Wanderer (The Nomad Series Book 2)

by Janine Infante Bosco

I think about all the ways I weigh her down and how despite our best efforts guilt always tainted our youth.

  My father was right when he said this has robbed four years of my life and ruined my dreams. There is no hope for me but there is for her. If I go, if I’m not here in her face reminding her of how ugly the world can be, then she has a chance to break free from it.

  She can move on.

  She can dream again.

  She can live for herself.

  I drop down the visor and stare at the photograph of her clipped to it.

  She’s smiling at me.

  It’s the same smile I’ve tallied a thousand times.

  The smile I’ll take with me wherever I go.

  My truth settles in and I push the visor back.

  I’m meant to wander this world alone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Age: 26

  “I can’t believe we found the fucking table,” Deuce says, twisting the tops off two beers.

  “I can’t believe you made me go to Bed, Bath and Beyond to buy a fucking…what the fuck did we buy?” I ask, taking the long neck from him.

  “Meat mallet,” he replies, grinning.

  “What the fuck do you know about a meat mallet?”

  “Hey, don’t underestimate the meat mallet. In a jam that fucking thing will shatter bones,” he points out as he leans back and takes one of the dozens of guns we have sprawled on the bed.

  “Speaking from experience?” I question as I set the beer on the nightstand and begin dismantling an AK-47, mentally trying to beat my own record.

  “I was down in Reno, got myself cornered by another club in the kitchen of a casino. I grabbed the first thing I saw and went to work, wound up shattering one motherfucker’s hand and knocking the teeth out of another.”

  My lips quirk as I picture him swinging the mallet around like a lasso.

  “Those were the days, huh?” I joke, laying the pieces of the gun before me and glancing at the bed full of weapons. All of which needed to be checked, locked and loaded for our ride in three days.

  “Yeah, now look at us,” he says, tipping the neck of his bottle toward the bed. “We don’t have a pot to piss in and have been babysitting Wolf for days. Still don’t know if Linc will walk again and our fucking miserable lives rest in Blackie’s hands. I don’t know about you, man, but I’m not feeling too fucking optimistic here. For fuck’s sake he’s calling this run the final ride. It’s like he knows we’re not going to make it out of there.”

  For the first time since the bomb, Blackie called church. He ordered us all to Pipe’s garage, but before he began, a flatbed of Harley’s pulled into the lot—a gift from the Bulldog. He might not be able to lead the ride to retribution but he wasn’t going to let his brothers ride on borrowed bikes.

  Retribution was the cause of the meeting and after we pulled the table out of the van we’ve been using to get around, we handed our acting president the meat mallet. He slammed the makeshift gavel against the beloved reaper and called order to our congregation. He revealed he and Jack had linked the bomb to a rival club working with the notorious drug lord, the G-Man.

  Before he could deliver his news, Pipe rolled into the garage with a pack of bikers behind him. Hungry to make the motherfuckers who took his wife pay, he’d reached out to the president of the Bergen County chapter, Smoke. He and his club would follow us to Boston, to the Corrupt Bastards’ clubhouse and aid in the final ride.

  The final ride.

  That’s what Blackie is calling it and while he won’t say the words himself, it’s clear he isn’t too sure we’re going to make it out of there in one piece. It’s the reason he ordered us to lie low for the next two days, giving everyone a chance to get their affairs in order, right their wrongs and repent their sins so Satan goes easy on us when he greets our sorry asses.

  But two days isn’t enough time for me to right any of my wrongs and so I offered to get our shit in order. That shit being these guns and figuring out how we’re going to travel to Boston with a bunch of Molotov cocktails stored in our saddlebags without blowing ourselves up.

  “You think we’re going to drop dead too,” Deuce accuses as I drain the rest of my beer.

  “Nah,” I tell him, dropping the gun I’m finished with in the duffel bag.

  “Bullshit, you accepted death a long time ago that’s why you’re unfazed by this shit,” he points out. “I haven’t and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend my last forty-eight hours in this crappy motel playing Russian roulette with you.”

  My eyebrows pinch together as I watch him throw the gun on the bed and stand up.

  “If I’m going to get my ass killed, motherfucker, then I’m going to live for the next two days,” he boasts, pointing his thumbs toward his chest. “This guy is going to go out with a bang.”

  Amused, I lean back in my chair and raise an eyebrow.

  “Preach, brother,” I tease.

  “If I’ve only got forty-eight hours left on this earth then you better believe I’m going to be spending it fucking anything with two legs and a rack.”

  “Anything?”

  “Fuck you, you know what I mean,” he sneers, as he tips his chin toward the bed. “This shit can wait, my dick can’t. Now, what do you say?”

  “I’m not fucking you,” I deadpan.

  “Cute, so you’re going to spend your last days as a fucking comedian. I hope that works out well for you,” he says, grabbing his cut from the back of his chair.

  “Go fuck until your dick falls off, cowboy, I’ve got the guns,” I tell him.

  He looks at me for a moment before shaking his head and turning toward the door then pauses and hangs his head.

  “Fuck,” he growls.

  “What now?”

  “Wolf and Linc,” he mutters.

  “I’ve got them too,” I assure him.

  “Ladies and gentleman, the award for brother of the year goes to Cobra,” he cheers before grinning and walking out the door.

  The brother with nothing is more like it, but what’s the sense in complaining. It never gets us anywhere. Your life is what you make of it. You can choose to live hard but if you don’t love harder then you’re not dying a happy man. You’re dying a lonely bastard with nothing but your regrets keeping you company.

  Regrets, guns and beer.

  Arching my hips, I shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a piece of paper. I unfold it and stare at the two lines.

  Ten years ago, there wouldn’t have been enough trees to supply me with the paper I needed to keep track of Celeste’s smiles. Now I can’t even fill a Post-It with lines.

  Regrets, yeah, I’ve got them.

  Guns, I’ve got those too.

  And while you’re at it, you can check piss-warm beer off that list too.

  Deuce is right, in two days we’re going to go off to Boston and none of us are sure we’re going to make it back. My brothers are off making the most of their time and I’m here with two fucking lines on a scrap of paper and a bed full of guns. Two days isn’t enough time to right my wrongs or repent my sins, but it’s enough time to add to this tally and fill this piece of paper.

  Folding the Post-It, I shove it back in my pocket as I stand and glance at my bed. Without giving myself the chance to change my mind, I leave the guns where they are and head for the door. Straddling my new bike, I rev the engine and resolve I’m a selfish fuck because even though I know I should leave her alone—I can’t.

  I won’t.

  Instead of filling two days with a lifetime of regret, I’m going to fill them with a handful of smiles I’ll take to my death. Decision made. I let my new wheels guide me to my penance, making a quick pit stop at a local bodega before heading straight for the hospital.

  First, I make my way to Linc’s room to see if there’s been any change. I’m not on his emergency contact form and not blood related so they don’t tell me shit. They put him in a medically induced coma and left the bastard like a do
g.

  Stepping off the elevator, I make my way to the CICU and head straight for Wolf’s room. I push open the door, brace myself for the chaos but find the bed empty and the room sparse.

  “He was transferred out of CICU yesterday,” I hear her say.

  Turning around, I find her leaning against the door with her arms folded across her chest. I take in the dark circles under her eyes as she avoids my stare, noting she wears tired as beautiful as she wears a smile. Eating up the distance between us, my boots carry me closer to her until she has no choice but to meet my gaze.

  “Do you want me to take you to his new room?” she questions hoarsely.

  I shake my head as I reach out and place my finger under her chin and tilt her head back slightly.

  “Jagger—”

  “When do you get off?”

  “Why?”

  “Answer the question, Celeste.”

  I watch her bite the inside of her cheek as she drops her arms from her chest and straightens her shoulders.

  “Not for a couple of hours. I’m about to take my break so if you want me to take you—”

  Her words are cut off by her gasp as I take her hand and tug her forward.

  “Let me take you to lunch,” I mutter.

  “What?” she stammers. “No, no, I’m—”

  “I’m not asking you to run away with me, Celeste, I’m asking you to have lunch with me,” I rasp.

  I should have asked her to run away with me six years ago.

  I should have asked her two years ago instead of fucking her goodbye.

  “The last time I went anywhere with you—”

  “I know what happened the last time you went anywhere with me, if you want to reenact that we can do that too,” I suggest, raising an eyebrow. Taking another step closer to her, I back her up against the wall. “Let me take you to lunch,” I persist, placing one hand on her hip. “Unless you’re putting yourself on the menu…”

  “Watch it, Jagger, my knee is in range of your balls,” she hisses before rolling her eyes and sighing. “I want a burger as big as your head.”

  “I’ll buy you a fucking cow if it’ll put a smile on your face,” I tell her, nodding toward the door. Fighting the urge to touch her, I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and follow her out of the room.

  “I have to grab my stuff and clock out. I’ll meet you in front of the hospital.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” I reply.

  We stare at one another silently, assessing each other before I clear my throat and turn for the elevators.

  “Hey, Cobra,” she calls.

  My hand freezes over the button when she calls me by my road name and my first thought is that I want to hear her say it again. I didn’t put too much stock in how I’d react to hearing her call me Cobra. I suppose it’s mainly because I never banked on hearing her say it. But now that I’ve heard it, now that she’s said it, I want her saying it over and over again.

  I slowly turn around and meet her gaze.

  “That patch on your back,” she starts, pausing to swallow.

  “Which one?”

  “The Brooklyn one,” she croaks, clearing her throat. “Does it mean something?”

  “Yeah, it does,” I murmur. “It means I found my way home.”

  I stare at her expectantly, waiting for her to react, to give me something, anything. The elevator opens and I ignore the people waiting for me to step on as I watch her.

  Give it to me, gorgeous.

  Eyes locked pleading with hers, the elevator chimes and the doors begin to slide shut, forcing me to stick my boot between them.

  Give it to me.

  Bowing her head, she gives me a curt nod.

  Give it to me, baby.

  “Hello? Are you getting on or what?” someone calls from behind me.

  “Take the next one,” another person grunts.

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Celeste says.

  Then she smiles.

  And fuck, if I don’t too.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dropping the tube of lip gloss back into my purse, I pull the clip from my hair and let my waves fall loosely around my shoulders. I shouldn’t be wishing I was wearing clothes more flattering than scrubs or wondering if he still finds me as attractive as he did two years ago when I was wearing a short dress and my tits were still perky and perfect.

  “You’ve lost your mind,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. “This is such a bad idea,” I continue, pausing when I realize I’m having a full blown conversation with myself.

  I knew it was a bad idea the moment I agreed to join him. It’s why I called him Cobra and not Jagger. I thought if I reminded us both we aren’t the same people, that circumstance and choice has changed us, he’d change his mind. He’d turn his back and walk away.

  But he didn’t.

  And worse than that, when I asked him what that patch on his back meant he gave me an answer I wasn’t prepared for. Since I first saw him in the ER, I kept the truth I knew in the back of my head. Jagger doesn’t stick. He’s a flight risk and I can’t afford to attach myself to the illusion that one day he’ll wake up and decide he’s tired of running or that he’ll finally choose to be found instead of lost.

  That doesn’t change how badly I want to believe the patch he wears does in fact mean what it says and his words aren’t a lie. I want to trust that he’s home, if for no other reason than to end the vicious cycle of despair.

  Our story was sad before, but now it’s heartbreaking. There is a little girl sitting in day care who doesn’t know her father and a man outside who has a piece of heaven he doesn’t know exists. I look at him and I want so badly to tell him about her. In my dreams they’ve already met, he’s held her in his arms and she’s called him Daddy a thousand times.

  In my dreams she’s his savior as much as she’s mine.

  But dreams are just dreams and a child shouldn’t know they don’t all come true.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I leave my conflicted feelings in the bathroom and make my way toward the elevators. If I remain detached and take the situation for what is—two people with a past sharing a meal—then it shouldn’t be that hard. I’ll go back to work, finish my shift and take my daughter home. I’ll fix her dinner and pretend I didn’t sit across from her father debating whether to tell him she exists. I’ll forget Jagger ever was a part of my life and wait for the man named Cobra to disappear again.

  Life will go on just as it always does.

  Who the fuck am I kidding?

  I’ll go back to work, replay every damn minute I spent with him in my head and then I’ll take Skylar home and cuddle her close wishing he was next to me. I’ll never forget Jagger and will yearn to know the man he is now.

  Walking outside I push my sunglasses on top of my head and glance around searching for him. Leaning against a motorcycle, holding a helmet in his hands, he lifts his head and I’m frozen in place. It’s the way he looks at me—from the hideous sneakers on my feet to my messy hair, taking it all in with appreciation in his eyes.

  He pushes off the bike and starts for me, forcing me to snap out of the fog his gaze induces. Silently, he reaches for my hand and leads me toward the Harley. My sneakers skid across the pavement as I shake my head.

  “Hold it,” I protest, holding up a hand. “You want me to get on that?”

  “You never been on a motorcycle before?”

  “No, and it’s not on the bucket list so we can just walk across the street and grab a burger from McDonald's.”

  “You’re scared,” he points out.

  “No,” I argue, pointing to my scrubs. “I’m not dressed for it.”

  His eyes rake over my body slowly.

  “You’re fine,” he grunts as he straddles his bike. “Now hop on, gorgeous, and hug me like you used too.”

  Stomping my feet toward the bike, I mutter a curse as I awkwardly grip his shoulder and climb on behind him. Unsure where to keep my hands a
nd feet, I lean over his shoulder and shout over the engine.

  “Where should I keep my hands?”

  Without a word, he takes my hands and wraps them tightly around his midsection, squishing my chest against his back.

  “A little lower,” he commands, pushing my hands down the front of his shirt. My palms glide across the thin fabric of his t-shirt, feeling the hardness of his abs hidden beneath.

  “Good?”

  “Lower,” he instructs, pushing my hands again until they touch the button of his jeans. “Keep going,” he laughs. Realizing he’s completely toying with me, I push his hands away and smack his chest.

  “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he calls over his shoulder. “You ready to ride?”

  “Would you let me get off?”

  “Say the word, babe, and I’ll get you off.”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  His body trembles with laughter as he peels away from the hospital. True to his character and our past, he doesn’t start off slow. He dives right in, full speed ahead and my fingers grip the leather of his vest so hard that my knuckles fade to white. I close my eyes and bury my face in his shoulder as he swerves in and out of traffic with precision and confidence.

  I feel his hand brush over mine and I clutch him harder.

  “Open your eyes,” he calls over the wind. “Live a little, baby.”

  They are the words he uttered time and time again. The words that got me riled up and ready to do just as they commanded. Forcing my eyes open I lift my head from his shoulders and stare ahead as he revs the engine and we pick up speed. The scream escapes my throat and quickly fades into laughter as I live for the moment and fight the urge to let go and throw my hands to the wind.

  Minutes later, he slows in front of the Vegas Diner, pulls into the first available spot in the lot and drops the soles of his boots to the ground. Weak in the legs, still feeling the effects of the vibrations, I slowly climb off the bike first. I undo the chin strap and pull the helmet off my head. Running my fingers through my hair, I throw it over my shoulder and turn to him wearing a grin that takes up my whole face. Continuing to straddle the bike, he kills the engine and stares at me with a smirk planted on his lips.