Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  I watch as he drops to his knees in front of her and with trembling hands reaches out to touch the woman he loves, but he’s unsure where and how to touch her so he doesn’t lay his hands on her. Instead, he drops his hands to left his side and his head into her lap and cries like the broken man he now is.

  This is terror.

  This is war.

  This is death.

  This time it’s not a nightmare.

  This time it’s real.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’m not going to look at my phone again.

  I’m not.

  Instead, I stare at the NASDAQ ticket across my screen, pull up my investments on another screen and reach for the candy bar next to my cell phone. Taking a bite of my PayDay bar, ironic isn’t it, I decide I’m worthless. No pun intended. Ha! I’m on a roll today.

  It’s all the sex.

  It turns my mind to mush.

  Throwing in the towel, I close down the open tabs on my computer and open my browser. My fingers hover over the keyboard as my mind wanders back to last night. I think of Stryker. I think of his easy smile and recall the way he lifted his hand and counted five facts on his fingers. In that moment he was just an average guy wooing a woman. It’s amazing how quickly things change, how in a split second a man can go from one extreme to another.

  He threw his body over mine and I tumbled face first to the ground, not truly processing what was happening until I rolled over and saw the gun in his hand. It should’ve been enough to scare the living shit out of me, but it wasn’t the gun that frightened me, it was the distant look in his eyes and the way he physically was in front of me but mentally thousands of miles away.

  You hear about it all the time.

  The tragic stories of the servicemen and woman who survive war and return home only to suffer with the mental repercussions.

  It’s just another story on the news and maybe if someone finds the story rewarding enough they write a book about the hero who fought for his country but lost the war with himself. It becomes a movie and the hero’s name becomes a box office phenomenon until the next Fifty Shades movie comes out and everyone forgets about it.

  I come from a family tree full of criminals and the most honorable battle any of them have ever fought is with their conscience. I’ve never known anyone who has served in the military and I’m almost ashamed of that. It costs nothing to befriend someone. There are so many veterans who have no one to turn to, no one to offer a shoulder or lend an ear.

  You don’t have to be a doctor to know Stryker is suffering from PTSD. All you have to do is look into his eyes, watch as he becomes disconnected from the world and you’ll learn what it is to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.

  I type PTSD into my browser and wait for the search engine to bring up the results. I don’t know what I’m looking for, if I’m naively looking for a cure or searching for ways I can help him cope, but sitting here and not acknowledging it isn’t an option for me.

  The intercom buzzes on my desk just as I’m about to click on a link and my assistant’s voice fills the room.

  “Ms. Spinelli, there are two gentlemen here demanding to see you,” Casey says unsteadily. “Wait. You can’t go in there!”

  Rolling my eyes, I lean back in my chair, take another bite of my candy bar and divert my eyes toward the office door.

  Three…two…one…

  The door swings open and just as I expected my inconsiderate, arrogant brother strolls through the door with his muscle behind him and my poor assistant on their heels. They’re quite the sight and I almost choke on the candy when Rocco slams the door in Casey’s face, nearly clipping her nose.

  “Rocco,” I hiss, gripping the edge of my desk and rising to my feet. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “The asshole that’s been calling you for hours,” he replies as he quickly reaches over my desk and snatches my phone.

  “Give me my phone back, asshole,” I demand, but cringe as he glances down at the screen and smirks.

  “Hickeys, huh?”

  “I hate you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You tell me so every time you see me,” he says, waving me off. “Your fucking phone is on silent.”

  I’m an idiot because the first thought to pop into my head is that I missed Stryker’s call or text because I had the damn thing set to do not disturb.

  “I know you don’t take a goddamn thing I do or say seriously but you need to pay very close attention to me,” he starts, pulling out the chair in front of my desk as he hands my phone over to the big brute standing next to him.

  “Give me that,” I order, stepping out from behind my desk.

  “My rate just doubled,” the dope playing with my phone says, ignoring my attempts at trying to take it back.

  “Gina, meet Johnny,” Rocco says, pointing back and forth between me and the cell phone thief. “Johnny will shadow you until I tell him otherwise.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I seethe. “First, you storm into my office and disrespect my employee then you take my phone and invade my privacy—”

  “If you think that’s invading your privacy, you’re in for a rude awakening,” Johnny chimes in, handing me my phone. “My number is in your phone. Mr. Spinelli has briefed me on your routines and such. As long as you behave I’ll make myself as scarce as possible.”

  He wasn’t joking.

  Neither was Rocco.

  He wasn’t playing a role.

  Rocco Spinelli Junior was a man of power.

  A criminal.

  A mobster.

  And if I know anything about the mob, it’s the truth my mother engrained into my brain—everyone associated with it becomes the victim.

  I’m no victim.

  “Johnny, can you give me a minute alone with my brother, please?” I ask, keeping my gaze firmly set on my brother’s face.

  “I’ll be outside, boss,” Johnny tells my brother, before stepping out of my office. I walk around the desk and lean against it, crossing my arms against my chest as I stare at him trying to decide how to approach him.

  “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit, Gina.”

  “My bullshit? That’s rich, because the way I see it your bullshit has landed in my fucking lap. I’m a stockbroker, Rocco, I don’t need a bodyguard. You decided to live dangerously and now I have to walk around with a fucking guard? How is that fair to me?”

  “Johnny stays with you until further notice,” he says, ignoring everything I said. “It’s not up for debate, Gina, and I will not sit here and waste my time explaining shit you already know.”

  He’s about to walk passed me when he pauses and reaches for the phone vibrating in his pocket.

  “Spinelli,” he answers.

  Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention to the door that opens and watch as two men storm into my office behind Johnny.

  “Are you sure? Are there any survivors?”

  I divert my eyes back to my brother and my mouth drops open.

  When did we become the people who didn’t ask if anyone was hurt and automatically assumed they were dead?

  He ends the call and shoves his phone back into his pocket before pointing a finger at Johnny.

  “You stick to her like glue,” he demands, starting for the door with the two strangers dressed in black flocking to his sides. Rocco doesn’t say another word as he leaves my office, closing the door behind him.

  “What the hell just happened?” I ask, turning my attention back to my new shadow and watch as he makes himself comfortable on the small sofa in my office. Flipping through the latest issues of Forbes magazine he finally lifts his eyes and with no remorse he answers my question.

  “War.”

  Long after the mission failed and my brothers died I sat and pondered how things might have played out if the outcome were different. Who would I save first? How would I choose one man, one life, one family over
the other?

  I got my answer today.

  You don’t choose.

  You give whatever you can and move on to the next one that needs you. You keep doing that until rescue comes and the lives you claimed to keep in this world are as safe as they’re going to be. Luckily help came quick in the form of Deuce and Cobra. They helped me free Linc, but we were all too afraid to move him, fearing we’d fuck something up and he’d wind up paralyzed. It was bad enough his legs were broken so bad they were crooked.

  The paramedics came, and I jumped into the back of the ambulance with Linc, leaving Pipe in the capable hands of Cobra and Deuce. As the ambulance took off, I stared out the back windows and took in the destruction. After my episode I had been so wrapped up in the people surrounding me I hadn’t given much thought to the rest of our people, and it began to sink in that Oksana was probably not the only casualty.

  It wasn’t until we arrived at the hospital and they wheeled Linc into emergency surgery to reconstruct his spine that I learned the status of the rest of my club. Jack had partial hearing loss, and they weren’t sure if it would be permanent or not. His wife—shit, they weren’t even married. Reina had gone into premature labor and they were trying to stop it. Blackie walked away nearly unscathed aside from some broken ribs and a bunch of cuts. Same for his girl. Poor Wolf had a heart attack trying to save the table we congregate around. That table is as precious to the club as the patch on our backs.

  Two prospects died; one in the explosion and the other was shot outside the gates of the compound. Our clubhouse was gone, Pipe’s wife was gone, and our leader was disabled by the blast. Whoever was responsible for this had thoroughly planned their attack, cutting us off at the knees.

  Staring around the emergency room, I spot Adrianna wearing a sling and guilt fills me, knowing I’m responsible for her broken wrist. I move toward her, working out what I’m going to say to her, how I’m going to explain I’m as fucked in the head as the day is long, when I feel a hand touch my shoulder.

  Quickly, I spin around and out of pure reflex I push away the hand before I can see who it belongs to.

  “Sir, we need to bring you into triage…” Her words fade as the blonde Gina was with the other night stares back at me in shock.

  “I know you,” I reply, narrowing my eyes. “You’re the blonde from the other night.”

  “My name is Celeste. I’m a nurse here and Gina’s my cousin,” she clarifies. Composing herself, she shoves her tablet under her arm and nudges me toward the examining room. I follow her gaze to the room behind me and then cross my arms as I stand in place.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her.

  “You were in an explosion,” she argues.

  “Thanks for the concern but it ain’t my first taste of terror, sweetheart,” I assure her as my gaze travels to the automatic doors behind her. Cobra steps inside the emergency room, his clothes stained with blood and he’s holding onto a pair of red shoes.

  Celeste gasps behind me as she locks eyes with Cobra, but neither of us have a chance to say anything to him because the doors open again and Pipe walks in alongside the men wheeling a stretcher that carries a black body bag.

  The paramedics pause, turning their attention to Pipe, whose eyes are glued to the bag.

  “Sir, you can’t come with us.”

  “The fuck I can’t,” Pipe growls, lifting his bloodshot eyes to the man denying him any more time with the woman he loves.

  “We’re sorry for your loss, sir, but you’re not allowed in the morgue,” the officer, escorting the paramedics and the body, informs him.

  “Pipe, you have to let her go, man,” Deuce says, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  The emergency room seems to become eerily quiet as we all watch Pipe struggle. His grip loosens on the rail of the stretcher and he reluctantly takes a step backward. Quickly he changes his mind and makes a move to reach for the stretcher again, but the paramedics are faster, leaving him alone with his broken heart and shattered soul. He walks over to Cobra and takes the shoes from him, staring at them in his hands before he cradles them like one might hold an infant in their arms and walks out of the hospital.

  In the aftermath of war the truth becomes clear—the Brooklyn chapter is done.

  This is the fall of the Satan’s Knights.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was all over the news.

  The Satan’s Knights MC was attacked. A man strapped with explosives killed the men at the gates and disrupted the wedding of the president of the club, but before anyone could ask questions, the detonator on the bomb went off, blowing the building to pieces and fatally injuring innocent people.

  If this was the eighties, the media would’ve been paid a pretty penny to keep their mouths shut. The cops would’ve received a fat check too. At least that’s how it worked for Uncle Vic and wannabes like my dad. They didn’t need detectives sniffing around their business. They didn’t want the limelight. They were their own judge and jury and when they were wrongfully played, their enemies were brought to justice at their own hand.

  A hand.

  A gun.

  A shovel.

  Whatever.

  Times have changed. We live in an ugly world, a world plagued by terror and when a bomb goes off, the city instantly goes on high alert. The mayor holds a press conference, briefing the citizens assuring them everyone is safe and then proceeds to tell us to go about our day like we normally would.

  Sure, I’ll go about my day like nothing happened.

  Like I haven’t called Stryker six times and every time the call fails.

  Like my cousin didn’t call me in hysterics because her ER is full of people who were supposed to be celebrating a wedding.

  Like I’m not staring outside my window at the black car parked in front of my house, wondering if my new bodyguard was appointed to me because my brother may have had a hand in this nightmare.

  Staring at the muted television and the devastation that rocked the clubhouse, I climb back into bed. The same footage is replayed over and over, the bodies being carried out of the compound, the flames and the rescue workers pulling the survivors from the rubble. I’m just about to turn the television off when someone pounds on my door.

  I slip out of bed, figuring it’s my brother or my new shadow. I throw my robe on and start for the door. Flicking the lights on, I pull it open and a gasp escapes me when my eyes meet Stryker’s. He’s covered head to toe in soot. His clothes are filthy and stained with dried blood which I’m not sure is his or not.

  “You know what happens when you walk away from a bomb?” he asks with a strained voice.

  I shake my head because words fail me when he takes two steps closer and reaches out to touch my cheek.

  “You search for a sign you’re alive,” he says simply, bringing his other hand to my cheek and cups my face. Blowing out a breath, he leans his forehead against mine and his eyes search mine.

  “Found my sign, pretty girl,” he whispers as I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight.

  I’m not sure how long we stay wrapped up in one another’s embrace and it doesn’t matter either. I’m searching for signs of life just as much as he is without realizing how badly I needed to see him, touch him and just have him in front of me. It’s that unexplainable connection between us that both confuses me and comforts me all the same. A connection you never knew you craved, one you’re desperate for since you’ve had a taste, a connection that leaves you stripped and vulnerable.

  He pulls back slowly and I instinctively reach for his hands, pulling him into my apartment. There are so many things I want to say, questions I want to ask but I can’t find my voice.

  “Did I wake you?”

  I shake my head.

  “I was up,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  “You already helped me more than anyone ever has,” he replies, lifting one of my hands to his li
ps.

  “I didn’t do anything but open the door,” I whisper.

  “You gave me your eyes,” he replies. “Since I walked away from that fucking disaster…those eyes are all I’ve wanted to see.”

  “I want to do more than give you my eyes, Stryker. I want to give you peace,” I tell him, pulling back my hand from his to lift it to his cheek. “I’m just not sure how to do that but I want to try.”

  He closes his eyes at my touch and reaches for me, pulling me against him. The black soot covering his clothing bleeds onto mine as our bodies become flush with one another and it’s the first thing he notices when he pulls back.

  “I’m a mess.”

  “Then let’s start by cleaning you up,” I say. He looks at me for a moment but doesn’t protest, allowing me to drag him into the bathroom. I grab some towels from the linen closet and place them on the counter before turning to the shower and adjusting the temperature of the water.

  Stryker takes a seat on the covered toilet bowl and begins to untie the laces on his Timberland boots before kicking them off and gently setting them off to the side. He groans as he reaches behind him to pull the hem of his shirt off his head. Taking his hand, I raise them over his head before carefully inching the shirt over it.

  Dropping one hand to his side, he winces as he reaches out for the robe belted at my waist and gives it a tug. We let our eyes speak the words that won’t leave our mouths as we continue to undress until every stitch of clothing is pooled at our feet and we’re left staring into one another’s eyes, into each other’s soul.

  He walks backward into the shower, taking me with him, but drops my hands once we’re both in the stall and lets the water stream over him. I watch in amazement as the blood and soot mixes with the water, the evidence of the torturous day disappears from his body and swirls down the drain.

  “Five facts,” I say, finally finding my voice as he swipes a hand over his face and fixes his gaze onto me.