Wanderer (The Nomad Series Book 2)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Everything spirals downward from there as I watch the man following the bag break down and flee the emergency room. Jagger doesn’t give me a second glance as he turns around and walks after the distraught man. For a moment, I’m not sure if this is another nightmare or just fate twisting the knife in my back.

  I lose it after that.

  I don’t know if it is the magnitude of terror or being face to face with the man I kept losing, but something breaks inside of me and I fall to pieces. I disappear into a supply closet and cry. I call my cousin in hysterics, ramble about the bomb and all the people that are hurt, leaving out the part about seeing Jagger again.

  No one knows the truth.

  They know about the young love we shared—the love marred by violence. No one knows that two years ago fate brought us together and ripped us apart again.

  It took me a while to get myself together, for the shock to finally wear off before I force myself to do my job. My twelve hour shift turns into eighteen and I’m fucking exhausted when the sun rises, signaling the dawn of a new day.

  I didn’t have much of a break and my responsibilities kept sleep at a minimum. Ten hours later I was back at the hospital, working another grueling shift. However, today I was scheduled to work ICU instead of the ER. A lot of my patients were victims of the blast that had been admitted. Most were held twenty-four hours for observation and released this morning, but there was one recovering from a massive heart attack and another that would be a patient here for a long time.

  The patient’s name was Lincoln Brandt. He was in ICU after having one of several back surgeries needed for him to walk again. To add insult to injury, he also broke both his legs and was in a medically induced coma. A yawn escapes me as I swipe my finger across the tablet to bring up his chart. Lifting my eyes, I find Jagger sitting beside the patient, eyes glued to me.

  “It’s really you,” I whisper.

  He isn’t wearing the bloodstained clothes anymore, trading them for a t-shirt and jeans. He pairs the clean clothes with the leather vest from earlier, the vest naming him a patched member of the Satan’s Knights. Other than the change of clothes, I noticed there are more tattoos decorating his skin—a lot more than there were two years ago. The man who wore a crisp suit the last time I saw him now wore leather just as well as he wore silk.

  He silently assesses me the same way I do him and I tear my eyes away. It is bad enough I have to feel the way he looks at me. I don’t need to watch him unravel me with his gaze too.

  “I thought it was you, but…” I whisper, turning my attention to the patient’s chart, “…all the tattoos,” I continue, waving my hand in the air, trying to make myself appear as if I’m immune to his presence.

  Ignoring the goosebumps peppering my skin, I check the patient’s IV line and take a reading on his heart.

  “It’s been a long time, Cel,” he says softly.

  I snap my eyes back to him and cock my head to the side as I ponder why it doesn’t feel that way. Maybe it’s because no matter how many years pass, whether it's six or two, every time my eyes lock with his my heart still beats faster. It’s that first glance when time stands still and he’s just my Jagger.

  “It doesn’t seem that long, Jagger,” I admit thoughtfully.

  “Cobra,” he corrects. “My name is Cobra now,” he reminds me, pointing his long, tattooed finger to the scrap of material sewn into the front of his vest that identifies him.

  I avert my eyes from the patch, to the long line of his neck where he has an hourglass tattooed, reminding me of the differences between Jagger and this Cobra character he has become. I nod my head sadly as my gaze settles on his blue eyes.

  He isn’t mine.

  And two years is a damn long time.

  Long enough to learn there is more to life than mourned relationships.

  There’s more to me than just him.

  My pager vibrates against the waistband of my scrubs, tearing me away from the sad reality. I turn back to him and tip my chin slightly.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, glancing back at the helpless patient. “I hope your friend recovers quickly.”

  “Thank you,” he rasps.

  I don’t give him a second look as I turn and hurry out of the room, brushing past another visitor. I don’t lift my head, mumbling my apologies before jetting away from Jagger, I mean Cobra. I place the tablet down on the nurse’s station and look at one of my co-workers.

  “I’m taking my break now, can you cover my patients?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” she says, taking my tablet as I pull off my name badge, lean over the counter and drop it in one of the drawers. I step around the counter, slam my palm against the button that opens the doors to the unit and stride toward the bank of elevators.

  I often thought about what would happen if I ever saw him again, mainly how he’d react. I wondered if he’d take one look at me and know my secret. That should have scared me but for some reason it didn’t. I’ve changed a lot in the last two years—things I used to stress over are not important anymore. My broken heart is not all there is in this world; the guilt I used to carry is not what defines me. I have a purpose. I have something that mends my heart every day I wake.

  I have more than just a memory.

  I step off the elevator, head straight for the glass windows and smile widely when I spot the person that saved me—the person that continues to save me every single day.

  Blue eyes.

  Blonde hair.

  A little of him.

  A little of me.

  I have my beautiful daughter.

  Chapter Eight

  “Rise and shine, motherfucker!”

  Recognizing the thick drawl of Deuce’s voice, I bury my face into my pillow and growl. I should never have let him take charge of our temporary living situation. The bastard now has a key to my motel room and thinks he’s back on the farm, rising early like the fucking roosters he used to play with as a kid.

  “Come on, get up,” he orders, drawing the blinds open to the lone dirty window in my room. “Jesus, fuck,” he hisses.

  I lift my head from the pillow and watch him place his hands on his hips, staring back at the dirt and grime.

  “We gotta get the fuck out of here,” he says. The south leaves his voice and there is a little New York laced in his raspy tone. It’s what happens when you decide to stick. You start to lose where you’re from and pick up on where you are.

  “We ain’t got nowhere to go,” I remind him, sitting up as I stretch my arms over my head and roll my neck from side to side. Since we took the Brooklyn patch, the four of us; him, me, Stryker and Linc, all lived at the clubhouse. The Dog Pound was like the Ritz-fucking-Carlton to guys like us. We each took a room and never bothered to look for more. Having a room in one place, running water, my own bed and a private shower was more than I’ve had in the last three years. Sadly now our home was a fucking crime scene, well whatever was fucking left of it.

  “Yeah, which is why you need to get your ass up. Blackie dropped by about an hour ago, with news,” he says, tearing his gaze from the dirty window.

  Blackie was the vice president of our club and now our acting president. With Jack’s hearing temporarily gone and his wife on bed rest until her due date, he was out of commission—something the Bulldog wasn’t too happy about. Say what you want about Jack Parrish, but he’s a loyal motherfucker. It’s killing him that he has to sit on the sidelines while his club sits in ruins.

  After the blast, Jack and Reina were admitted. Blackie was discharged and immediately went to work on uncovering who was responsible for fucking with us. We all knew who the man with the bomb was. Once upon a time the fucker’s douche of a son tried to rape Jack’s daughter, who also happens to be Blackie’s woman. The stupid prick got his skull bashed in and Blackie wound up doing a short bid at Rikers.

  Anyway, Jack made a deal with the father, kept both him and his son breathing by sending him to collect information from the Corrupt
Bastards. The Bastards were a rival club, ran by a weasel that went by the name of Charlie Teardrops. We had beef with the Bastards, the same group of assholes who pushed drugs for the G-Man, the gangbanger Victor Pastore killed in the cafeteria of a federal prison.

  It was no wonder why Wolf brought us here, they were in over their heads and the hole just kept getting deeper.

  Deuce walks over to the small table in the middle of the room, grabs a bag and throws it onto the bed.

  “Compliments of Blackie,” he says, tipping his chin.

  I open the bag and pull out a prepaid cell phone, toiletries and fresh clothes.

  “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.

  Chapter Nine


  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 day, 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.