Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  no·mad

  [ˈnōˌmad]

  NOUN

  a member of a people having no permanent abode, and who travel from place to place to find fresh pasture for their livestock.

  a person who does not stay long in the same place; a drifter, a wanderer, a roamer, a loner.

  Table of Contents

  Dear Reader,

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Epilogue

  Bonus Epilogue

  Next from Janine

  Also, Coming Soon

  Other Books by Janine Infante Bosco

  About the Author

  © Copyright All Rights Reserved 2016

  Help Hotlines

  Dear Reader,

  Are you ready to drift into chaos with me?

  I sure hope so.

  The first book in a new series is always a little scary for me to write. It starts off with the words flowing freely and then I become vulnerable. I question myself and the characters and I wonder if this series will be accepted, if my readers will fall in love with this new group of fictional people.

  Then about a third into writing the book, I think its garbage and I’m ready to give up. I curse like a drunken sailor…yeah, I motherfuck everything and everyone. At this point of the writing process I should not be allowed to drive—hell, I shouldn’t be anywhere in the civilized world.

  But, then something beautiful happens and I fall in love with my characters. I begin to have faith in them and their story.

  Stryker and Gina’s story is unlike anything I’ve ever written.

  Those of you who have read the Tempted Series have an idea of how gritty, raw and detailed I can be.

  Let’s not forget vulgar.

  With that being said, if you are looking for insta-love, fluff or maybe a fairytale…this book is not for you. However, if you are looking for a love story, hot sex, hot bikers, ex-military men, a sassy heroine and a realistic interpretation of the world we live in…well, then I’m your girl.

  I have pushed my own boundaries with this book and I’ll probably push yours too but I promise you Stryker and Gina have a beautiful story.

  You will curse.

  You will scream.

  You’ll wish you never heard of Janine Infante Bosco.

  Then you’ll cry.

  But you will also laugh, swoon, take a cold shower and if you stick it out…you will smile.

  As with all my other books there are things I’d like you to keep in mind before reading any further…

  You are about to enter the unapologetic world of the Satan’s Knights.

  For those of you who have visited before, you have an idea of what to expect—

  Crass talking bikers with no fucking filter.

  The grammar won’t always be on point and that’s because you are now riding with the Satan’s Knights and the men wearing the reaper aren’t scholars, they’re street guys who are rough around the edges…

  Their words are just as rough.

  You should also know that I struggled with the decision on whether or not to keep some derogatory comments. I was warned to delete them, to swap words and play it safe.

  I didn’t listen.

  Not because I’m a rebel but because my tagline is ‘weaving reality into romance’ and derogatory remarks, crude words, slang, racial and ethnic slurs are real.

  It’s our reality.

  I don’t agree with them and I don’t like them either.

  It’s not my intention to insult ANYONE but to only give you the truth.

  Always the truth.The world we live in can sometimes be ugly.

  It’s up to us to look around and find the beautiful.

  Now that we’ve touched on all the warnings and you’re probably scared shit to read it’s time for the drinking game.

  Grab your favorite bottle of the hard stuff and follow the directions below:

  Take one shot if Stryker makes you hot.

  Take two shots when Gina makes you cry.

  Take three shots whenever you laugh.

  When you have about seventy percent left of the book put the bottle down.

  Have faith in me.

  Have faith in the characters.

  Have faith that there is more to the world than ugly.

  And when you find the beautiful in Stryker and Gina’s story take a selfie and tag me in it!

  Take a deep breath and write your review.

  Don’t pirate this shit either—that’s all sorts of ugly.

  As always thank you for choosing me you’ll never know how much it means to me.

  See you on the other side,

  Janine

  ***NOTE: Contains explicit sexual situations, violence, sensitive subjects, offensive language, and mature topics.

  Recommended for age 18 years and up. ***

  To all the heroes,

  This one is for you…

  Thank you.

  Prologue

  Silence.

  It engulfs me, provides me with a false sense of security the moment I close my eyes and drag my subconscious into the depths of sleep. But it’s quickly ripped from me by the sound of tortured screams. A woman shouts in a foreign tongue, and though I don’t understand the Afghani language, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt she’s yelling for her innocent child to run, to seek shelter, and for the man with the laser pointed at her child’s head, not to shoot.

  I am the man with the sniper rifle.

  I am the man perched on a roof, with my finger firmly wrapped around the trigger.

  And that bitch just sent her fucking child to play in the sand with a bomb strapped to his back.

  For a moment, I want to believe she’s not playing me—that her kid isn’t a ploy in some sick terrorist plot. I ignore the sounds of my men commanding me to take my shot, insisting that time is of the essence and if I don’t do it, I’m betraying my country. I loosen my finger around the trigger and open both my eyes and watch the boy lift a handful of sand through the scope attached to my rifle. He opens his palm and spreads his fingers wide letting the grains of sand fall through them before he looks back at his mother.

  She shouts more of that foreign bullshit and I wish I could get my hands on her and slice her tongue from her mouth.

  It’s the final thought that crosses my mind before I pull the trigger and watch the boy fall back into the sand as my bullet pi
erces him between his eyes—innocent eyes that were once wide with wonder now are dull and lifeless.

  Sweat beads along my brow and I can feel the bile rise in my throat as I wait. Everything around me fades as I stare at the boy in the sand. I lose myself and question my purpose, my mission, my platoon. Everything. The bomb doesn’t go off and I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. I frantically peer into the scope, moving it to the right in search of the mother. I picture the Virgin Mary cradling her lifeless son pulled from the cross and wait for the woman dressed in black garb to do the same, but she’s nowhere in sight.

  Before I can divert my eyes back to the boy, the blast erupts, robbing me of the opportunity to look into his eyes one final time because his head has been blown off his body and the fragments of him are now one with the sand he was playing with.

  This is war.

  And this is hell.

  All that’s left is the sound of my own screams vibrating through my body, deafening as it pounds my eardrums and invades my head.

  It’s those screams that pull me from my sleep night after night. I’ve given up on getting a full night’s rest, using my bed only to fuck, and even that didn’t happen too often.

  Until her.

  I used to pound my dick into any willing pussy, never bringing them into my bed, believing I didn’t need that false sense of hope that I’m normal when I’ve got a woman wrapped around me, begging to spend the night in my arms after I’ve thoroughly fucked her—only for her to realize I’m fucked in the head when I wake her up screaming like a little bitch.

  Yeah, I didn’t need that shit.

  Hell, I didn’t want it.

  Until her.

  But, I’ve learned my lesson and I’ve learned it the hard way. It’s the reason I’m sitting in a chair in the corner of a fucking filthy motel room—waiting for the sun to rise as I stare at the battered and bruised woman in my bed, when all I want to do is climb in next to her and pull her into my arms, take away her pain and forget mine. I clench my fists and keep them pinned against the arms of the chair as I take in the dried up blood on her naturally pouty lips. Lips that skimmed every inch of my body, lips I crave every night since.

  I tear my eyes from her mouth and zero in on her eyes that are swollen shut—beautiful fucking eyes I know are pale green. Eyes once vibrant with life and mischief will now be full of torment and fear when the swelling goes down and she can fucking open them again.

  Her long brown hair is splayed across my pillow, matted with blood and knots from being fisted and pulled, leaving her scalp sore and just as bruised as the rest of her. I let my eyes travel the length of her, knowing the body she’s hiding behind her clothes matches her face in color and shame.

  A knock sounds on my door and I tear my eyes away from the restless beauty squirming between my sheets—wishing it was pleasure that had her twisting and not torment.

  Torment can’t be erased, it can’t be silenced—that shit sticks with you.

  It lives inside you and destroys you, fractures your soul and rips your life to shreds.

  I may have rescued her tonight, but the woman in my bed is as good as dead. Her soul has been taken, chewed up and spat out by the men who attacked her. When she wakes up all she’ll know is grief.

  She’ll mourn the life she had and wish the one she’s left with ends.

  I pull open the door and stare into the dark eyes glaring at me. The glare belongs to Jack Parrish, president of the Satan’s Knights.

  “Where is she?” A familiar voice demands, forcing me to peel my eyes from Jack and narrow them in his direction. The man, usually dressed to the nines, is a disheveled mess. Still dressed in his tailored pants but his shirt is untucked and only partially buttoned. Rocco Spinelli, the up and coming gangster stares back at me.

  I cross my arms against my chest, barricading my door as I size him up for a moment before turning my stone cold glare back to the man who hands me my orders.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” I sneer.

  Before Jack answers me, before Rocco has a chance to argue, my broken beauty releases a soul shattering cry that echoes off the walls of my room. I glance over my shoulder, ready to charge into action when Rocco grabs my cut, catching me off guard and shoves me out of his way as he rushes to the bedside.

  I’m about to attack the motherfucker when Jack pulls me back.

  “Get off me,” I grind out, watching as Rocco leans over the bed.

  “That woman wrestling her demons in your bed is Rocco’s sister,” Jack mutters, leaning over my shoulder.

  Fuck me.

  Chapter One

  3 years ago, Satan’s Knights Albany Charter

  “Let me stay the night, Stryker,” Ally pleads, lifting her head from my chest as she rolls the barbell pierced through my nipple between her fingers and looks up at me. I blow out a breath, force myself not to roll my eyes because I don’t want to be a dick. I turn my gaze to her, curly red hair sticks to her sweaty face. Her lips are swollen from being wrapped around my cock and her eyes shimmer with a shred of hope.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I growl. Reaching for her hips I push her off me before tearing my eyes away from her and sparing myself the disappointment reflected in them. Ally’s got high hopes and I don’t have the heart to crush them. She doesn’t want me; it’s not my bed she desires. At the end of the day all she wants is to belong to someone instead of everyone. She’s a self-proclaimed whore who spreads her legs on a dime. She’s no one’s property and everyone’s all the same. She belongs to the Satan’s Knights Albany charter and any motherfucker with the reaper on their back gets between those thighs.

  Still, she’s not like the rest of the washed up cunts that troll through the clubhouse looking for a hit of whatever smack we’re dealing these days, willing to trade pussy for a fix. She used to be the good girl, the one you laid claim to, gave your colors and took home to your mother when you were pretending you weren’t a fucking criminal. The story floating around here is her old man owed the club money, a lot of fucking money, and when he didn’t pay they fucking killed him and took his daughter as payment. No debt goes unpaid, not under Rush’s rule.

  Rush is the president of our charter and when he got tired of Ally’s cunt—or rather when his old lady found him fucking her on top of the bar—Rush passed her along to the rest of us. Gone was the good girl with a bright future, born was the used and abused Ally, strung out on drugs with no reprieve in sight.

  I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and grab my worn jeans from the floor, pulling them up my legs before I turn around and watch her lean against the iron headboard.

  Fucking girl looks as lost as I feel.

  A part of me wants to save her, to shake some fucking sense into her thick skull and tell her this isn’t the life she’s meant to have.

  But I ain’t nobody’s hero.

  My eyes divert up to the worn, tattered American flag nailed to the wall above my bed. I stare at the stars and stripes. The debris embedded into the fabric is all the reminder I need. It’s what reels me back from the edge when I think I’m the fixing kind. It tells the story of a man who isn’t worth the medal stuffed in the back of his drawer, the man who survived devastation only to live in hell.

  It reminds me I can’t save anyone.

  I pull my shirt over my head and slip my arms through my leather cut before sitting down on the edge of the bed to put my boots on.

  “I’ll leave,” Ally says from behind me.

  “I’ve got some place I need to be,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at her, watching as she scratches at the dry patches of skin scaling her arms. “Stay, sleep that shit off,” I order, knowing by the time I get back she’ll be long gone, on the hunt for more junk to fill her veins and the need to be in my bed will be long forgotten.

  “You’re not like the others,” she says thoughtfully as I stand to my full height, grabbing my gun off the nightstand and shovi
ng it into the waistband of my jeans.

  I fixed her with my cold eyes.

  “Nah, sweetheart, I’m not,” I agree, rolling my neck as I bite the inside of my cheek and crack my knuckles. “They’ve still got a little life left in their black souls,” I ground out, fisting a hand and bringing it between my pecs.

  Hollow.

  Just like the ground after an IED splits it open and swallows the destruction.

  “Nothing left here,” I add, before I turn around and walk out of my room, not giving her a second glance before closing the door.

  I make my way through the common area, ignoring the members of my club that still linger around the bar. They’re my brothers, yet I can’t bring myself to call them that. I’m a patched member of their club, I’ll ride to my death, take a bullet for any one of them, but I won’t let myself get attached to these fuckers.

  Been there, done that.

  Being a United States Marine changed me, hardened what was left of my heart and killed my soul. I didn’t expect to find a brotherhood, never thought I’d become close to the men I served with overseas, but I did. Most soldiers are lonely and missing their families while they are on tour, but I ran from the family I was born to and found the one I belonged to. The men I defended our stars and stripes with were the men who became my family and the broken home I left behind was nothing but a distant memory.

  I step outside, reach for my cigarettes and pull one from the pack with my teeth. I straddle my bike as I pat my pockets looking for a light. Once I’ve lit the cigarette, I take a long drag, filling my lungs with smoke as I sit on my bike and mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to do, where I am about to go, and what fucking hell will be waiting for me when I pull my bike into the driveway.

  Memory after fucked up memory rises to the surface threatening to drag me down. Her voice is so real, her cries and pleas so fucking real—just as vivid as the image of her backed into a corner as he strikes her with his belt. She sinks to the floor, her body surrenders to the harsh slap of leather against her flesh as her dull eyes peer through his legs and find mine.

  Go back to bed, Chase. Mommy’s fine.