Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6)

by Jc Emery

  “Mr. Strand, introduce me to your club’s woman,” he says with a thick Russian accent. One step forward has Wyatt standing between us. My man’s large hand is splayed out on the man’s chest. He looks down at Wyatt’s hand and waits until he removes his hand. The man reaches up very slowly and smooths out his clothes as if Wyatt had sullied them somehow. He didn’t, but it’s a show of dominance. Intricate tattoos peek out from beneath the arms of his suit. Wyatt doesn’t take the bait, he just clears his throat, getting the man’s attention.

  “Come here, baby,” Wyatt says, ushering me over. I move to stand beside him and he tucks me into his side and holds me tight against him. “This is my woman.”

  “Dominik Petrov.” The man’s eyes fall back on me appraisingly. His words slide off his tongue in a way that can’t be anything but natural for him. His eyes don’t leave mine when he says, “You’re a lucky man.”

  “Amber Strand,” I say with a nod and a steady chin. Wyatt’s fingers dig into my side. He likes the way I sound with his last name.

  He’s not the only one.

  Pushing my luck, I smile at Dominik and extend a hand to shake his. He takes my hand in his large one. For such a put-together man, his hands are rough and dry, obviously not cared for in the way the rest of him is.

  “Tell me what business you have with my man and my club.”

  Dominik’s eyes flash excitedly, but he remains silent. I know men like him. They don’t take kindly to women poking into their affairs. My daddy and granddaddy could tell him stories about trying to keep me out of club business. My granddad, Clutch, got his name for always coming in clutch in difficult situations. At least that’s the current party line. My mom used to tell me it was for something entirely different that I didn’t want to know about. Clutch used to tell me he was going to beat the shit out of me for speaking my mind. He never did though. My lax childhood can certainly be to blame for this situation. Women don’t talk like this— at least they don’t do it and get away with it— not in Forsaken and definitely not in the Russian mafia.

  Dominik’s eyes leave mine in favor of Wyatt, and it’s only now as he’s dismissed me that I realize how attractive he really is. Enemy or not, if I didn’t have Wyatt, I’d consider Dominik Petrov for a little fun. Wyatt’s arm that’s wrapped around me tightens uncomfortably in warning. Looking up at my man, I give him a soft smile that he snarls at. It’s my fake smile and he knows it.

  “Bike. Now,” Wyatt barks out, releasing me. For once in my life, I follow the order and go to stand beside Wyatt’s Harley. In the distance, I can hear Wyatt and Dominik exchanging chauvinistic bullshit retorts. I choose to let them have their fun. My comment did exactly as it was supposed to— it put my man on notice that hiding things from me is going to stop.

  CHAPTER 19

  Wyatt lumbers toward me, his now short hair stock still despite the wind that swirls around us. It was just last night that he brought me a pair of scissors and told me to cut it off. I didn’t know what to do with that, but I did my best to cut his hair down to just a few inches. “Fresh start, babe,” he had said. I can’t say I miss the longer hair. It was always a mess and reminded me too much of the old Wyatt.

  Wyatt’s bulking muscles practically explode from his black shirt as he stomps toward me. His chest rises and falls quickly, like he’s willing himself to calm down. I bite at my lower lip, eyes affixed on his, and practically squirm while I wait to wrap my body around him. His eyes hood as he catches sight of my lower lip between my teeth, then he swings a leg over his bike and starts her up. I climb on and wrap my arms around his waist. The deep, loud growl of the bike vibrates beneath me, electrifying my entire body. I lean in, running a hand over the crotch of his jeans as we pull out of the parking lot and head through town.

  The first time I did this, I was maybe sixteen years old. Wyatt must have been eighteen or so and he nearly crashed his bike. Now though, as adults with a teenage son, he keeps the bike steady as we leave town and turn off the main road. The area is desolate, on the outskirts of town along Highway 101. By the time Wyatt stops the bike, the bulge in his pants is larger and firmer. I smile to myself, eyeing our surroundings and deciding that if I’m going to be punished for stepping out of line, I damn sure better earn it. Climbing off the bike, I backup toward the tree line to give myself at least a little covering. Turning off the engine, and moving to stand beside the bike, Wyatt fixes his eyes on me.

  “When were you going to tell me about New York?”

  “Fuckin’ Holly,” he mutters and takes a step closer, but I put my hand up to stop him. Shocking me, he freezes in place. I’m not used to having my man listen to me. The sudden power energizes me. Holly Mercer and I are going to have some words later. A lot of words and we’re going to be having them without either of our men around. I won’t hit her— she is pregnant after all— but Grady still won’t let me around her if he senses how pissed I am. No reason for our men to fight out an issue that’ strictly between us women.

  “Who do I belong to?” It’s a demand, not a question.

  “Me. You belong to me.” His voice is rough. Good. The more he wants me, the easier this will be.

  “Then fucking act like it.” My words are punctuated with my anger. His eyes narrow to slits as he glares down at me. I lift my shirt above my head and place my hands on my hips. His hooded eyes travel down to my breasts. “I am as much Forsaken as you are, if not more. Do not hide things from me.”

  “I’m protecting you,” he says on a roar. “You, Zander, and Piper are my entire fucking world. I just barely got the three of you. I won’t let this shit touch you.”

  He takes another step closer. My fingers tingle to touch him, but I keep the feeling at bay long enough to sort this out.

  “You and your brothers are fucking idiots if you think keeping your women in the dark is the way to win this war. I haven’t been here very long but even I can see where things went wrong, why people have been hurt, and even killed.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth.” He’s snapping now, charging toward me, and scooping me up in his arms. My head is shoved against his chest, and just like that, I feel at home. It doesn’t matter that we’re in the middle of an argument. Wyatt’s hard body wrapped around my softer one settles me in a way nothing else ever has. Not even holding our newborn children, seeing them open their eyes, and take one of their first breaths, can ever do. Those memories are laced, after all, with an everlasting sorrow that creeps into the edges of even my happiest memories when Wyatt wasn’t there. My beautiful babies both came out so healthy and strong and so very, very precious, but I couldn’t fully enjoy the moment as I wanted to. Neither time. My man should have been there. He should have seen their first breath, and first smile. He should have known them from the moment they entered this world. And he wasn’t there because life is unfair and cruel and addiction is a vicious beast I wouldn’t wish on anybody. Only here, with Wyatt holding me do I ever feel all that pain and anger wash away.

  “You have to talk to me,” I say quietly. I turn my head and place a kiss to his neck. His chest rumbles in approval.

  “You don’t know the shit we’ve been through,” he says, lowering us into the grass at our feet. He sits with his legs spread, me between them, close to his chest, but at a good angle to meet his eyes. “Everything has fallen apart in the last two years. We lost Chief, and then Tall— a kid we were going to patch-in. Everything that went down with Nic and her fucking ex? Then the hell that came after we thought we took care of that.”

  He sucks in a slow, unsteady breath. I don’t take my eyes off his face as he chews at his lip. My man’s gorgeous blue-green eyes deepen as he works through what he wants to say.

  “We had to remove Chief from the grass in front of Jim’s place. Buried him and almost lost Grady in the process. He’d basically lost his father. We found Alex in a warehouse, watching her own fucking brother beat the shit out of her. That girl was such a bad fucking idea. We shot up her dad’s hous
e and took her away like removing her from New York was going to fix shit, but it didn’t. And I hated the sight of her for a damn long time. Every time I looked at her face, all I could see was Chief, dead in the grass. Everything we’ve done after that has been to protect our family and we’ve fucking failed at every turn. So no, I don’t want you involved in the club.”

  “All that stuff happened and you stayed clean,” I say quietly. It’s not more important than Chief— my best friend’s father, nor is it more important than the boy who took a bullet to the back of his head while trying to keep Holly and Mindy safe. It’s not even more important than Michael Mancuso wailing on his sister who happens to be half his size. I wasn’t here to live through every awful day the rest of them have. I can barely imagine how bad it’s been, but I know the details. I know the reason Mindy doesn’t sleep through the night, and why Holly is so attached to Ian even though she’s with Grady. And I know that my man has never dealt with trauma well. The first time he went off the rails was when he met his dad for the first time at nineteen. It wasn’t just bad, it was awful. I didn’t know he could be that cruel or hate himself that much. One fight when I’m eight months pregnant, one stupid lie he never should have believed, and we broke up. Not five minutes later and he has his dick down some bitch’s throat.

  One thing I know for certain about Wyatt Strand is that he doesn’t deal well when shit hits the fan. And maybe my man staying clean isn’t as important as everything else the club has gone through over the past two years, but it is to me. It is to my children. Because while we weren’t here, dealing with the hell the Fort Bragg charter has been through, I know my man. And now, without a single doubt, I know he’s going to stay clean. Because if he can deal with everything else, he can and will stay away from all the shit that tried to destroy us all those years ago.

  “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “How’d you do it?” Wyatt levels me with a flat expression. I reach up and cup his face in my hands. His growing beard is rough beneath my touch and tickles at my fingers, but I don’t waiver. I prod, asking him again.

  “All that shit, all those pills, and lines on mirrors never did dull the pain. All it did was drive you away. I knew, somehow, that Z was mine, but he deserves better. I’m just a piece of shit biker without an education and a rap sheet that would kill several trees to print out. But every fucking day, especially now that you and our kids are here, I remind myself that there’s something to live for. I just had to get sick and tired of being sick and tired first. And then it was easy, letting myself be selfish enough to want you and work on my shit so maybe, one day, I could have you.”

  “You’re not a piece of shit,” I whisper, pulling myself closer. “Clara’s your mom, not because she had to be but because she chose you. I’m your woman because I chose you too. Zander and Piper didn’t get to choose you, but I know damn well they would if they’d had the choice.”

  “You’re still in trouble for that shit you pulled back there,” he grumbles, his voice softening. I smile up at him and kiss his cheek.

  “You can spank me later if it makes you feel better.”

  “What would make me feel better is you keeping your cute fucking nose out of club business.”

  I sigh. That’s not going to happen. Growing up, I remember my dad confiding in my mom and asking for her help all the time. The Detroit charter rarely made a move without Cindy Wallace having a hand in it. My grandpa, Forsaken’s founder, and my grandma were the same way. Mary Wallace, my grandma, is the reason Forsaken only gives out the old lady title after their women have been unanimously voted in by every member of their charter. She did it for a reason— she didn’t want brothers sharing state secrets with some bitch they’d drop the next day. Grandma’s a smart lady. You protect the patch, you protect the family. Best way to protect both is to be selective about who wears the warrior tattoo and who rocks the patch.

  “We need to have another history lesson?” He shrugs me off, but I don’t let it get to me. Instead, I move back onto my knees and place my hands on the tops of his thighs. My man needs a little love right now. Licking my lips in anticipation of his sweetness, I reach out and pull down his zipper. He leans back on his hands and appraises me.

  “The old ladies exist for a reason. You remember Bloody Mary, don’t you?” My voice is light and playful as I pull his hard cock out of its confines. I tease the base with the tips of my fingers while referencing my grandmother and the nickname she earned during Detroit’s war with a club in Toronto.

  “Babe, please don’t talk about your grandma with my dick in your hand,” he says on a laugh. There’s a smile in his eyes and voice that wasn’t there a minute ago. I wrap my hand around his cock and slide it up and down with a smile on my face. I wonder if he can see it— the love I feel for him. How much I want him and not just now, but forever? Does he know how broken I was before? How much it pained me to be away from him?

  Wyatt reaches out and wipes away the wetness in my eyes. He gives me a smile that I know nobody else gets. This is mine. He smiles differently at our kids, especially our daughter. But those smiles are a little brighter. My smile is something more grounded. A little deeper, no less important. Just beautiful and strong and it means so fucking much that I can’t even put it into words. After all these years, so many of them apart, and all the damage we’ve each suffered, I still get this.

  “Why are you sad, Mugs?”

  I could tell him the truth. All the happy, sappy shit that’s going around in my head, but that takes us off course, so I don’t.

  “Bloody Mary earned her name for single-handedly saving half of Detroit during the Toronto war. I know you remember this shit, but I think you’ve forgotten why it’s important. You do not run into battle without your woman by your side. You do not treat me like I’m something precious and defenseless.”

  “Babe,” he says, but I narrow my eyes at him and squeeze his dick enough so that he stops and freezes.

  “Not wise to piss off a woman when she’s got your dick in her hand,” I warn and go back to my speech. I continue my ministrations on his dick, using the precum to spread it around the tip, and lick my lips. His dick twitches in my hands and I smile. “I’m only your woman because you earned me. You have the privilege of belonging to me and I have the honor of being yours, but do not underestimate the bitch you belong to or what I’m capable of. Not ever.”

  Before he can say anything, I lean down and take him into my mouth. It’s a dirty trick, sucking his dick so he won’t argue, but it’s incredibly effective. It doesn’t take long for his body to tense and his breathing to be labored. I wish I could see him, but from this angle, it’s impossible. All I can see is my name, inches above his dick, right at the top of his light brown curls, as it stares back at me. I know the signs that he’s about to come even though I can’t see his face. I sneak a hand into his boxers and gently cup his balls as I take him to the back of my throat and moan around his cock. Thick, warm liquid fires into the back of my throat. I greedily suck it down and when he’s done, I made a show of licking my lips and swallowing. He grabs me roughly, pulling me onto his lap. His still wet cock dampens the crotch of my jeans. I buck into him and watch as his lazy expression heats up.

  “Tell me I’m coming to New York.”

  He’s silent, but I don’t rush him. While I wait for my man to come to the inevitable conclusion that he’s going to give in, I rub myself against him. His dick softens only halfway and stays like that before slowly hardening again.

  “I miss your dick, baby. I want you inside me.” He attacks my mouth, kissing me roughly. A slow, quiet fire slowly builds as I continue to rock against him. He clears his throat and moans softly.

  “You’re a manipulative bitch.” Despite the words he uses, his tone is soft. There’s no heat behind the statement. Another sign that he’s coming close to giving in. “You gonna withhold pussy until I give in?”

  “No,” I say and take a deep breath. “But I’ll make you
a deal. You take me to New York and when we get home, I’ll give you another baby.”

  “Fuck,” he says quietly. His eyes search mine, like he’s making sure I’m not lying to him. Family means everything to this man. Even when he was fucked up, he loved what we had and wanted our son. He was just too sick to be good for himself, let alone us.

  “I love you, baby. I just want the father of my children safe and sound and at home with me.”

  There’s a long, frustrated pause before he concedes. I can see it on his face when he says, “Christ, now Ruby’s going to want to come. You do realize you just fucked me with the boys, right?”

  CHAPTER 20

  February 2016

  2 months to Mancuso’s downfall

  “This isn’t necessary,” Zander whines from beside me as he watches the baker work her magic on the cake. Amber thinks I’m crazy, but I swear the kid’s grown in the last three months. I’ve measured him so many times that any time he sees a measuring tape now, he turns heel and rushes the other way. He’s fourteen, so he won’t say it, but I know he likes the attention. I remember being fourteen and wanting nothing more than to have a dad. I used to think even a shit dad would be better than no dad. Sure, this shit right here embarrasses him to no end, but deep down the little fuck loves it.

  “Is this right?” The baker, a young girl around nineteen or so, turns the cake toward us. She gulps nervously as we stare down at her work. Once again, she’s done a good job. The cake she’s just finished was a last minute addition to our order. My boy’s birthday was back in July, but I wasn’t there. Not for his fourteenth or his thirteenth. Not for any of those fucking milestones. Either I had a straw up my nose, my dick in some strange pussy, or I was already passed out to the point of oblivion. One of the very things I remembered through all that shit I put my body through was his birthday. I think I remembered him being mine too, but I couldn’t bear the thought of facing it. Not if she was going to lie to me again and not if I was wrong. Even at my darkest point, the idea that maybe she was wrong or lying and he was mine after all, kept me alive. Only fucking thing, if I’m being honest.