Ride (Bayonet Scars) Read online

  “Okay, let’s get this party started,” she says, rushing up the stairs while shoving her cell phone into her back pocket. She leads the way through the front door and into the living room. Much like Ruby and Jim’s party at the house, here people are sprawled out on furniture, making out, drinking beer, and someone in the corner is sucking on a large glass bong. It’s not until we’ve walked through the living room and into the kitchen that the crowd thins out.

  On the kitchen table, Nic finds a bottle of tequila, and while tequila and I have never been good friends, I don’t argue. I just want to forget everything Jim said. All of his words hit me right in the heart. I try to remind myself that it’s just the way these guys speak, but it’s hard.

  “Come on,” Nic says. She crosses the house, clearly knowing exactly where we’re going. We walk down a long hallway that dead-ends in a room that looks near identical to the living room. There are fewer people back here, but the ones that are appear to be close to passed out. Nic finds us a spot on one of the three couches randomly scattered in the room. Taking a swig of the tequila, she coughs, nearly choking on the vile liquid. She hands the bottle off to me. Tilting my head back, I take a hearty drink as fast as I can, trying not to breathe while doing so. As I suspected, it’s horrible. My throat constricts, and my stomach churns at the taste, but I keep it down. I hand the bottle back to her and focus on regulating my breaths. If I don’t keep myself calm, the tequila is going to come back up.

  We sit here in silent as the minutes pass, and I begin to wonder if this is the typical college experience. Every time Adriana would talk about some ”killer” party she’d been to, or a frat house, or a bar that she’s too young to legally be in—I wonder if this is what it was like. If they’re at all similar, I don’t see the appeal. A woman stumbles into the room, her eyes glassy, and her makeup a total disaster. She grips the wall to keep herself upright. To the right of the room, there’s a door that leads outside, into the backyard most likely. It takes her what feels like forever until she finally makes it there. Swinging the door open, she bends at her waist and expels her stomach’s contents into the unknown. Immediately, I cover my mouth, close my eyes, and try to block out the sound of her heaving.

  Nic hasn’t slowed down any on the tequila, and I can tell just by looking at her that she’s three sheets to the wind. Her elbows rest on her knees, and her left hand holds the bottle loosely, letting it dangle close to the floor. Her right arm is bent, propping her face up as she sits there, hunched over and swaying slightly. If she drinks any more, she’s going to be like the woman across the room, and that’s not a very pleasant thought. I reach over and grab the bottle from her hand and take a small sip. I didn’t prepare myself for the strength of the liquor. It knocks me back, sending the room spinning for just a moment. When everything stops spinning, I realize that maybe Nic isn’t the only one who shouldn’t be drinking any more, and I set the bottle on the floor.

  “You’re drunk,” I say, smiling at her. She gives me a goofy, carefree grin. It’s the first time she’s ever looked so relaxed. The other times I’ve seen her, she’s been so pensive.

  “I am, and I don’t care.” Her voice is lighter than normal. She continues to sway lightly while smacking her lips. Her eyelids close for a second before flying open and then fluttering closed. I give her a light shove to keep her coherent. She’s definitely in that blissful place where nothing matters.

  Pulling my cell phone out of my back pocket, I realize we’ve been here longer than I thought. No wonder she’s wasted.

  “Who did you call earlier?” I ask. Nic isn’t much for sharing when she’s sober, so I’m hoping she’s a little chattier when she’s been drinking.

  “My brother,” she says, letting out a sigh. “He’s got to meet with the principal tomorrow morning. I was making sure he knew that.” I try to remember what Ruby had said about Nic’s family, but I’m drawing a blank. There was something in there about taking care of her brother.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Dad’s in San Quentin, and mom’s probably out there somewhere sucking dick,” she says, as casual as can be. I can feel the shock register on my face. The more information she gives up, the more I like Nic after she’s had a bit too much to drink. She gives me a sideways glance and blows out a breath. “Well, she probably is.”

  Going back to her happy place, Nic lays back into the couch and curls in, trying to get comfortable. My muscles tense as I realize she’s probably trying to take a nap. I really don’t want to be stuck in this shithole all night, and neither of us is in any condition to drive anywhere. Looking at my phone in my hand, I bite the bullet and find Ryan’s name in my contacts list. Thankfully I listened when Ruby insisted I program each of the guy’s numbers into my phone.

  HI, I text. It’s lame, but I don’t know what else to say. I just, kind of, want to talk to him. Before I can even focus my attention elsewhere, my phone chimes.

  WHERE ARE YOU, the text reads.

  HOUSE PARTY DOWNTOWN, I respond. Now that I’ve texted him, I’m not sure I should have. Sticking my phone back in my pocket, I pick up the bottle of tequila and take a few sips. My stomach rolls with each drink, but I don’t stop. Everything in my life feels like a rollercoaster out of control. From the fact that I’m even here instead of back in Brooklyn to the thing with Ryan and whatever the fuck went down with Duke, I just don’t know which end is up anymore.

  ON MY WAY, he texts back. I don’t even try to pretend I don’t want Ryan here right now. I’m working my way to being buzzed enough to do as I’d like without concern over the consequences.

  Looking around the room, I decide that I’m not much for house parties. At least not the non-Forsaken kind. This is lame. I could be sitting in my bedroom drinking to my heart’s content, and that would be a lot more comfortable than this is. Beside me, Nic’s soft snores fill the mostly empty space. In the time since we sat down to now, the crowd has thinned, leaving us alone on the couch. Giving Nic a shove, she wakes immediately.

  “You’re such a lightweight,” I say. She nods and blinks away the sleep. Bringing her right hand up in front of her face, she distances her index finger half an inch from her thumb.

  “Just a little,” she says with a slight slur. “It’s just been a hard life. I wanted to forget. Like you said, I just want to forget.” Her voice is so small as she repeats my words from earlier. She looks so fragile, all curled up there on the couch. Her thin frame folded in on itself, her dark makeup somehow still intact, and her dyed blonde hair something the state of Texas could be proud of, she gives me a heartwarming smile.

  In the distance, I can hear the rumble of a motorcycle, maybe two. Through the slightly muffled, but still loud, music, I listen to their approach. Nic doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she thinks nothing of it. Now that I can hear Ryan coming, I’m not quite certain what Nic is going to think of it. She’s been adamant about keeping the club at arm’s length, and as much as I want to respect that, it’s going to be hard to maintain a friendship with somebody who wants absolutely nothing to do with my family.

  I can’t hear the bikes anymore even though the music has been turned down. Conversation has largely stopped in the other rooms. Heavy footfalls sound from the hallway beyond us. I cast Nic a nervous glance, only to find her eyes are on mine. She slowly shakes her head and says, “What did you do?”

  Before I can answer the question, Ryan and Duke round the corner, leaving a trail of silence in their wake. Neither wear particularly joyful expressions. If the guy on the porch’s reaction to my association with the club is anything to go by, I’m guessing the people here aren’t exactly fans of Forsaken. But none of that matters.

  I look up at Ryan, and a smile overtakes my entire face. All of a sudden, I feel all warm and swishy inside. Maybe Nic isn’t the only one who’s a lightweight. He says nothing as he strides over and reaches out a hand to help me up. I take it graciously and, when I’m on two feet, I use the opportunity to
slip my pinky around his. Once I’ve done it, there’s a brief moment where I think I’m the biggest idiot on the planet. But then he grips his pinky around mine, and those familiar bolts of heat shoot through me. Being this close to him, our pinkies wrapped around one another, it feels intimate in a way I’m unable to describe.

  Leading us through the house, never losing contact, Ryan moves slowly. Behind us are Nic and Duke. She’s much more alert now than before, with her arms folded over her chest and her feet practically stomping into the carpet below. I check back on them to see Duke walks behind her, keeping his hands to himself. And despite the excitement coursing through my veins at being so close to Ryan, I can’t help but be annoyed by Duke’s presence. I still haven’t forgiven him for leaving me alone in that field, and I don’t know if I ever will.

  Outside the house, and down the steps, we reach the sidewalk. The crowd is down by at least half now even though it’s not even all that late as far as parties go. Duke and Ryan’s Harleys are parked between two cars just off the sidewalk.

  “We’re heading out, Brother,” Duke says, his giant hand now wrapped around Nic’s tiny one. Her eyes are narrowed as she passes me, hissing words of revenge. I try to bring myself to feel bad, but I don’t have it in me. Ryan’s here, and I don’t really give a shit. Duke backs his bike out and signals for Nic to climb on. She shakes her head twice before he points his finger at her, giving her a warning glare. She finally concedes, and in no time they’re off and down the road on their way to God-only-knows where.

  Ryan gives a slight tug on my pinky, bringing me up against his side. Leaning down, his breath brushes against my temple.

  “Where do you want to go?” he whispers. My face heats from his nearness, and my stomach flips with possibilities. Emboldened by the situation, I look up at him, and say just as softly, “Your place.” A wicked smile paints itself on his face, and a dark, mischievous glint dances in his gray eyes.

  Chapter 18

  Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.

  - L. Frank Baum

  RYAN CLIMBS ONTO his bike, taking two helmets from the handlebars. He flashes me a smile and hands me a helmet. I strap it on and climb on behind him. Wrapping my arms around his midsection, I ask, “How did you know exactly where I was?”

  He twists, looking at me over his shoulder, and says, “I didn’t.”

  Starting the bike and pulling away from the curb, I’m left to ponder that comment. He was looking for me. I mean, Fort Bragg isn’t that big, but still. It’s the effort he’s putting forth that makes me think maybe this isn’t such an awful idea after all. The bike rumbles beneath me as we dart off down the road. All of my concerns over what we’re doing here—despite Jim’s demands—wash away, and it’s just me and him and the bike blowing through the wind.

  We ride for a few minutes before I finally recognize some landmarks. We pass the high school and then the community center. The school is in poor shape, but the community center is much newer. During one of my and Ruby’s trips into town, she swung by here to show me some of the town’s highlights. I doubt I’d be able to find my way home from here, but it’s something. In the distance, the community hospital shines brightly. I remember this landmark because Ruby said after I’ve been around the club enough, I’ll know all the back roads to get to the emergency room.

  Ryan pulls up to an old cottage that’s seen better days and into the narrow driveway on the right side of the property. Underneath the carport, he cuts off the bike and we climb off. My legs ache just slightly from the ride, though it’s nothing like the previous times I’ve been on his bike. Ryan leads me inside the house. He’s walks so fast, and I’m trying so hard to keep up with him that I barely notice how sparsely furnished the place is. We breeze through the kitchen and then a living room, both of which reek of stale beer and another odor I choose to ignore for the sake of my own sanity. At the end of the hall just off from the kitchen, he opens a door and stands aside, welcoming me in.

  I find myself a mass of nerves and excitement as I peer into Ryan’s bedroom. It isn’t very big, only two-thirds the size of mine at Ruby’s and Jim’s, but he has even less furniture in here than I do in mine. Stepping inside, I find the room to be cooled by a rickety ceiling fan that’s already on. It’s one of those combination fans that has the small lights attached at the bottom. To my right is a tall and narrow window that’s covered with a thin black fitted sheet that does almost nothing for privacy. On the same wall as the window is a full-sized bed and, beside that, a wooden crate that’s being used as a nightstand. On top of it is an overflowing ashtray and a collection of open condom wrappers. On the floor beside the crate is a combination of empty beer bottles and even a whiskey bottle with the cap off.

  Behind me, the door closes, shrouding the room in darkness. The already cool, dark walls look almost black. The faint sliding of metal against metal and the click of the lock send a shiver down my spine. He’s locked the door, and I can hardly see anything. I take the few steps needed to stand beneath the ceiling fan. Reaching up with my right hand, I wrap the tips of my fingers around the bottom of the lower chain, but a rough, calloused hand comes out of nowhere and wraps itself around mine. His touch is gentle as he closes his grip around my curled fingers and lowers our hands. My arm bends at the elbow, Ryan guiding it down to my collarbone, with his right arm creating a cage. Though tender, his movements are carefully thought out and painfully slow. I can’t escape the way we are now.

  Stepping up behind me, his hips hit me at the bottom of my ribs, painting me a clear picture of what he has on his mind. Savoring the moment, I lean back against his chest and let my eyes flutter closed. My heart beats so frantically I worry it might jump right out of my chest, almost painful in its effort.

  He moves so slowly, so intent on torturing me, as the cracked skin of the knuckles of his hand trace a line from the top of my head, down to my chin, swooping inward, and slipping down my neck. My breath hitches, my lungs straining to calm the nervous pant that Ryan’s creating in his wake. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m not focused on his touch. This entire situation just feels wrong.

  He’s always so hot and cold with me, and I’m not supposed to even be here. It was only a few hours ago that Jim issued his warning, and yet here I am. Boredom and liquor have once again impaired my judgment enough that I’m making a poor decision. First, Duke in the field. Now, Ryan in this room that looks no better than what I assume could be compared to a motel that rents room by the hour. I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip on my hand, locking me in place, and brings his lips to my ear. “Relax, baby. I know you want this.”

  I do want this. I want all of it. If only he could just tell me he wants me, that I should fight to have whatever this is with him, I will. But I need him to tell me he wants me.

  “Tell me you want me,” I whisper. The words come out so quietly, I’m not certain he’ll even hear me. But he does. He places his lips on the shell of my ear, his warm breath coating my cheek. His left hand slides down my chest and over my breast, brushing my nipple beneath the fabric of both my shirt and bra in the process. I bite back a gasp that threatens to escape.

  “I want to fuck you,” he says, pushing his pelvis into my back. Biting harder on my lip in surprise, I clamp my mouth shut to stop the yelp from escaping. His left hand slides down the front of my belly, over my tee-shirt, landing on the top of my jeans. His warm fingers slip under the thin fabric, rough skin against soft skin.

  Flicking the button open on my jeans he whispers, “I want to fuck you. Hard.” It’s not lost on me that he wants to fuck me, but I still don’t know if he wants me. There’s a world of difference between the two.

  He takes a gentle bite of my ear and drags the zipper of my pants down. His fingers slide up my cotton panties and then dip inside, just hovering there at the top. A furious pounding escalates between my legs. The little thud, thud, thud builds to a furious roar as my muscles lock and my lungs sta
ll. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like this—if I’ve ever been touched like this. He moves slowly as his fingers slide past my curls and press against me when they slide back up, one finger slipping between my lips. So pent up with frustration, my skin nearly breaks out in a sweat at the contact. Though brief, it’s powerful, the way he touches me. And he knows it, too. I’m so awkward and ill at ease that he has complete command of me right now. If I had a lick of sense or self-respect in this moment, I’d run.

  But I want this.

  Turning around despite his firm grip on me, I place my hands on his hips just below his vest, and rub small circles on his jeans with my right thumb. I look up into his bloodshot eyes and blanch. Though his eyes bore into mine, they’re unfocused. It’s like there’s nothing there beneath the surface. He licks his lips and brings his hand behind my head. Before I can stop him, he pulls me in and his lips are on mine. Plush, moist, and demanding, he takes ownership of my very soul.

  All fear, and disgust with myself washes away at lust igniting in my body. Bringing my hands up around his neck, I try to pull him closer. As if I could consume him. As if he would let me. Our lips slide against one another, my nails clawing at his neck. Turning us and bringing my back up against the wall, he reaches out and places his hand over my beating heart. His eyes suddenly come alive, and his lips turn downward at the corners.

  “Why did you do it?” he asks. Confused, I stare at him without an answer. “Why did you tell that cop where to go?” I blink back at his words. Though they’re formed as a question, they sound more like an accusation. And this is a topic I’ve steadily avoided for two months now. I can’t talk about this with him—or anyone, really—because the truth isn’t pretty.