The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  In love we’re both winners.

  And we both come out on top, breathless and needing more. One taste is never enough.

  “C’mere,” I murmur against her mouth as I lace our fingers together.

  Regretfully, I pull away from her lips and pull her toward the bleachers.

  “You looking to have your way with me under the bleachers?”

  “Well, I couldn’t at fourteen might as well try now,” I tease as I lead her to our spot.

  Back then, neither of us knew it was our spot and after everything that happened we cursed that night. It didn’t matter how good it felt to be under here with her then, it was when we walked away that the nightmare began. It swallowed the good and turned everything ugly. Now we’ve got nothing but beautiful. Time to recreate what this place means.

  The beginning of us.

  I pull the bag of M&M’s out and hand them to her, watching as a grin spreads across her lips.

  I’ve lost count of her smiles, vowing to keep a new tally once she’s my wife. Tearing the package with her teeth, I watch her pour the candy into her palm.

  “You going to share?” I ask.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” she replies.

  “We’re going to have to fix that.”

  “Oh yeah, why’s that?” she says with a mouthful of chocolate. Releasing a moan, she teases me and empties more into her palm.

  “Sharing is kind of a requirement when you’re married,” I point out.

  Her face goes still and I’m pretty sure she swallows down the candy without even chewing. Blinking, she hands me the bag of M&M’s.

  “Oh, so now you want to share?” I laugh, winking at her.

  “Change of heart,” she croaks.

  Slowly, I crouch down on bended knee and take the M&M’s from her hand. I empty the bag into my mouth and watch as she smiles.

  Fuck it, I’ll start the new tally now.

  She runs her hands over the shaved sides of my head and tilts my head back.

  “How’s that for sharing?”

  “It’s a start,” I tease.

  “You’re going to make me sweat it out, aren’t you?”

  “Thinking about it,” I reply with a shrug.

  “Jagger!”

  Laughing, I take her hand and place it over my chest, between the wounds that are healing over my heart.

  “Feel that, don’t you?” I rasp, watching as her eyes glass over. “Yeah, you do, always have and always will. I love you, Celeste. You’re everything that makes this life worth living. You’re everything that keeps this heart beating. I was told I’d come back to Brooklyn and I’d find my heart, but I found my heart at fourteen, I just needed to reclaim it. Now I’m never letting it go. I’m never letting you go.”

  “Promise.”

  “I fucking swear it,” I say, bringing her hand to my lips. “Live a little, gorgeous, marry the bad boy who loves you with all his heart. Give him your smile for the rest of his life.”

  Tears fall from her eyes as I reach into my pocket and pull out the box.

  “I never thought this would happen,” she whispers. “I prayed. I wished but I never truly believed we’d ever be here.”

  “That’s all over now,” I promise.

  “I was born to be Mrs. Richardson,” she murmurs softly.

  “Of course I’ll marry you.”

  Another smile.

  Another tally.

  Mine.

  Always mine.

  -Bonus Epilogue-

  Deuce

  Fuck my life.

  No, seriously, I’ve got to have the worst fucking luck imaginable. This shit doesn’t happen to everyone, just schmucks like me. I’ve been burned more times than allotted in a lifetime. One would think by now I’d have learned my lesson, but I keep making the same mistakes.

  My father called me a giver.

  He told me I gave too much of myself to people.

  I thought it was a good trait to have—honorable, even. But there isn’t a damn honorable thing about the man I’ve become. All that giving isn’t worth shit when you take what’s not yours to take.

  And Lord knows, I’ve taken plenty.

  I’ve roamed the country, running from the destruction I left in my hometown, from the club I was born to and the mess I made of it. Now I wear a different cut, one with a reaper on my back. Trading my nomad patch for one that keeps me in Brooklyn was the biggest mistake I could have made. A man running from his life doesn’t park his bike in one place so his enemies can find him.

  Tired of running, I followed Wolf here and got comfortable. I felt like I belonged, like I was part of something bigger than everything I ran from. For the first time, my past didn’t define me, brotherhood did. It’s why I offered to go to Albany and get the intel my club needed.

  It was the giver in me.

  Give and take.

  That’s me.

  I can’t separate the two no matter how many times I try. I’m too selfish and too fucked to change. As usual, I took what wasn’t mine to take and it bit me in the ass.

  I’m like the guy with the forbidden fruit. What’s his name?

  Abe?

  Adam?

  You know who. That motherfucker just couldn’t help himself and neither could I.

  Every mistake has repercussions, but none of mine get a slap on the wrist. Not only did my mistake bite me, she left a fucking mark then ratted me out to her old man—if you can even call him that.

  She opened her fucking mouth and started a goddamn war. Got my ass kidnapped along with Cobra’s little girl. I suppose I should be semi-grateful to her. Since the bastard fucking beat the living shit out of me I was no use to Skylar, leaving her in Ally’s care.

  Because a junkie makes an ideal babysitter, right?

  Fucking told you my life sucked.

  But wait, the shit storm isn’t finished. Nope, the fucking thing is just getting started. It turns out Ally wasn’t just some club whore I needed to sample to stick it to her old man. Nope, she wound up being Cobra’s sister. His sister that was abducted twelve years ago and believed to be dead or traded by a Russian douchebag.

  It gets better.

  After Jack saved our asses and brought us back home, he stuck me with Ally, making me her fucking babysitter, her goddamn shadow. A fucking caretaker of a disgruntled junkie who doesn’t know the outside world. When she’s not bitching at me, I almost feel bad for her.

  Of course I do.

  Because I have a soft spot for girls like her. After all, that’s the reason I’m in this fucking mess. When I first laid eyes on her, she reminded me of everything I was running from and I couldn’t resist.

  Not her.

  Not the familiarity she provided.

  Or the sweet high I got knowing I was getting one over on her old man.

  Just a taste.

  Yeah, just a fucking taste and this is what you get.

  A constant reminder.

  Now I can’t escape her. I can’t escape the snarky attitude the same way I can’t shake the screams she releases every time she falls asleep in the room next to mine.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asks beside me.

  To add insult to injury, I’m her fucking chauffeur too. It’s like Driving Miss Daisy over here. Glancing at her from the corner of my eye, I clench my jaw, knowing the minute I tell her where we’re headed she’s going to give me shit. She’ll probably kick and scream and try to climb out of the car like she does before every visit. Fuck, I wouldn’t put it past her to jump in front of traffic. Yeah, I’m not in the fucking mood for that headache.

  “This isn’t the way to the methadone clinic,” she points out, reaching for the door handle. Of course she knows where that is, but if I tell her to grab me a soda from the vending machine at the motel, she needs me to draw her a map on a paper napkin.

  Fucked, I tell you.

  F-U-C-K-E-D.

  “I told you I don’t want to go to therapy anymore,” she hisse
s.

  “That’s nice,” I mutter.

  “I won’t go in there,” she shouts, crossing her arms against her chest. “Pull over, Deuce.”

  Progress!

  She isn’t trying to jump out while we’re moving. Turning to her, ready to give her the same fucking tirade I gave her last week and the week before that, I open my mouth but don’t get the chance to. A car slams into us from behind, sending us both forward. Ally braces her hands on the dash and screams as my head slams against the fucking windshield.

  “What’s happening?” she shrieks.

  Knowing she has very little experience with the outside world, I bite back the sarcastic retort and glance in the rearview mirror at the shiny fucking Bentley that’s hit the club’s truck. Glancing back at Ally, I watch her lean back, eyes wide as saucers.

  “Fuck, are you hurt?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Stay right here,” I order as I open the door. “I mean it, Ally, don’t fucking try any funny shit or I’ll shoot your ass. I’m in no fucking mood.”

  I’m about to climb out of the truck when the Bentley swings alongside me.

  What the fuck is this asshole doing?

  Doesn’t he know I’m about to call 1800-Lawyers on his sorry ass? The tinted back window rolls down and a man stares back at me.

  Rich.

  Powerful.

  Score!

  “Sorry about that,” he says with an accent, flashing me a sinister smile. Straight white teeth, so fucking bright I’d bet my left nut they glow in the fucking dark. He leans forward and looks at Ally.

  “It’s all right, there isn’t anything to fear,” he says slowly, enunciating each word.

  Fucking quack.

  “Yeah, how about—”

  Ally gasps beside me, forcing me to turn to her and notice she’s as white as a sheet.

  “What?” I question as my eyes roam her looking for possible injuries. Tires screech across the pavement as the Bentley pulls away, speeding out of my sight before I can catch the license plate.

  “Motherfucker,” I shout as I slam my fist against the steering wheel. There goes my fucking neck brace and my million dollar lawsuit. Remembering Ally next to me, I turn back to her.

  She’s staring into space, still colorless and spooked.

  Shit.

  “Darlin’?” I say gently, feeling like half an asshole. Not entirely a whole asshole because this whole fucking thing wasn’t my fault, but half an asshole because she’s clearly fucked up by the accident and I’m too worried about my get rich quick scam.

  “Ally,” I coax, laying a hand on her knee. She flinches instantly and backs herself up against the door. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

  “That man,” she mutters.

  “What about him?”

  “That’s the man who took me.”

  Yankovich.

  Fuck me.

  © Copyright 2017 All Rights Reserved

  Roamer Book Three A Nomad Series Novel

  By Janine Infante Bosco

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN-13: 978-1547232987

  ISBN-10: 1547232986

  Published by Janine Infante Bosco

  Copy Edited/formatted by: Jennifer Bosco

  Proofread and edited by Trish Bacher of Editor in Heels

  Cover Design: JB’s Cover Obsession Design

  Front Cover Image by: Photographer Wander Pedro Aguiar

  Front Cover Models: Jonny James

  -Prologue-

  DEUCE

  Present Day

  Death.

  Many want to believe they’ll go peacefully in their sleep; after they have lived a long life, conquered their dreams and left their mark on the world.

  No one wants to be murdered.

  They don’t want to suffer.

  They don’t want to scream and beg for a pardon.

  A woman doesn’t want to stare at the man who swore he’d love and protect her and wonder why he won’t save her when there are four guns aimed between her eyes. She isn’t supposed to wonder why one of the guns is his.

  I can still feel her blue eyes pinned to me, silently willing me to do something. To rescue her. To be the man I promised her I’d be. I remember watching the hope fade from those eyes as the seconds passed and the safety on the gun clicked out of place. I can still place the moment when the drugs wore off and clarity filled her blue irises as she realized the end of the line was approaching.

  Death.

  It has a sound.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The bullets that flew through the air traveling faster than the speed of sound and piercing the skin I used to kiss, the body I once worshiped—that’s the sound of death.

  Death also has a scent.

  Something I learned after the gunfire died and seeing the sheets stained with the blood that poured from her body. The metallic scent mixed with the gunpowder that lingered in the air created the scent of death.

  Death has a face too.

  Worn features from a grueling life and lifeless blue eyes that a single tear falls from—that is the face of death.

  Once a beauty, now a casualty.

  The Bible portrays death as a new beginning. If you’re a believer, once your blood dries and your body cools you think your soul will be lifted to Heaven. You wait for your Lord and Savior to welcome you into the afterlife where your every sin is repented and all the ugly shit that found its way into your life fades.

  As a man who delivered death to those he called enemies, I never thought much about the scriptures in the Bible. I didn’t believe the Lord suffered and died on the cross at Calvary. And I sure as fuck didn’t believe he rose on the Sunday that followed. But in that single moment, staring at the woman I loved, I wanted to be a believer.

  I wanted to believe that wasn’t the end.

  Somehow, someway there would be more.

  More of her.

  More of me.

  More of us.

  In life, we’re given responsibilities.

  In death, we’re given regrets.

  A man can only pray to whatever hell he believes in that the two don’t bleed into one another. A man is a failure when his responsibilities become his regrets.

  If he’s smart he doesn’t do responsibility.

  He lives free.

  He dies free.

  The dictionary defines responsibility as having the duty to deal with something or being accountable for someone. Merriam-Webster fails to mention responsibility comes with the act of commitment. A person can assume responsibility, but he doesn’t truly accept it until he commits his heart and soul to the duty or person.

  A roamer cannot commit to anyone or anything, especially not a self-proclaimed cowboy who is destined to ride his chrome horse to his grave. No, a man like me, who is wanted dead or alive by his enemies, isn’t meant to have responsibilities.

  He isn’t supposed to commit.

  He’s meant to travel the road paved for him by those who stole his soul and forced him into a life of sin. All the while he keeps pissing on the law as he eludes the men gunning for him and dodges bullet after bullet. He earns his patch and wears the title of an outlaw proudly.

  He doesn’t walk away from tragedy to find grace.

  He never gets the fucking chance to find his ride or die girl, the one who stands by his side when his life is a mess.

  And he sure as hell never gets to commit the perfect crime with her.

  He doesn’t get to claim her heart or watch as she steals his.

  Unless the outlaw roaming is me.

  Then he gets the girl.

  He finds the Bonnie to his
Clyde and laughs in the face of the devil.

  I ease my conscience by telling myself I tried to fight the inevitable, that I warned Jack Parrish I wasn’t the right man for the job. Still, he handed me all the broken parts of a tortured woman and made me the man responsible for piecing her together.

  I could’ve walked away.

  I could’ve handed him my patch and kissed Brooklyn goodbye.

  Instead, I committed to the task with my heart and soul.

  Because even after she ratted me out to Rush and got my ass abducted, I knew we were meant to be in one another’s life.

  Like a lit match to gasoline, Ally and I were made to create fire.

  Beautiful fucking fire.

  The kind that lights up the whole world.

  The kind of fire no one forgets.

  The type you never escape.

  She was an angel who lost her way to Heaven, dancing in chaos and pain. And me, I was the demon sent from Hell to make it all go away. In my quest to be what she needed, I broke rule after rule and watched a beautiful angel find her wings.

  I forgot about the sound of death.

  I forgot its scent.

  And I allowed death’s face to be a memory.

  I laid Chelsea to rest and carved out a piece of my soul for her to keep.

  Legend says, when two souls are meant to be together the devil will find a way to keep them apart. Being a man who has tasted Satan’s tears and drunk from his soul, I thought I had outsmarted him and escaped the halls of hell, but no sinner is ever truly free from consequence.

  We all pay one way or another.

  Some pay with their own lives, others pay with the lives of those they love.

  Being a man who already lost one woman he swore to protect, a man who helplessly watched her suffer and die before his eyes, the choice became simple. I chose her life over mine.

  She says I saved her.

  Tells me I showed her how to live again.

  Maybe.

  But her life is just getting started. She won’t truly live until I’m gone.

  Until I’m a memory.

  A place in time.

  Lifting the bottle of whiskey to my lips, I drain the little that’s left and glance around the motel room. I used to hate this fucking place, bitched to any one of my brothers who would listen, but these four walls became mine and Ally’s home. It’s here in this room where she laughed for the first time in twelve years. It’s on that broken-down table she sat at and tasted sushi for the first time. It’s through that bathroom door, inside the shower stall where she decided she wanted to create a bucket list. It’s the fucking bed that is now full of weapons where she gave her body willingly. The bed where she learned sex could be something she enjoyed and not something she dreaded. The bed where she laid with me and watched the movie Bonnie and Clyde a hundred times until she knew every word by heart. It’s this fucking room that lives and breathes the memory of the girl I fell in love with.