Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  I’m that woman.

  Not the woman who has a pair of strong arms wrapped around her and a man whispering against her ear.

  I’ve got you, pretty girl.

  If only that were true.

  If only I could believe that lie.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  She doesn’t sleep.

  She doesn’t eat.

  She exists much like I did before I met her. There’s no spark of life, just open wounds that swallow her whole. We lie to one another; she tells me she’s okay and I nod and let her think she is.

  She’s not okay.

  Neither am I.

  The only way either of us will be okay is if we can turn back time and erase what has happened. That’s not an option so while she tosses and turns in her bed I dream of ways I will make the men who did this to her suffer.

  I will do it too.

  I’ve been given targets, battled with my conscience on whether to pull the trigger. I’ve been God and I’ve been Satan.

  And Satan will come for the three men who touched my girl.

  Yeah, there was three of them, a fact she revealed one night when she woke up screaming. She looked at me, asked where the other two men were before shaking her head, hoping to forget the attack and the three faces that stole her life.

  Every night it’s another nightmare, another piece of torment she relives and another reason I have to kill. Night after night, I console her when she wakes from the torture and try to get her to go back to sleep. I feel like a hypocrite and I’m not even sure it’s the right thing to do. I’ve stayed awake many nights, fighting sleep just to avoid my own nightmares and here I was coaxing her back to sleep only for her to engage in her own. I don’t know how to be what she needs. I don’t know how to make it better for her, and as much as I want to I’ll never be able to erase what’s been done, so I continue to do the only thing that seems to work. I climb into bed with her, wrap my arms around her and never let go. Sometimes my arms aren’t enough to tame the ugly.

  The cruelty of what happened to her is just another piece of ugly in this world we’re subjected to. It’s the beautiful that’s rare, the beautiful that will one day tarnish the memory of ugly. I have to find that beautiful for her.

  I have to give her the beautiful.

  Me.

  I have to find whatever that is and I have to give it to her.

  But for now, I give her what I’ve got and I wrap my arms around her and give her five facts.

  “Five facts,” I rasp, kissing the top of her head as I lean against the headboard and she relaxes in my arms. “One, when I was first diagnosed with PTSD I punched the doctor in the face. Two, he prescribed me meds, a prescription I didn’t fill until the next visit when I saw the black eye he was sporting. I finally filled the prescription, but the bottle sat in my saddlebag for months before I finally took them. About two years ago I thought I was cured and stopped taking them. I stopped seeing the shrink too. Three, I was ashamed of having a mental illness. I thought it made me less of a man, less of a Marine. Four, I’m not the only one who suffers in silence and it doesn’t make me any less human. If anything it makes me more human, more flawed. Five, I’m okay. That’s a fact. At the end of the day I’m still okay. I’m still here, and for some reason every day I find the will inside of me to fight. I didn’t realize what that will was or what I was fighting for until I had you. As long as you’re in this world, pretty girl, I’ll be fighting. You’ll fight too, maybe not yet because it’s all still too fresh, too raw, but I promise you I will help you find your reason.”

  My voice trails off and I glance down at the beauty in my arms.

  Beautiful in a world full of ugly.

  Her breathing is labored, and she’s fallen asleep to the sound of my voice, and my promises that were once dirty—now promises of hope.

  I hold her until the sun comes up, wait for her anguished cries to torment her, but instead she gets a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Gently, I ease out of the bed, careful not to wake her and step out of the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar in case she has another nightmare.

  It’s been weeks since her attack, weeks since Jack vowed to make this right. I don’t think he realizes nothing will ever be right for me again. Even when the time comes for me to take care of the scumbags responsible for hurting Gina, it’ll never be enough. There will always be a hatred burning in my gut, an indescribable need to inflict terror on those that deserve it. Still, waiting around as Jack figures out how to make it right is driving me crazy.

  I haven’t left this apartment since I took her home. My brothers have been taking turns dropping off groceries and such, but no one has any information for me. No one will even speak of Yankovich. Rocco’s been missing in action too and part of me wonders if Jack is working with him, the other part doesn’t give a fuck as long as someone delivers these cocksuckers to me.

  Taking my phone off the charger in the kitchen, I dial Jack’s number as I make myself a cup of coffee. I’ve been living off caffeine these days which is more than Gina has sustained. The girl needs a fucking bologna sandwich before she wastes away to skin and bones.

  “What, did you smell me?” Jack answers. “Open the door I’m outside your girl’s place.”

  Grabbing my cup of coffee from the Keurig, I make my way toward the front door and pull it open. Raged is one way to describe the president of the Satan’s Knights. Pissed the fuck off is another.

  He reaches out and takes my coffee, knocks down half the cup before he brushes passed me and walks into the apartment.

  “How’s your girl?”

  “How do you think she is?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbles, running his fingers through his hair. “Did she really crash Rocco’s car or was that part of the tale you were spinning?”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. After weeks he’s still bringing this shit with Rocco up.

  “Just proving a point, brother,” he says pointedly, downing the last of the coffee before he shoves the empty mug against my chest. “Had you told me you were hooked on that mafia pussy we may have had a fucking chance at salvaging this shit.”

  “This shit,” I repeat, glancing down at the mug but not taking it. Trying to control my anger I clench my fists at my sides and peer back at the Bulldog.

  “Yeah, this shit—the shit that’s about to blow wide open on our asses. Cobra wasn’t bluffing when he said we were no match for Yankovich. It’s going to take a lot of man power and a well-executed plan to shut him down. Spinelli thought tampering with his next export would silence the motherfucker, and though Rocco didn’t get to execute his plan, Yankovich is remaining eerily quiet. For all we know he isn’t even in New York. Like Cobra said, he rarely sticks—he’s as much a drifter as you are. The difference is he’s got connections in every state, almost every fucking country…and our harbor is just a stepping stone for him.”

  “What’re you saying? That he gets away with it? Because that’s not acceptable, not to me or the woman inside who can’t fall asleep for more than an hour.”

  “Yankovich didn’t rape your girl, his goons did,” Jack clarifies.

  “Under his order. They raped her under his command,” I seethe.

  “You want to listen to me or you want to fly off the fucking handle?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste the metallic of my own blood as I wait for Jack to tell me whatever bullshit he thinks will make this right.

  “According to Spinelli, Yankovich will be making another attempt at transporting the cargo through the harbor. He showed me the new lease he obtained with Triton after he botched the first one and this shit went down with your girl. He doesn’t want to sabotage the containers, he wants to go guns blazing as the fucking boat pulls from the dock, not knowing if he’s transporting drugs or girls. Drugs we can dispose of. Hell, we’ve been doing it for years, but women, we’re not equipped
for that. We can’t do that so we’re going to have to fuck him before he fills those containers, maybe right before he plans on loading them. We’ll grab his men, put the brakes on the shipment and send Yankovich a warning. Let him know we’re onto him, that we’re coming for him. We will let that Russian cocksucker know what he did doesn’t fly around here.”

  I know he means well and I know what he’s saying is true. We don’t even have a clubhouse these days, we’re running our club out of Pipe’s garage and we don’t have the strength of Bergen County behind us this time. Rocco is hardly an ally; he’s more like a fucking nuisance than anything. But knowing all that doesn’t change the need for revenge.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he warns. “You haven’t known me all that long but by now I’d like to think you know me enough to know I don’t turn my back on the things that hurt me and mine. Now you might not realize it or maybe you’re too set in your ways to acknowledge it, boy, but you are property of Parrish and that means something. It may mean nothing to you but it means everything to me. You’re hurting, that girl you hid from me, she’s hurting too, and this old body of mine will not take that lying down. You’re not a nomad anymore, none of you are. You have a home and it’s right here in this town. These streets aren’t just mine they’re yours now too. You think Wolf went and mortgaged his house because he likes to throw his money away? That man is so fucking cheap he probably has the first cent he ever made, but he and I have been down that road. The road where you’re the only one traveling it. It’s a lonely road, brother, a damn lonely road. Wolf won’t let Linc rot in a hospital bed and I won’t let you rot here behind these walls with the girl you love. I won’t let Cobra rot either, mourning a sister he never got a chance to bury. So right now, right here, I give you my word, I will make this motherfucker pay. I will make him pay if it’s the last thing I fucking do in this world, if it’s the last thing I do as the president of this club.”

  He pauses, pushing the mug against my chest and I finally take it as I look into his dark eyes.

  “I’ve got a daughter, one that by some miracle of God escaped the horror of rape, but I want you to understand that I’m taking this as seriously as I would if it was her…if it was my daughter you found in that alley. You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I say hoarsely.

  “Good, now listen closely because this is the good part,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m going to call you. It might not be today, may not be this week or even the one after that, but your phone is going to ring and when you answer it, I will be on the other end ordering you to get the fuck out of here for a few days. You’ll take your girl someplace safe where you can leave her alone for a few hours, you’ll give me the address to where you’re headed because the Bulldog will come for you. I’m going to take you to the three men that harmed your woman and I’m going to give you a rusted pipe and a fucking filthy knife. Then I’ll unleash you on those cocksuckers.”

  His words set my mind in motion as I picture the three faceless men who broke my pretty girl and set free all the ugly. All the possibilities play out in front of me. How I’ll use the rusted pipe, the pieces of their bodies I will cut, the blood that will stain my hands. The man on top of the roof in Afghanistan is long forgotten. He doesn’t need a rifle; he no longer hears the cry of a helpless boy. He is the man driven by the cries of an innocent woman who he loves.

  “You got a place in mind?”

  I lift the mug in mock salute as I stare at him.

  “I’ll take her home.”

  His eyes flicker for a moment before we’re both startled by a loud bang. The mug falls from my hand, shattering against the floor as I rush into the bedroom with Jack on my heels. I run toward her as she rips the clothes from the hangers and throws the shoes behind her. I don’t think she realizes she’s screaming as she throws the contents of her closet all over her room.

  Skidding to a stop behind her, I take her in my arms as she begins to crumble.

  “I’ve got you,” I shout over her sobs. “Baby, I’ve got you.”

  “They told me I wanted it. That I wanted them to do the things they did to me because of the way I was dressed,” she chokes, collapsing against my chest. “I didn’t want it. I didn’t want them to touch me. I didn’t want it,” she chants.

  I drop down to the floor, take her in my arms and cradle her against me as I raise my head and meet Jack’s gaze.

  “You better make that phone call sooner rather than later,” I tell him.

  As soon as Jack calls I’ll take her to the only place I know for sure she’ll be safe.

  After I shot my father and handed in my patch, I swore I’d never go back to Albany.

  Looks like I’m going against my word.

  Shouldn’t be hard for a guy who already went against his word when he walked away from the woman he swore he’d keep safe.

  Soon.

  Just a short while until Jack calls.

  Soon the pipe and the knife will be in my hands.

  Soon.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Mind.

  Body.

  Soul.

  They’re all meant to be one, yet my mind is completely detached from my broken body. My body wants to give up, it wants to wave a white flag and admit defeat, but my mind demands me to fix my face and pretend I’m the girl the world expects me to be.

  As for my soul, that died in the alley.

  I feel Stryker move beside me and quickly, desperately, I turn and grab a hold of the back of his shirt before he can climb out of bed.

  “Don’t go,” I plead.

  My mind is telling me I’m being ridiculous, that I’m probably driving the man crazy, but my body is begging him to protect what is left of it.

  Guard me.

  Save me.

  “I’m just going to get a glass of water,” he says softly, turning to face me.

  Torn between my anxiety and feeling like an imbecile I shake my head and fist his shirt in my hands, watching as his eyes drift toward the death grip I have on the cotton t-shirt.

  “Gina,” he soothes, prying my fingers from his shirt before he lifts my hand to his lips. “It’s okay, I told you I wouldn’t leave you and I’m not going to.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter, pulling my hand away from him. “I’m being ridiculous,” I say angrily, wishing my mind would reunite with my body.

  “You’re not,” he assures me.

  I lift my gaze to his and search his eyes, expecting to find pity, but all I find is exhaustion and compassion.

  The last few weeks have been a blur but what I do remember is Stryker. He’s been by my side since the attack, taking care of me as though I’m a child and not his girlfriend. He makes sure I eat, and when I fight to stay awake at night only to end up passed out on the couch it’s Stryker who carries me to my bed. He’s the one who soothes me when the vivid nightmares haunt me, whispering fact after fact into my ear in a desperate attempt to focus my attention on anything other than the truth.

  My eyes glance over his shoulder at the clock on the side of my bed. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and I’m still in bed. He’s still in bed.

  This isn’t living.

  I don’t know what the hell this is.

  I should be working, trading stocks and making a killing in the market. He should be riding around on his motorcycle doing whatever it is bikers do. Instead, we’re lying in bed chasing my demons away. What about his demons? What about his nightmares? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own traumatic experience that I completely forgot about his PTSD and the demons that he struggles with.

  For a moment I wonder how long we can possibly go on like this. How long until he’s had enough? How long until I have? When is it time to quit? And I don’t mean quit each other but quitting life in general. I suddenly understand why he tried to kill himself and how he found the nerve to hold a loaded gun to his head.

  He wanted so badly to s
urrender to the nightmare just as I do.

  “Hey,” he says, tipping my chin with his finger. “What’s going on in that head of yours, pretty girl?”

  I shake away the thoughts—those thoughts aren’t me. They’re not what I’m made of. I am stronger than that. I am not a quitter.

  How can I quit life when I’ve got him?

  The doorbell rings and I pull my hand back, folding both of them on my lap.

  “You should get that,” I say, ignoring his question and the dark thoughts invading my mind.

  “How about I set the shower up for you first?” he offers, shrugging his shoulders. “You always seem a little better after you shower.”

  That’s because I scrub my body until there are abrasions from the luffa, trying to scrub away the memory of their touch and scent. Is it crazy that I can still smell them? That I feel their scent is embedded in my skin?

  Probably.

  “That’s a good idea,” I reply robotically and force a crooked smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. He stares at me and I know he misses who I used to be. I should cut him loose, set him free from this disaster, but I’m too selfish.

  I need him.

  Funny isn’t it?

  I used to think that maybe he needed me.

  That we found one another so I could help him heal, and now here we are, he’s the one doing the healing.

  He nods his head and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me alone in the bedroom. The pounding on the door becomes louder, more urgent and I follow Stryker into the bathroom, wrapping my hand around his wrist as he reaches to turn on the shower.

  “I’ve got it,” I tell him, brushing his hands away and twisting the knobs myself. “Go answer the door.”

  He doesn’t believe me and he stands there for a few minutes waiting for me to crumble before he takes my face in his hands and presses his lips to my forehead.

  His hands used to be all over me, now he barely touches me. Part of me wonders if it’s because he’s no longer attracted to me, if he is as disgusted by my body as I am, while the other part thinks it’s because he’s afraid I’ll freak out if he touches me.