by J. C. Emery
JC Emery
Left Break Press
Series & Titles by JC Emery
MEN WITH BADGES
Marital Bitch
The Switch
THE BIRTHRIGHT SERIE
Anomaly
BAYONET SCARS
Ride
Thrash
Rev
Rev
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.
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Cover Design by Brenda Gonet at Gonet Design
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Photography by MarishaSha
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Edited by Rachel Bateman at Metamorphosis Books
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Proofread by Amy Shearer at Books
EVERYONE BELONGS SOMEWHERE. EVEN THE MISFITS.
With the looming threat from the Mancuso Crime Family, the Forsaken Motorcycle Club is preparing for a war that could destroy them. Grady, the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms, knows that love makes you weak, and he has zero interest in adding to his liabilities– especially now. He’s already got his teenage daughter who keeps him on his toes and a beef within the club that could fracture his relationship with a fellow brother for good.
For Holly Mercer, her life is finally getting on track and the last thing she wants is trouble from her hometown’s resident outlaws. Keeping her nose clean is easier said than done, when suddenly she finds herself embroiled in club business. Holly might like the idea of being with a real-life bad boy, but even being in the same room with tough-as-nails Grady flusters her.
When Holly inadvertently finds herself on Mancuso’s radar, she has two choices: trust that Grady will protect her, or continue to refuse the club’s help. Both roads are dangerous, but only one has the chance to damage her beyond repair.
Love is never more dangerous than when it can destroy you.
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.
For Mandie,
Because I can
THERE IS NO other place I’d rather not be than here right now. The four walls that surround me are covered in various posters for everything from the upcoming Strawberry Festival to the street sweeping schedule, and a scattered collection of educational posters geared toward kids. This room doubles as the library’s community room and the children’s wing. I spent hours in this room as a child. I’d find one of the bean bags in the reading nook and curl up with the latest Babysitter’s Club book. Back then, I had no idea they held meetings like this here.
Alcoholics Anonymous.
I move into the room slowly, trying to keep behind a couple that enters just before me. They’re practically crazy-glued to each other’s side. There’s the faint scent of tequila that emanates from one or both of them, I can’t tell. A man rushes past me and hops into one of the last empty seats that form a tight circle in the corner of the room. His short brown hair is a mess, like he’s been pulling at it all day, his shirt is haphazardly buttoned, and his tie has been yanked loose in an apparent frenzy. This is supposed to be a safe place, but nobody ever really feels safe here. Exposed, vulnerable, lacking… sure. But safe? No. At least I don’t.
A few chairs down from the disheveled man sits Mindy. Her strawberry blonde hair is up in a messy bun. She’s rocking black yoga pants, an exercise top, and sneakers, like she’s the poster child for inner peace or something. In reality, I’m pretty sure she thinks downward dog is some kind of sex position, but hey, she looks comfortable. She gives me a wave and pats the empty seat next to her.
Kindness, I remind myself. I need to work on being kind. It’s number ten of the twelve steps to recovery: admitting when you’re wrong. I may not have drank the Kool-Aid, but even I can see the value in taking personal inventory, and that’s part of the reason I showed up tonight. I’m not an alcoholic. According to my former therapist, I’m a martyr whose poor decisions are triggered by the unrealistic expectations I put on myself. We can call it whatever we want. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m being dragged to a meeting that I don’t need, nor do I want. But Mindy both needs and wants it, and if me being here can help her, I’ll do it. Even if I want to claw my own eyeballs out in the process.
The couple in front of me grabs chairs from a stack in the corner. The circle is basically full now as the couple wiggles in between other attendees. I squeeze through at the other end and sit down in the seat Mindy’s saved for me without meeting anyone’s eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” she says. I nod—keeping quiet is for the best. I wouldn’t even be here if not for her insistence. She used to be fun, but that led to her being too much fun. And the downfall was anything but. That’s how I’ve ended up here. All the therapy in the world hasn’t taught me how to say “no” to her. Meetings like this actually do me more harm than good, and my real problem isn’t booze, but family. Just being in this room confirms my absolute worst fear: that I’m a failure.
I couldn’t save Mindy; I couldn’t save myself. I couldn’t make my parents proud— I couldn’t even tell them the truth about why I’d failed them. It doesn’t matter that every person in this room is struggling with these feelings and their own demons. That’s the thing about insecurities. Nobody else’s problems can lessen your own.
The meeting gets underway like they always do. Nothing special happens. The speaker identifies herself as an alcoholic right off the bat, like they encourage all alcoholics to do. There is no shame here, they say. Mindy nods beside me, and her voice is reverent as she recites the Serenity Prayer. It’s all God grant me this, and God grant me that, like it was God who put the bottle to their lips.
“Do we have anyone here who is new to A.A.? Anyone who’s in their first 30 days of sobriety? We don’t want to embarrass anyone. We just want to get to know you, and we believe that a fundamental part of your recovery is taking that first step and admitting that you are powerless over alcohol,” the speaker says.
The man I followed in raises his hand, and the woman with him gives him an encouraging pat on his knee. He introduces himself as Joe. He, too, is an alcoholic. He explains that he had been sober for several months, but then he lost his job and it went all downhill from there. It always starts with one drink, which leads to another, and then another. That’s the difference between me and these people. My life falls apart, but it’s not because of alcohol. I can stop drinking when I need to, and I have. I just have an uncanny talent for bonding myself to the absolutely most needy and self-destructive people I can find.
Duri
ng the sharing session, Mindy raises her hand. I was hoping she would keep to herself this meeting, but no such luck. She’s never gone to a meeting in town before, but if she’s nervous, it doesn’t show. The idea is that we’re all supposed to be anonymous, but this is a small town and Mindy’s dad is a cop. It’s a big deal for her to be here, which is why she asked me to come with. Hiding her past from our family isn’t conducive to her recovery. I don’t know if Uncle Harry has any suspicions, but after tonight he might get tipped off.
“My name is Melinda, and I am an alcoholic. I’m also an addict, but I like this group better,” she says with a guilty smile on her face. The group welcomes her with kind words. She clears her throat, takes a deep breath, and says, “I have been clean and sober for three years, four months, and nineteen days now. On a good day, it’s easier because I have so many successful clean days behind me. On a bad day, it’s no easier than it was on the day I went to jail. I’m in a good place now and I wanted to just say it out loud that I’m glad I have my best friend back home to support me.” She leans over and wraps me in a side hug. “Holly has always been there for me, and she’s a great friend.”
I try to smile at the room, but I’m afraid it comes out as a grimace.
“Would you like to introduce yourself, Holly?” the speaker asks. I shake my head, but Mindy elbows me in my side.
“My name is Holly, and I am not an alcoholic, but I have plenty of other issues.” The attendees wait for me to continue, and when I don’t, the room is dead silent.
“Welcome, Holly. We’re glad you could join us,” the speaker says. She moves on, talking about how an alcoholic’s support system is so important to their recovery. She praises me for helping Mindy in her journey and mentions step nine: making amends, because in order to be able to truly recover, one must make amends with those they have harmed.
I reach over, grab Mindy’s hand, and give it a squeeze. I have amends to make with Mindy, and being here is part of that.
The meeting moves along more quickly than I expect it to, and soon we’re heading for my car. Mindy walked here after her shift at Universal Grounds. I had to meet her here because I spent the entire day out job hunting. I’ve been back in town a week now and jobs are pretty scarce, but I’ve been diligent in my efforts, so hopefully it pays off soon. As it is, I’m living with my parents again and ready to shoot myself in the face. Mom hasn’t been shy about wanting me to go back to school, and she’s orchestrated a conveniently-scheduled after-church celebration for my return.
I unlock the doors to my old white Jeep, and we climb in. I head for Uncle Harry and Aunt Claire’s house to drop Mindy off. We’re a block from her house when the loud rumble of Harleys become a deafening roar. Mindy covers her ears as Fort Bragg’s resident outlaw bike club rides by. There must be at least five or six of them, and a few even have women on the back of their bikes. The scene takes me back to being in high school and wondering what it’d be like to date a bad boy. That was when I thought only bad boys could be no good for you.
As the bikes fade into the darkness ahead of us, I round the corner and pull into Mindy’s driveway.
“That was brave of you,” I say.
“It was time. I’m tired of hiding who I am,” she says with a sigh. I lean over and engulf her in a tight hug before climbing out of the Jeep. “Gimme an update when you hear back from the high school. I have a good feeling about that job.”
“I will,” I say. She shuts the door and waves me off as I back out onto the street and head for my parents’ house.
Childhood memories of wanting to escape engulf me. A small, pathetic chuckle builds in my throat. It figures that I would end up back here. My parents’ house comes into view at the end of the street. The nearer I get, the less I want to be here.
My voice is quiet and soft when I whisper, “Welcome home, Holly.”
I STRETCH MY legs out beneath my aging desk and eye the olive-colored rotary phone with great disdain. With a quick look down at the paper with the name GRADY, CHEYENNE in the top left corner, and the student’s personal information below, I blow out a frustrated breath. I’ll give her father one more call before I give up.
Cheyenne Grady is a senior at Fort Bragg High School, where I am a secretary. We don’t have any permanent guidance counselors—rather, we rely on administrative personnel such as myself to aide the student body as best we can. When we can’t, the county’s traveling counselor will come in and help out. Unfortunately, after Cheyenne’s last meeting with the guidance counselor went south, he refused to schedule another meeting and instructed me to, “Figure it out.”
Up until last spring, Cheyenne was a solid B student. For reasons I haven’t been able to ascertain, her grades plummeted, she started cutting class, and her attitude has gone from mildly sour to just plain spiteful. And of course, Mr. Beck, our principal, saw fit to assign me Cheyenne Grady— his least experienced staff member with, in his opinion, his second-biggest problem student. Thankfully, my supervisor gets the honor of taking on Jeremy Whelan, the real thorn in Mr. Beck’s side.
I should have known something was up when he asked me if I knew Cheyenne’s dad. I said I didn’t, and Mr. Beck smiled so wide I thought his face was going to split in two. Like I said, I should have known then.
Since taking on Cheyenne’s case, I’ve followed protocol to the best of my understanding and thus have contacted Mr. Grady seven times over the last several months. Twice his voice mail was full, so I sent letters to the residence listed. Once he hung up on me before I could even get halfway through introducing myself. The rest of the times I’ve left messages that he hasn’t returned. To his credit, he did return one of my calls where the only words he spoke were to ask if Cheyenne was safe. When I said she was, he hung up and didn’t answer when I tried to call him back.
Now, after five meetings with Cheyenne since last spring, and with zero improvement in her grades, I’m forced to contact Mr. Grady again. I’ve called twice and he hasn’t answered. According to Mr. Beck, it’s imperative that I get his signature to allow Cheyenne entry into the counseling program, which allows students to make up assignments and missed classes during Saturday school. If he doesn’t sign the form and things don’t change soon, she’ll be forced to attend the local continuation school outside of town that has an eleven percent graduation rate. When I first met her, she talked about going to culinary school at length, but these last several months she’s mentioned it maybe twice. Without a high school diploma or a GED, she won’t be able to enter a vocational program – and I don’t want that for her. No matter how big of a pain in the ass she is, I kind of adore the kid. She’s smart and funny, and when she’s in a good mood, she’s really kind. I can’t help but think that something’s going on at home that leads her to such self-destructive behavior.
A sharp knock rattles on my desk. Lifting my head, I force a smile as I face Mr. Beck’s red, aging face.
“Holly,” he says by way of greeting. “How goes the Grady case?”
“Not well,” I admit. “Mr. Grady is obstinate in his refusal to communicate with me. I just don’t understand how a parent can be so absent from his child’s education.”
“Mr. Grady is a particular individual,” he says with a look on his face that I don’t understand. Every time we talk about Cheyenne or her mysterious father, Mr. Beck gets a wary look on his face that tells me that there’s a reason he gave Cheyenne’s case to me and isn’t handling it himself.
“Yes, well, he’s particularly an ass,” I withhold the rest of my comment, but just barely. “How important is it, really, to get his signature? Can’t we get her into academic counseling without his help? I can’t even get the guy on the phone to tell him why I’m calling, let alone to talk about his daughter’s future with him.”
“Two choices, Holly. Either get Mr. Grady’s signature acknowledging that his daughter will enter academic counseling or petition for her expulsion. We’ve waited long enough.”
“I don’
t want her expelled, Mr. Beck. Something’s going on here. Cheyenne is a good kid. We can turn this around.”
Mr. Beck sighs and shakes his head slightly. “You meet Mr. Grady and you’ll understand a few things better. Cheyenne was a good kid once – they all were. But she’s on the fast track to the trailer park off highway twenty. Do yourself a favor and stop expending so much energy on this kid.” With that, Mr. Beck taps my desk again and walks away. Once I’m sure he’s out of earshot, I mutter a few choice words about his particular brand of leadership and refocus my attention to the problem at hand.
Leaning forward, I grab Cheyenne’s student profile and find her father’s phone number under the emergency contacts section. I practically have the number burned into my brain with how many times I’ve had to call. Mr. Beck may be convinced that Cheyenne is a lost cause, but I’m not. I hate the idea of giving up on kids, especially ones with such obviously screwed up parents.
I grab the receiver off the base and turn the dial, calling Mr. Grady one last time. The phone rings in my ear four times before the answering machine picks up.
“This is Grady, make it good,” his deep, masculine voice sounds through the receiver. The first time I heard his voice in the message, I was slightly stunned by how rough and deep it is. Admittedly, it was an immediate turn-on. But now, I just like to imagine that it’s choking on his own bullshit that’s made his voice so husky.
“This message is for Sterling Grady. My name is Holly Mercer and I am your daughter Cheyenne’s administrative advocate at Fort Bragg High School. Please return my phone call immediately as I need to meet with you regarding Cheyenne’s continuing education at Fort Bragg High,” I say in my most professional voice—the one I use to pretend not to hate the man’s guts. I leave him my contact information as though he’s going to actually use it and then hang up. Mr. Beck’s conviction that Cheyenne won’t be going anywhere in life gets under my skin. Between her clearly absent father and Mr. Beck’s lack of faith, I can’t help but wonder if this kid has anyone in her corner. I looked through her file, and there’s zero mention of a mother in any of the records. The idea that she’s just floating out in the world without anyone really having her back saddens and infuriates me at the same time.
