to approach the club about letting me prospect now.

  Fuck.

  From out of nowhere, Grady walks up and roughly grabs me by the back of my neck. I don’t breathe or move. I just stand here and pray he’s not as angry as his grip makes him seem.

  “I’ll babysit while you two talk your shit out,” Grady says. The words slide from his tongue in a slither as the hand that’s wrapped around the back of my neck constricts, the tips of his fingers coiling around my throat. His dark brown hair is streaked with gray here and there, and he’s got lines around the edges of his eyes. Even though I’m sure he’s old as hell, his grip is still really fucking strong. Unfortunately, Grady is the least of my problems.

  I scratched Duke’s bike—his fucking Harley—and with the way he’s looking now, I don’t know that he and I will ever be cool again. And I need us to be cool. His blue eyes are narrowed and one hundred percent focused on me. It’s almost more than I can bear. His shoulders heave dramatically as he struggles to suck in breath after breath. His pink, sun-kissed skin is now red from a lack of oxygen, and his jaw ticks with every sporadic breath he takes.

  Standing beside Duke is my sister, Nic. We used to look alike once, but now her small frame and bleached blonde hair make it difficult to tell we’re related. Her lips are turned down in disapproval, but her green eyes show her worry. When I was a kid, I used to hate her eyes. I got my dark blue color from my dad and my shape from my mom. Nic has neither. Her eye color and shape were inherited from a man who never bothered to meet her. They’re just another fucking reminder of what my dad doesn’t acknowledge—that she’s not really his kid. Mom was a whore long before the club came along.

  Like mother, like daughter, I guess.

  The hand at my neck pulls me back from Duke and Nic. I stumble awkwardly, unable to keep my feet from following Grady ask he strides determinedly toward the clubhouse. My back twists with the effort to turn around so I can walk forward instead of being dragged backward, but Grady isn’t having any of it.

  My steps falter as I make it into the room, trying to avoid looking like a fucking chump as much as I can. We’re halfway through the main room of the clubhouse, with Grady dragging me into one piece of furniture after another. My legs smack into wooden tables of all sizes and shapes, and I knock down chairs and am then forced to find a way over them despite the protruding legs that shoot into the air.

  Sunlight streams into the room from the high windows that line the edge of the ceiling. They provide just enough natural light for me to avoid getting hit in the nuts by the leg of a haphazardly fallen chair. I’m too young for my junk to get damaged.

  The door opens, welcoming the sounds of heavy boots on the concrete below. From the angle at which Grady is pulling me, I see their boots and worn jeans before I see their faces. First Wyatt enters, followed by Diesel. Neither man is smiling. Almost instantly their eyes find me. Diesel bares his teeth in a disturbing smile, but Wyatt’s expression remains flat. From the intensity of their gaze, I have no doubt that they’re coming for me. I’m smart enough to know how the club deals with crap like this but apparently stupid enough to have—accidentally or not—fucked with one of their bikes.

  Grady rounds the corner into the game room at the back of the clubhouse. He cuts the corner close to the wall, but I don’t realize how close until it’s too late and a sharp pain radiates from the side of my head and my shoulder blade. I grimace in discomfort. My left foot catches on the wall as I’m dragged into the game room. I lose my balance and fall backward onto the hard concrete floor. Grady finally lets go of my neck on my way down but doesn’t bother to move back. My head knocks into his knees, but it’s my tailbone that throbs. I clamp my eyes shut, trying to block out the world around me. The impact fucking hurt, and it’s not really getting any better.

  A familiar laugh sounds from a distance. I can’t quite place who it is, and curiosity gets the best of me, so I open my eyes little by little. I’d rather not come face-to-face with any Forsaken. Pushing away the embarrassment at my reaction to the throbbing pain in my tailbone is a challenge. I want these guys to give me a chance to prospect one day, and
that won’t happen if they think I’m a little bitch. I open my eyes a little more and hope to find that Wyatt and Diesel have something better to do than to fuck with me. I expect to be disappointed and find them feet away, with their arms folded over their chests, staring down at me in disapproval.

  Blinking away the spots of light that partially blind my view, I struggle to see what’s in front of me clearly. Something is closer than I expect. I can feel its presence crowding my space, but it takes another moment to clearly see what’s in my way. Black hair atop pale skin with gray eyes and cracked lips. It’s Ryan, and he’s less than a foot away.

  “Hey, asshole,” Ryan says with a large smile on his face. His breath smells like a combination of whiskey and something else I’d rather not try to place. It just fucking stinks. I let a scowl form on my face and bite back the comment that’s on the tip of my tongue. I want to tell him to fuck off or to suck my dick. But I don’t. I’d rather deal with Grady—who I know to be a fair man—than Ryan, who I have on good authority is a fucking psychopath. Not that I think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Actually, I’ve been doing everything I can in the last year or so to show Ryan that I’m more than a punk kid with a big mouth. He seems to respect a strong personality, so that’s what I want to show him. Still, I don’t know that right now is the time to try to show him that.

  Ryan stares at me with little to no emotion. It’s a long, insufferable moment before he raises an eyebrow and his lips spread into an awful smile. But it isn’t until he’s smiling so wide that he’s showing his teeth that I know I am really in for it.

  I don’t see it coming, but the impact from the palm of his hand slamming into my cheek sends a stinging across my face. I try to block out the moment, but all I can think is that I just got bitch-slapped by Ryan. This is bad—really fucking bad. I try to scramble backward, looking for an out, but the back of my head and the top of my shoulders are stopped by Grady’s shins. His wavy hair hangs low, practically touching my forehead. The stench of alcohol and onions wafts over my face. Just once, I’d like for one of these guys to have fucking brushed their teeth before getting in my face. Like Ryan, Grady could really use a goddamn mint. Once again, he grabs ahold of my neck and stands slowly, pulling me up with him and bringing me to my feet.