Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6) Page 2
“Tell me you love me, baby,” Wyatt says on a plea. He’s gasping for air and still locked in Rig’s death grip, but I have all his attention.
“Every ounce and every breath,” I say. He said those words to me once—that every ounce of him and every breath he takes is for me and me alone. That he’d rather die than be away from me.
Wyatt grunts and then, in a massive show of his strength, shoves Rig off of him. He pulls back enough to eye up the man he considers his mentor. And then he snaps. Wyatt wails on Rig with a show of hatred he’s never exhibited before. It’s intense, the way he slams his fist into the older man’s face and ribs with absolutely no remorse or doubt. Rig fights back, and even gets in a few good hits, but for the most part he’s out-matched. They’re nearly equal in height, but Wyatt puts so much time into lifting that even with the heavy drinking and drugs he’s still a fucking killing machine—and he’s just unleashed all his rage on his president.
When Rig is good and bloody and cowering on the floor, Wyatt finally lets up. He bends down and holds Rig by his hair and hisses words of disgust into the man’s face. “You’re not my president, and you’re not my fucking brother.”
I stand motionless as I watch Wyatt kick Rig one more time and then disappear through the doors of the pleasure palace. I follow without even thinking, so desperate to have some resolution to this thing between us. I didn’t do anything wrong—not really, anyway—and I need him to do something to give me faith that he’s still the same man I fell in love with. Anything would do at this point.
But he doesn’t do anything to reassure me that he loves me and he’s committed to our son. He just strides through the pleasure palace, ignoring every woman who eyes his massive frame, and heads for one of the couches in a far corner of the room. I watch as the man I love plops down on the sofa, shoving a man without a cut out of the way, and snaps his fingers at the woman holding the small mirror flat in her hands. She lifts the mirror up for him and hands him a short, cut-up straw. He leans in, puts the straw in his nose, and sucks up one line after another. I hate that he does this. He didn’t used to. The coke is a fairly new thing for him. Everything’s changed since he patched in. Slowly but surely he’s become someone I barely recognize. Back when he was a hang-around, and even when he was a prospect, he was rarely high or drunk. He only indulged a little, and even then I could still talk to him. But now, when he’s like this, it’s impossible. I can’t help but try anyway.
“Baby, talk to me.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears. I’m desperate and needy. I hate those girls, but with Wyatt, that’s who I become.
“How long?”
“What?” I have no idea what he’s even talking about now. It’s all half sentences and coded language when he’s in a bad mood.
“How long have you been letting him fuck you?”
“Never. I told you he’s full of shit. Every night I’m at home in our bed waiting for you.”
“You let him touch you,” he says with an icy coldness to his voice that makes me uneasy.
“It was a hug and I’m sorry.” My voice is small and tears pool in my eyes. I’ve never been much of a crier, but the last trimester is really fucking with me.
Wyatt stands from the couch, wipes his nose, and stalks over to me. He grabs me behind my neck again and pulls me in close to him so our faces are as close as they can get with our son between us.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says. His other hand palms my belly and then slides around to my ass. His hand squeezes at my sensitive flesh in ways that both pinch and burn. “Every ounce and every breath.”
“Take me to a room,” I say as seductively as I can. If I can distract him with sex, then maybe this will blow over a little quicker.
“Tell me he forced you,” he whispers.
I still, wanting to respond but not knowing how. I’ve spent my entire life around badass bikers, and there’s been no shortage of badass bikers who get fucked up and have bad temper tantrums to go with it. All six foot six of Wyatt hovers over me, pressed into me, touching me. I have to find a way to diffuse the situation and quick.
“Tell me, woman.” Wyatt’s words come out as a bark. I remind myself that this is what the coke does to him. One moment he’s gentle and sweet, and the next his eyes are a million miles away and he looks like he’s on a super-secret recon mission or something.
“Babe, nothing happened,” I say as calmly as I can. I’m not going to lie to appease him—especially not this lie. Forcing yourself on another brother’s old lady is suicide. If I say what Wyatt wants me to say, it’s an automatic death sentence for Rig. I can’t and won’t do that to someone—regardless of how displeased I may be with them at the moment.
“You lie,” Wyatt says. Again, his voice takes on a low whisper that couldn’t sound more deadly if he tried. “I see the way he looks at you.”
“Seriously?” I snap and try to push him off me. It does no good but to irritate me. Wyatt’s pulled this bullshit before, but he’s usually over it once the high wears off. “Clear head, baby. I need you to have a clear head.”
“Oh, my head’s clear, bitch.” The words fly out of his mouth like razorblades.
I flinch.
The boy I fell in love with would back off when he saw he was hurting me. But this is the man he’s become, and he’s not nearly as kind or gentle. No, the man before me sees weakness and he exploits it. It doesn’t matter that he promised to love me and to protect me. It doesn’t matter that when we conceived our son that it was in the bed we share, and that he told me I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever been able to touch. And it doesn’t matter that, like the stupid kid I was, I believed him.
“You’ve been fucking around behind my back.”
I want to tell him he’s crazy and that I’d never betray him, but I can’t get the words to form in my mouth. It wouldn’t matter anyway.
None of it matters because he’s a predator and I’m his prey. This is what we’ve become. Veritable strangers, ready to claw at each other every chance we get. He’s always bitching that I’m not the same person I used to be—that I used to be fun and I used to actually like him. Nothing he says is untrue, and so I can’t even deny it.
And I can’t do it again.
I can’t fight about the drugs or the whores or money. Because babies cost money and they need things that I can’t afford on my own, but I know damn well that Wyatt can. I can’t fight for his affection or attention anymore. This has got to end. My parents were seriously fucked in a bunch of different ways, but even they fought less than we do. If it’s like this now, then what is it going to be like when my baby is here?
He places his hands on my ass cheeks and squeezes before sliding them up to my lower back and around to the sides of my belly. I take a deep breath and relax into his touch—but just a little—because he’s always calmer after he reminds himself of the power of our love. This baby that kicks at my ribs and pushes on my bladder only exists because we dared fall in love despite everything. Baby Z is made up of the absolute best of who Wyatt and I are, and nothing and no one can ever change that.
“This baby is a fucking lifesaver,” he says quietly. His eyes are fixed on our baby. His hands roam from the sides of my stomach up to the top and then down to the bottom. He traces the stretch marks beneath my shirt with his index finger. He can’t see them from here, but he’s done this so many times, he just knows where they are. Deep inside, behind the confusion and the anger that overtakes him when he gets high, he knows me. He knows me well enough to know the lines on my stomach like they’ve always been there, even though they’re fairly new.
“Yeah, he is.” He’s calmer now, and we’re finally moving past this. I lean up and brush the back of my hand over his cheek. I love this man. Sometimes I just have to remind myself of that.
“Otherwise,” Wyatt says slowly and pauses, his voice dropping so low I barely even hear him, “I’d kill you for betraying me.”
It takes me a min
ute to realize what he’s said, but by then it’s too late. His hands travel up my belly and over my breasts to my neck where he squeezes at my tender flesh. It only hurts a little. Not as much as I thought it would, but enough for me to come to terms with what’s happening here. Enough to know that this is it. I can’t stay here no matter how much I love him. I can’t let this be my baby’s future.
“He’s not mine,” he says. “I still love him too much to hurt you, so I’m going to let you leave.”
I stand there motionless and watch as Wyatt releases me and steps back. His eyes are dead and his shoulders are slumped. He’s a million miles away.
“Baby, he’s yours. I never fucking cheated.” It’s a plea. A pathetic, desperate, sad-as-fuck appeal to a man I barely know anymore but love anyway.
“Tell me the truth.”
Something snaps in me, and I make a choice I can’t take back.
And I lie.
“He’s not yours.” The words come out so slowly and broken that I barely recognize my own voice. It’s ridiculous. They’re just words, but they mean so much. I don’t let myself feel the weight of them, nor do I let myself look Wyatt in the eye. I just stand there and lie like it’s the easiest thing to do in the world. It’s easier than breathing. It’s easier than thinking. I don’t like liars, but in this moment I’ve become one of them. And I don’t let myself feel it, because I think if I do, my knees will buckle and I won’t be able to leave. And I really need to leave now.
“I’m going to get my dick wet. When I’m done, you better be fucking gone.”
He turns and leaves.
And then so do I.
I think I’ve waited long enough to avoid seeing him when I waddle out, but I haven’t. To the left of the front door, leaning against the wall with his hands laced behind his head, is Wyatt. He’s staring into the hall absently. It’s obvious because when he sees me, his eyes flicker to life and his shoulders straighten. I don’t have a choice but to pass him on my way out. I make my way slowly down the hall, desperately wanting to move my eyes from his but unable to. A loud man stumbles down the hall and bumps into me. I’m pushed into the wall. I right myself quickly and keep going. I have to swallow the lump in my throat and force one foot in front of the other. And still, my eyes don’t leave his.
It isn’t until I’m just a few feet away that we break eye contact. He looks down and smirks at his feet. My eyes follow his to find the same woman who made the snotty comment to me on my way in on her knees. She’s unbuckling Wyatt’s belt and staring up at him like he’s a god or something. It’s the same look I used to give him. My steps falter. I’m just a few feet from the door, but I can’t make myself move. After his belt, she goes for his zipper. She reaches into his boxers, but he—with his eyes still on her—shakes his head and says, “Down.”
Wyatt’s dick—my dick—springs free as she pulls his boxers down. I don’t see what her tongue is doing. I don’t see anything except for the tattoo above his dick that says my name—a declaration of a forever that’s never going to happen.
Because this is the end of us.
CHAPTER 1
August 2015
8 months to Mancuso’s downfall
My stomach rolls as I sit in the passenger seat of my own freaking vehicle. My ass hurts from the long-ass drive out here from Detroit, but it’s the handcuffs that link my right wrist to the door handle that bug me the most. I’ve pulled at them, tried to pick the lock with a bobby pin, and jiggled the fucking things since Diesel slapped ‘em on me. Not that I thought my attempts would do any good. They’re the same cuffs the cops use, not the soft type you use for sex. Not that I know much of anything about sex these days.
“Is this really necessary?”
Diesel doesn’t even look my way before he says, “Yes.” I huff, but his jaw ticks and he opens his mouth to speak before I can. “Your boy safe?”
“Yes.”
My kids are with my dad and Elle at his house a few miles outside of Fort Bragg. The only reason he’s even home is because I told him we were coming in and needed a place to crash. God only knows where he was when we talked. I’m not even sure why the man keeps that house since he’s never there.
“Then yeah,” Diesel says.
“Something you need to learn—my word is my law. I mean what I say and I say what I mean. I told you I’d face Wyatt, so I am. The cuffs aren’t necessary.”
He’s quiet for a long time, ignoring me like he didn’t even hear me. He pulls us onto Main Street, and we drive for a few blocks before things become more familiar. This place was my home once. I knew it well. Detroit doesn’t feel much like home anymore—hasn’t for a damn long time—but this doesn’t feel like home either. The only place I really feel at home is with my kids.
In the distance, I see the Forsaken Custom Cycle sign. It’s old and faded and doesn’t do much to advertise for the business. Not that the guys do much with the business aside from their own repairs and the occasional upgrade for a local. I steel myself for the sinking feeling in my gut, but it never comes. Instead, a sort of dead weight settles in my belly, telling me that this is much worse than I think it is. I made my choices, and now I have to live with them.
Fuck.
“Looks like you’re gonna puke.” His voice is void of any judgment, but he’s going somewhere with this, I can tell.
We pull into the parking lot of the shop and I’m faced with the closed gates to the clubhouse. I can’t see anything beyond the gates because of the black slats in the chain link that keep prying eyes from club business. I don’t realize I have a death grip on the door handle until the sweat from my hand becomes uncomfortable. I left Wyatt because he made me. It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t want to leave him. I never would have if he’d given me any choice. But I was seven months pregnant and he’d slammed my head into a brick wall. He’d threatened to kill me and then forced me to watch him get his dick sucked on my way out.
Diesel honks the horn, and I have to close my eyes to block out the view of the clubhouse as the gates open. I can’t do this. I can’t. I fucking can’t. My lungs strain for air that isn’t coming. I can’t do this. Fuck. Every muscle in my body is tight, and I swear to Christ I think I might swallow my goddamn tongue. I double over and use my free arm to cover my head, like if I can hide in this seat, then I won’t have to face Wyatt for what I’ve done. Tears well in my eyes, but I force them back before they can spill down my face. I may be freaking out, but I refuse to cry. I’m an adult, and I made my choices. I have to deal with them.
Diesel puts the SUV in park, cuts the engine, and waits. He doesn’t comfort me in any way. He just lets me freak the fuck out and is damn patient while I do it.
I don’t know how long it takes me to calm down. I just know that eventually my breathing stabilizes and I figure out how to stop my heart from beating itself right out of my chest. When I sit up and take a deep breath and calmly look over at Diesel, I find he’s staring at me with what might be sympathy in his eyes. Or maybe it’s boredom.
“Thus the handcuffs,” he says as a way of defense. I don’t admit that he was probably right to cuff me. “Got mad respect for you, babe. You earned your title as my VP’s old lady, you’re raising two kids on your own, and my woman loves you, so that means I got love for you. Your title means your life is more important to me than mine is, but get this—regardless of how shit went down, you got my VP’s kids, and I put my ass on the line to help save one of them. Those cuffs ain’t about disrespect for you. They’re about respect for your old man and my brother. Something you need to learn about me is that I’m a family man, and Forsaken is my family. So yes, the cuffs are necessary.”
My lips turn up in the corners even though I try to hide my smile. Diesel just shakes his head, gets out of the car, and walks around to my side and uncuffs me only to slap the other end on himself.
“Got Church and I’m already late, so you’re going to keep your ass in your old man’s room.”
“I could just tag along, ya know,” I say. Like that would ever happen.
“Crazy bitch,” he mutters and drags me toward the clubhouse. There are two other vehicles in the lot and a line of bikes along the side of the building near the entrance. I avoid checking them out, preferring instead to avoid the mental guessing game of figuring out which one belongs to Wyatt. We walk in, but I keep my eyes on the floor the entire time. It’s bad enough that I’m here, doing what I’m doing, but it’s even worse that I’m handcuffed to a brother in the process. If I weren’t so fucked up, I might be able to feel embarrassed about the situation I’ve found myself in.
Every step is so familiar, like deja vu or something. It’s not because the familiarity comes from the last time I was here. I showed up that night fourteen years ago to show my man I was still his woman, even if I was a woman with a waddle. I left that night totally devastated. Wyatt wasn’t mine. It was the worst night of my life. Every day after was better than that day. I didn’t have my man but I had my baby, and then when I actually had my baby, he was perfect and gorgeous. Even if I was the only thing he had in this world, I vowed to be enough for him. The second worst night of my life was realizing that I’d failed. I’m not enough on my own. Zander needs his dad even if his dad is a fucking asshole. The kid is half a foot taller than me now. He’s losing his boyish frame and is starting to grow muscles—all over but in his arms especially. I don’t think I realized how strong he’d gotten until we got into a fight about his disappearing this past summer and he pushed me out of his way. It took me back to the way Wyatt used to manhandle me, and I flipped out on him. It didn’t do any good. I’m not intimidating enough, I guess, and that’s the moment I gave up trying to tell myself that I could do this alone.
I just didn’t know how not to do this alone.
Not just for Zander, but for Piper as well. She’s still so young, and she doesn’t know any better, but she needs her a daddy. She needs a man who’s going to tell her she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. She needs him to make her believe that she’s worthy and strong and important just for being who she is. Because one day a man is going to try to treat her like crap, and she needs to know that’s bullshit and she’s worth more. I can tell her all of that, but she won’t absorb it the same way coming from me as she will from her father.