Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6)

by Jc Emery

  “Because I have shit to do,” I snap. I hate losing my patience with him. He just wants to go see his dad. I know that. But his dad knows about him, and he knows where we are. He hasn’t shown up. I’m not telling my boy that, so I just don’t tell him anything. Elle’s told me time after time that Wyatt’s changed, but with every passing day that he doesn’t come by and meet his kids or contact me, I doubt it more and more. Not that I necessarily want him coming up here unannounced. My eyes slide to my baby girl for confirmation that I really, really don’t want him coming up here before I can tell him about her.

  “That’s crap,” Zander says with some serious attitude.

  I grab my purse from the kitchen counter and cross the room to where he stands. I could lay into him about mouthing off, because normally I would be pissed about the way he’s talking to me. But this time it’s different. My teenager isn’t being a dick because he can. He desperately wants to meet his dad, and as much as I want that for him, I have to make sure Wyatt’s in the right head space for it.

  “Hey,” I say in the gentle voice I use for sensitive situations like this. “I know you want to see your dad. And I want you to see him—I do. But remember what I told you?”

  He doesn’t respond immediately, so I wait until he does.

  “It has to be the right time,” he finally says.

  “Yeah. Know why?” I squeeze Zander’s cheeks with a big grin on my face. He tries to block me, but he’s still not learned to anticipate my moves. “Because it’d be a shame to spring you on him and have him say the wrong thing. I don’t want to take him out right when you just get to meet him.”

  “You’re insane,” Zander says. He finally manages to evade my love pinches and heads for the living room where his sister is parked in front of the TV watching some godawful kids show that makes me want to drink myself into a stupor. Zander grabs the remote and changes the channel. Half a second passes before Piper’s head whips around and she glares at her big brother. I have one foot out the door when she yells, “No!” and I’m running down the drive by the time she’s in a full blown fit. Before I can even get into my SUV, the TV is back on her channel and Zander is griping about something or other, but he’s doing it in a gentle voice. There’s one thing I never have to worry about with him—he’s a great big brother even though most of the time he doesn’t show it.

  Knowing my babies are safe, I head into town to make things right with their father. The drive is longer than I’d like. I have time to think, which I hate, and time to worry about everything from the way I look to what I’m going to say to him. I dropped a six-foot, fourteen-year-old bombshell on him, and now what? I just expect him to be gung ho about being a daddy?

  I pull up into Forsaken Custom Cycle’s parking lot, having resigned myself to walking into the lion’s den in my mom wardrobe. Yoga pants, old-ass tank that’s stained from any number of things, worn nursing bra I have no business wearing anymore except for the fact that it’s the most comfortable one I own, hair up in a messy bun. I’m a hot mess minus the hot part, and there’s no making this disaster look any better. I can’t make the “I don’t care” look work for me anymore.

  The gates to the clubhouse are shut, the black plastic slats in the chain-link closing off the outside world. I honk my horn and wait. A young guy, a prospect, who can’t be older than twenty or so, opens the gate just enough to step out. He walks to my driver’s window and eyes me but says nothing.

  “Hey, I’m here for Wyatt,” I say and turn so he can see the Forsaken tattoo on my shoulder. His eyes narrow as he thinks about letting me in. He’s being safe, and I can respect that, but the fact that he doesn’t know me just rubs me wrong. It’s my fault, of course, but that doesn’t make it suck any less. Wyatt’s been here for over a decade, he’s this guy’s president, and yet he doesn’t know me. This kid should be fearing me. He should know how I like my coffee, what my daughter’s favorite stuffed animal is, and how to track down my son when he pulls one of his disappearing acts. But he doesn’t.

  I need to change that.

  “You ever hear of Wyatt’s crazy bitch of an old lady?”

  The prospect doesn’t say anything, but his eyes slide to the open gates behind him like he’s looking for help. Leaning forward, I angle my back and point at the large script tattoo I have on my back between my shoulder blades that says my man’s name. The kid sucks in a deep breath and nods his head.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Rink. Sorry about this.”

  “Don’t you ever apologize for keeping the club safe and this place secure.” The relief shows in his face. One thing I learned about being an old lady from both my mom and grandma is how to talk to prospects. Some old ladies are real bitches to the boys before they earn their top rocker, and a few are still bitches to them after they’re patched. Those women don’t stay around long because the real old ladies, the ones with lasting power and a deeply embedded respect for the club and its members, run them off. We’re a family—all of us—and we don’t treat family like shit. The brothers will fuck with the prospects, but Forsaken takes care of their own, and that includes kids that haven’t been patched yet.

  Rink lets me through quickly, but I kind of wish he’d held me up longer. The parking lot isn’t exactly full, but it’s not empty either. There’s a red Suburban parked in the far corner, an old Jeep a few spots down, and an old beat-up sedan next to the Jeep. I pull in between the Suburban and the Jeep and head for the door. On the other side of the lot, along the side of the clubhouse, are the Harleys. They’re all lined up like the pretty pieces of chrome and leather they are. With the number of bikes that are parked out here, the entire charter must be inside.

  Great.

  Just what I need—an audience.

  The heavy wooden door protests as I open it, and once I’ve stepped across the threshold, the damn thing slams loudly behind me. The noise catches the attention of the few women on the other end of the room. I recognize Ruby Stone immediately. She’s aged a little since I last saw her, but just barely. She’s at a small round table with another woman, who’s got to be mid-twenties at the most, with medium-brown hair and a small baby bump. The two women are flipping through what I hazard to guess is a baby name book. At the bar is another young woman with long blonde hair that flows down her back in waves. She’s drinking a can of pop and chatting with a woman whose back is to me. Still, I know this woman without even seeing her face.

  Michele Wallace isn’t my favorite person on the planet, but she’s not my least favorite either. We haven’t talked in years, especially after the shit she pulled with that dude she was seeing, but that doesn’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. Her dark-brown hair is dyed a bright red, and she’s barely clothed—just like Dad said she would be—but she’s still my sister. I don’t know if I should go up to her and say hi or ignore her like we’ve been doing to one another for years.

  When she turns around to face the blonde woman, it only takes her a second to look my way and stop mid-sentence. She keeps her attention fixed on me for a long moment before she walks around the side of the bar and takes a few quick steps toward me before she stops. Fear shines in her eyes and radiates in her every step. Another relationship I destroyed with my pride.

  “Mishy.” I’m pleading with her. My voice is soft and needy, and I hope she still remembers that nickname. I couldn’t pronounce her name properly when I was little, so I ended up calling her Mishy, and it just stuck. Right before our big fight, I called her Mishy and begged her not to go off with that dude. She didn’t listen, though, and I was so upset, so scared, and so angry for her after the fact that I basically shunned her. The memory haunts me even after almost five years.

  My feet carry me to her just as she rushes at me. In no time, we have our arms wrapped around one another and we’re holding on for dear life. She’s obnoxious and doesn’t listen for shit, but she’s my little sister no matter what she does. I’ve been preaching about family and forgiveness to Zander since
before he knew what any of it meant. Maybe it’s time I start practicing what I preach.

  “Ambs,” she says into my ear. It’s a whisper, if even, and it’s pained as all hell. I could pretend to ignore it, but I don’t. It feels damn good to have my sister back in my arms. We’ve both made choices in our lives that have brought us to our respective places—the only difference is that my choices led me to being Wyatt’s old lady and hers led her to being a Forsaken lost girl.

  Our mother would kill her if she were still alive.

  Hell, I want to kill her. Dad’s tried to get her out of it, pleaded with me to talk to her even, but she won’t budge. Michele has her reasons for why she does what she does, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  “This another one of your little visits?” she asks in my ear. I pull back just enough to catch her eye. She’s got circles under her eyes that are too dark to be healthy, and there is a heaviness to them that tells me she’s under water right now.

  “I’m home,” I say.

  Shock registers on her face just as angry shouts below out from down the hall. I turn to find Ruby and the woman with her at the table staring at me. Ruby’s got a smirk crowding up her mouth, but the other woman looks uneasy with her brows pulled together. Michele lets me go just in time for Ruby to walk over slowly and wrap her arms around me.

  “ ’Bout time you’re home,” she says quietly. The shouting is still going on down the hall, but we ignore it. Instead, Ruby eyes me curiously as she says, “A king can’t function without his queen.”

  “Glad to be back,” I admit, trying to avoid all talk of Wyatt. Ruby may not be the president’s old lady anymore, but that doesn’t mean she’s clueless. In a lot of ways, she’s the heart of the club.

  “Once shit settles, I’m meeting that boy of yours.”

  I choose not to ask who told her. The woman who was at the table with her diverts her eyes, giving herself away. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s Holly, Grady’s woman. Gossip runs rampant in the club, so it’s no surprise that word has already spread. The logical chain goes from Wyatt to Grady, and Grady to Holly, and Holly to probably half the old ladies.

  I don’t even realize I’m giving the poor woman a dirty look until she raises her hands in the air and says, “I was excited. I’m sorry.”

  I wave her off and head over to introduce myself. It’s time I settle in and make damn sure everybody knows who I belong to.

  CHAPTER 6

  I lean back in my chair, waiting on Michael to show up. I told him five minutes, and it’s been at least that. I take a deep breath and force myself to chill the fuck out. We don’t have Church for another hour, so he’s got time. The club’s in a weird position with Michael. He’s not our prisoner, but he’s not exactly an ally yet either. And despite his age, he’s not some punk kid I can lay into whenever I want. If the shit Michael and Scavo have been shoveling to each other is real, then Ruby’s boy is making a bid to take over the Mancuso family. The boy taking over and doing all the shit he’s said he wants to do is good for the club, not just Fort Bragg but nationally. We’d be allied with not only Mancuso, but his allies as well, and that can only mean less violence, more peace, and less loss on both ends. This beef between Forsaken and Mancuso has casualties on both coasts.

  “Hey,” Michael says. His voice is so relaxed and casual that it grates on my nerves. I’ve got enough shit going on right now. Particularly Amber and Zander and figuring out what I’m going to do there. It’s only been a few days, but I’m itching to head out to Thumper’s and meet my boy. I know I should wait for Amber’s okay on that, but she hasn’t reached out.

  “Where’s Scavo?” I open my eyes and eye Michael standing there in a suit. He pulls on the cuffs of his jacket and rolls his shoulders in an uncomfortable fashion. The kid looks like he’s about to break out in hives in the damn thing. Not a moment after I’ve asked does Leo Scavo walk up behind Michael and invite himself into the chapel, closing the doors behind him. I’m pissed at the world right now, so I check my temper with these guys before it blows what could be a very lucrative and beneficial arrangement for both of our organizations. Scavo sits down in Duke’s seat, and Michael takes Grady’s.

  “Nice monkey suit,” I say and give the kid a firm nod. He’s still squirming in his seat like a madman.

  “Part of the whole being boss schtick, I guess,” he says.

  Leo nods and follows up with, “If you want to be a thug, you can walk around the city with your pants around your knees. If you want to be a businessman, you wear a suit. And stop fucking squirming.”

  Holding back a grin, I decide to just get on with it already.

  “Forsaken likes to keep club business within the club, but I need to run something by you since it affects Mancuso.”

  “Okay, shoot,” Michael says. His eyes go wide with alarm and he gulps. “But not literally, dude. Just, you know, figuratively.”

  Leo shakes his head and eyes the table. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am—that Michael’s going to have to get it together if he wants to take over the family. Nobody’s going to take a bumbling kid who’s about to crawl out of his suit seriously.

  “You guys want Junior to take over, but how’s that look if Carlo and Emilio are still around?”

  “I was hoping your club would take care of that,” Michael says. “We’re prepared to lie low until the time is right if you guys don’t tie up those loose ends. Way we see it, their debt is to Forsaken.”

  My hair falls in my face when I nod. It’s been getting everywhere lately. I don’t know how the fuck it got to be so long, but it’s basically shoulder-length now.

  “You guys are going to need allies once Forsaken takes out the current regime, and I think I know how we can make that happen.” The pair of them sit and listen as I talk through my plan. The club has connections in San Francisco that have ties to New York, and last but not least is Segreti. Until recently, the Segreti family had always cooperated with the club and vice versa. But this shit with the botched hit at The 101 Club and the attack on Mindy is something else entirely. I don’t trust most of Segreti’s organization, but I recognize the awkward position #boss# is in. His men went rogue, and now he’s having to deal with it. Not easy, though. Outlaws don’t apologize, and they don’t show weakness, so I don’t know what the fuck we’re expecting from the man. Shit. We might have to cap him after all. I shake my head in dismay. I really do hate having to bury bodies if it can be avoided.

  I run through everything from my plan to make Segreti Mancuso’s bitch down to how Petrov and those crazy Russian fucks can make shit easier for all of us on both coasts with little commentary from either Leo or Michael. It feels victorious. I’ve spent months thinking about this shit—how to end the violence, take Carlo Mancuso out of commission once and for all, and what we can do to make sure our shit is safe from here on out. There’s only one way I’ve been able to work it that doesn’t end in losing half my charter, and that’s by taking the fight back to New York.

  “You want to take the club off their home turf?” Michael asks, his brow furrowed.

  “We’re playing defense out here, and it’s getting my men killed and their women hurt. I’m fucking done. I need the boys to vote on it, but if they do, we’ll head out once we know Carlo’s out of Rikers.”

  “That’s smart. I doubt Carlo or Emilio will be expecting Forsaken back in New York any time soon. Once Carlo is released, it’s not going to take him long to figure out the mess his nephew’s caused.”

  “You got the heart for this?” I ask, my eyes trained on Michael. I’ve never had a dad, so I can’t say I know how I’d feel if I were in his shoes. Can’t be easy, though. “Carlo fucked over Jim’s woman, scarred up her kid. As far as I’m concerned, they have every right to take him out.”

  “My father isn’t a kind man. He’s prideful and mean. He won’t let his men know that the order to take Alex out didn’t come from him. He’d have to admit he failed as a leader and
let an arrogant prick take control while he was locked up. He’ll lose the family regardless of anything else if he lets that be known. I want to believe he’ll leave her alone, but I can’t take the chance that he won’t.”

  “I need to know before I take this to my brothers that you’re on board with this, Michael. I need your word that you’ll let us handle your father.”

  “You know, back in Brooklyn, Alex used to tell me that she didn’t want me taking the Omerta. Because then I’ll belong to the family and not to her family. I don’t think I understood how much that upset her until now.”

  “That a yes or no, kid?”

  Junior’s face hardens, his expression unreadable. He’s staring down at the table, watching his wrists as he rotates them in slow circles. I don’t envy this boy or the decision he’s having to make. Even if he won’t be the one pulling the trigger, he’s still promising to stay out of the way when it happens. It’s a big deal to ask a son to let his father die.

  Zander.

  God, this kid is barely old enough to drink and he’s faced with this shit. If it were me or my boy . . .

  “My sister is my family. She and my brother . . . they have to be kept safe. I don’t want to be the one to take him out, but I will if I have to.”

  The tension in the room is high, and it’s mostly coming from Michael. We don’t talk for much longer. There’s really nothing else to say. They’re both on board with the club helping them gain some traction in New York, and they’ll in turn help us end this war once and for all. Taking out Carlo and Emilio doesn’t guarantee us peace, but if we play our cards right, it will secure us a foothold with the Italians that we desperately need in order to keep the threat to my brothers and our families as minimized as possible. If executed correctly, this plan will get Michael and Leo the necessary numbers to overthrow any lingering loyalty the Italians have to his father.