Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6)

by Jc Emery

  “Closed door meetings with the Italians. Should I be worried?” Diesel strides into the room just as Michael and Leo are walking out. His expression is guarded, his shoulders are hunched, and he’s got his hands shoved in his pockets. I don’t like it. Not one bit. My brothers don’t walk around all apologetic and shit unless there’s a damn good reason for it. I seriously can’t take anything else.

  “We need to talk, Pres,” he says, shutting the door behind him.

  “You shoot somebody you weren’t supposed to?” He grimaces at my comment. He. Fucking. Grimaces. And ain’t that some shit. If it were Ryan coming to me with this shit, I’d be worried. Even with Grady, who I trust enough to have made my VP, I’d be jumping down his throat. That’s one reason they don’t get along—they’re both hotheads and way too much alike. But Diesel—he’s solid and steady. But something’s happened, and now I actually am worried that he’s shot someone. He did disappear for a week fucking straight without a goddamn explanation. I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t my club at the time, so I let it go.

  “Need your word you’re gonna let me say what I have to, and then you can lay into me. But you gotta let me get this shit out first.”

  “What the fuck have you done?”

  “Your word, Wyatt.” He’s not asking. This is a demand, but I trust my brother. Regardless of what he has to tell me. So I give him my word and wait for him to start talking.

  “Rig’s dead.” Gone is the evasive, apologetic bullshit, and in its place is an anger I don’t expect. It takes me a minute to even register what he’s said. Rig’s dead. As if waiting for me to get with the program, he nods his head and continues. “Your old lady’s close with Elle. They vacation together and shit. Kids call her auntie. Few months back, Amber hires Elle to find Rig. Woman puts a fucking bounty on his head from coast to goddamn coast. Few months pass and he’s desperate. Takes your boy on a little camping trip. Before you lose your shit, remember that he’s fine. He was never hurt.”

  “How did he die?” It’s all I can get out. The only thing I can fucking think about. Rig got ahold of my boy. All these years I’ve tolerated him when he’s come to town. All this time and he’s known my kid. The thought of my son learning a single fucking thing from that pussified bitch makes me sick to my stomach. There’s so much I was planning on teaching him, so much that I wanted him to learn. Like how to fix up a car, how to shoot a gun—everything a dad should teach their son about life. And I threw away every single day of the last fourteen years so I could shove shit up my nose and drink until my insides fucking rotted. It doesn’t matter how much I hate Rig. I hate myself more.

  “Asshole had a gun on your kid’s head. Amber took him out with three to the gut, one to the arm, and one in the chest. Never seen a woman so mad before.”

  I try to speak but find that I can’t. I want to know where this happened, how it happened, where Zander was before Rig got his hands on him, why Amber wasn’t watching him better, and how my boy dealt with that fucking prick pulling a gun on him. I want to know everything, but I’d rather ask my woman than my brother. She sure as fuck didn’t lay any of this shit on me the other day.

  “I was there. Elle got the call from Rig about exchanging cash for your kid, and I made a judgment call. Right or wrong, I made my choice. We don’t have enough men to keep our shit safe out here, let alone sending them to fucking Michigan and leaving our families behind to be sitting fucking ducks. As far as I could see, as long as Rig thought he’d make it out alive, Zander was safe. The minute I go to the club, Rig realizes how bad he fucked up, that he’s not getting the money, and the boy is dead.”

  “The boy?” It’s all I can say. The only fucking thing I can think is that this asshole just had the nerve to call my son “the boy” like it’s fucking nothing. Like he’s fucking nothing. I shove my chair back and fly across the table without another thought.

  CHAPTER 7

  “We good?” I look around the room and wait for confirmation that nobody else has anything to say. They all stare at me with bored expressions. Except Diesel. He’s sporting a black eye and a broken nose. He doesn’t look bored. He just looks like he got his ass tore up.

  He did.

  Might not have been fair for me to jump him, but I did, and I’m still too fucking pissed to feel bad about it. Not only did I have to hear that shit from D once, but I had to make him repeat it to the club. It’s club business whether it’s personal or not. Church ran long for exactly that reason. My brothers needed to know, and some of them were pissed, some understood, and some—like me—were ready for a fight. All I could think the entire time was this is why we don’t allow guns in Church.

  I nod my head and smack the gavel down on the worn table. A strip of wood’s been replaced in the table, right where the gavel normally lands. Forsaken brothers have spent hundreds of hours at this table over the years. It’s not the original table they had in this room. Rage broke that sucker back before he was president. His old lady, Jim’s mom, replaced the original with this one, and though it’s seen its fair share of wear and tear¸ it’s held up well. Just like Sylvia Stone herself—at least as far as I’ve heard—it’s sturdy and unflappable. The woman survived more hits than I care to remember and went down with some serious fight. That third time the cancer came knocking, though—she just couldn’t beat it. According to Ruby, Rage was never the same once he lost his woman.

  Fuck.

  His woman.

  My woman.

  My mind automatically goes to Amber and that bombshell she dropped on me. I guess I’m being a pussy. It wasn’t much of a surprise. Somewhere in my heart, I knew it all along. Mugs and I never spent much time apart, and when we were apart, I was with Rig. Not only would it have been improbable for her to have cheated with him, but with how often she rode my dick bare, the odds were on me being her baby’s daddy.

  But I’m a fuckup who’d snort anything he could get his hands on back then, and that bullshit lie she fed me about not being the father was easier to believe than the idea that she just didn’t want me anymore.

  I force myself to close out Church and dismiss the boys before I slip back into my thoughts. Once I’m alone in the room, I close my eyes and remember what it was like to have my woman by my side. She was always so opinionated and a total hard-ass about everything.

  The timer tells us the test is ready, but neither of us moves to go look. Amber’s got watery eyes, and her already pale skin is clammy and cold. I hold her in my arms, dying to know if she’s pregnant but fucking terrified to find out. Right now there’s the possibility that shit will go on as normal or that everything is going to change. Once we look and we know, that possibility is gone. Fuck. I don’t even know why I’m getting so fucked up about this.

  “I can’t look,” she says. So I tell her I’ll look because I’m a man and men do shit like that for their women. Even if looking is goddamn terrifying.

  I eye the white plastic stick that sits on the edge of the sink and make out the results. One line for not pregnant and two for pregnant.

  And there’s two very distinct blue lines in the results field.

  Two lines that tell me we’re no longer just the two of us . . . we’re three people now. Me, my old lady, and our son. Because fuck all that girly shit. I shoot man sperm.

  Our fucking son.

  Goddamn, it feels good to think that. It feels good to have something that binds me to Mugs.

  “Well?” she whines.

  I laugh quietly to myself, selfishly enjoying this moment where I’m the only one who knows that we’re having a baby.

  “Well, your ass is probably going to get fat.” I laugh so hard at her reaction—a mix of excitement and fear and irritation at my little comment.

  “Come on, momma. Let daddy show you how excited he is,” I say as I trail soft kisses up and down the side of her neck.

  I actually told her that her ass was probably going to get fat. Shit. I’m surprised I didn’t lose a nut sack in
that moment. Fifteen years and a kid later and she still looks damn good. Curvier but somehow even more beautiful in ways I couldn’t have predicted. Like her fuller hips, larger breasts, and rounder face. As a teen, Amber had a beautiful face, but it was all sharp angles and big eyes. I barely got to touch her the other day—well, at least not the way I wanted to—but she felt thicker, fuller, more womanly than she had in the past.

  My mind wonders around in my memories, clinging to some longer than I’d like and ghosting over others that I’m desperate to have a firmer hold on. It’s just penance, I guess. I wasn’t a good old man and couldn’t bring myself to put her first. She was right to leave me and take our son with her. I just hate that the guilt and self-loathing can’t chill long enough for me to enjoy even a small non-painful memory. But even those are laced with regret and sorrow. I can’t seem to shake the shitty feeling no matter how hard I try. I think of how Amber’s belly grew, and how with it, I grew into a man I’m ashamed of. I wanted to be a good brother, to be deserving of the patch, but all I did was fuck up at every turn.

  Everything around her fades out, and the only thing that exists in my entire universe is my woman. She’s half-angry and half-I-don’t-even-know, but she’s here and she’s in my bed. Her naked body rests beneath mine, freshly fucked and gasping for breath. Her eyes are focused on the ceiling above her, and no matter how I touch her, she won’t look at me. Since she came, she’s been somewhere else. I want to make the last ten—or is it eleven—years better. I want to erase them and be there with her and our son. I want to be a better man.

  “Stay,” I say. My voice is quiet, afraid of scaring her off. I feel like we’ve been here before, but what the fuck do I know? I’ve run through enough coke in the last week that I could’ve financed my own goddamn war if I wanted to. I won’t, though. The only thing I want—no, need—is lying underneath me, sated and perfect.

  “You’re high,” she says back. It’s simple but heavy. She isn’t pointing out the obvious—she’s telling me why she can’t stay. And fuck if I can’t let that be the reason she leaves me again. My gut feels like it’s being chopped up into tiny pieces, and the buzzing behind my eyes intensifies. There’s this sweet spot with coke and whiskey where everything is perfectly numb. The world actually buzzes. But one extra sip, one too many lines, and it’s all shot to hell and you end up in oblivion. I think I’m there now. Amber won’t stay, and it makes no sense. I’m here, so this is where she belongs. My vision blurs as I stare into her distant expression. There’s a lot going on behind her green eyes that she won’t talk about. Maybe she wants to come home, but she’s afraid. Or maybe she’s moved on. Maybe she just needs convincing.

  “Stay.”

  “And what does that look like?”

  I can’t find the words to answer her right now, so instead, I move a hand between her legs to show her how focused I am on getting her home permanently. She gasps, her back arches, and her eyes finally lock in on me. My beautiful woman is finally looking at me, and all I can think in this moment is how I want to start over. How I want a thousand forevers with her. How I can’t let her leave again. So I kiss her, forcing her to pay attention to me. She doesn’t fight me. She just wraps her arms around my lower torso and slides them down to my ass. She squeezes each cheek and bucks into me. I can’t feel anything—or I thought I couldn’t—but I feel her touch. I feel her lips and her tight hot cunt getting primed for me. Everything in me tells me this is right. We belong together, even if together we’re fucked up and I can’t stop doing stupid things around her. We’re a family, and we need to be together, and the best way to make that shit stick is to grow our family.

  I slide into her quickly and without wrapping my dick. She murmurs something against my mouth, but I don’t give her the time or space to get the words out. She probably noticed that she’s taking me bare, and fuck, I almost forgot how goddamn euphoric this feels. When I finally remove my mouth from hers, I replace it with my hand. She tries to bite my finger, but I use my palm to keep her jaw shut. She’s too beautiful not to have a hundred babies with. Maybe not a hundred, but definitely more than one. I still need to meet my son, but he’s perfect. I already know that.

  “Gonna fuck you bare until you give me another son. You can’t tell me I want this because I’m jacked, because it’s not true. I always want you. Every ounce and every fucking breath. And I want more of you, more of us, and another baby. You gonna give that to me?”

  I reach around and slowly slide a finger into her ass. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she goes stock-still. I rotate my hips, nice and slow, and breathe heavily into her ear. My hand on her mouth moves down to her clit, and even though it’s fucking challenging to do without falling on her, I manage to twist her swollen nub in just the right way.

  “Tell me you want this.”

  “Oh fuck. I want it.”

  Her words come out on a scream that barely makes any sound. She’s losing her breath, and her heart rate has spiked. I might not let her out of this bed until I get my way.

  I scrub my face clean of the memory. I’m pretty sure I fucked her bare for a month straight before I ended up detoxing out of town. That one month of incredible fucking bliss was the last time I saw her until the other day. Every memory from that month came back to haunt me. One stupid idea after another assaults me every night as I try to sleep. I want to see my son, but the idea of how disappointed he might be does a number on me. Maybe I’m uglier than he expects. He probably takes after his mom. I might not know how to talk to him, or I might say the wrong things. Every little what-if leads me back to this paralyzing fear of fucking him up.

  Fuck.

  The wooden doors to the chapel squeak as they move. I open my eyes to find Jim standing in front of the now-closed doors. He’s staring down at me with a blank expression on his face, and he says, “The fuck you still doing in here?”

  “Thinkin’,” I say.

  “Takes a lot of effort, don’t it?”

  “Pretty sure I’m gonna meet my kid and fuck him up.” I’ve always been an honest guy, but if I weren’t talking to Jim right now I’d feel like a fool.

  “Heh. His mom’s had him most his life, so the big fuckup’s will be on her,” he says and sits in my old seat beside me. It’s a strange role reversal I’m still not used to. He might be right, and maybe I won’t have much of an impact on the kid. My stomach sinks at the thought. Fuck. I don’t know if I’m coming or going anymore, and that little memory of the last time I’d seen Amber isn’t helping. I was so trashed that it’s a damn good thing my boys weren’t up for the task. I’ve already fucked up one kid.

  “Hey,” I say in a desperate attempt to change the subject. “New York. You thought about it?”

  Jim’s face falls, but just a little. He might be softening up as he ages, but he’s still a mean fucker.

  “You’re the boss. It’s your call.”

  “And if I take a vote?” I ask, prodding.

  “Then you’ll find out my answer then.”

  He gets up and leaves me, once again, alone in the room and alone in my thoughts.

  I need to get the hell out of here.

  CHAPTER 8

  Walking out of the chapel and heading down the hall for the bar, I get distracted by the partially open doors to the palace. The place isn’t as bad as it could be, but it’s still a fucking mess. A reflective circle shines on the ceiling in the corner of the room. I follow the light down to a mirror that sits on the banquet table at the far end of the room. Fuck. I take two steps into the room, focused on the two lines of white powder that sit on the reflective surface. There was a time when Amber’s being here would have me calling up my guy to get me through her visit, but I can’t do that now. I got nine guys who depend on me to keep them alive. The easiest way for me to fuck up that trust is to fall back into old habits that put them at risk.

  A lost girl, Julie, hangs out on one of the chaise lounges. She’s got a cigarette in between her index and middl
e fingers and a magazine in her hands. She’s hot, been around a damn long time, too, so she knows how it’s always been around here. She’s been there when I’ve fallen apart and Jim’s hauled my ass up to the cabin to detox. She’s seen Amber come in, tear me up, and leave me empty. Julie’s seen it all.

  “Hey, babe,” I say with a nod.

  She puts the magazine down and takes a pull on the cigarette. The heavy makeup around her blue eyes makes them really shine. She’s a good woman. I’m gonna need her on my side now.

  “Mr. President,” she says with a smile. She takes one more drag from her cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray behind her. I head right for her, barely taking note of the tiny little shorts and tank top she’s wearing. She meets me halfway. It used to be that I’d watch the way her legs move, if the shorts ride up or not, and eye her tits as she comes toward me. But in this moment, I keep my eyes on her face.

  “Need your help, Jules.” She doesn’t stop until she’s less than a foot away from me. My hands find their way to her hips. “I gotta keep my head right.”

  “Your old lady’s back,” she says with a nod. Her smile falls and she says quietly, “With your son. I bet he’s a real lady killer.”

  I bite back from saying the first thing that comes to me. I haven’t seen him yet, so I wouldn’t know. Fuck. Does he even ask about me? Does he care? Did Amber tell him about the other day? God, he must be fucked up inside if he knows I know and I haven’t seen him yet.

  I’m not prepared for this shit.

  “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” I say. “Just help me keep this place clean, yeah? Nothing but bud and booze.”