by Jc Emery
“That’s not what you want to say, and we both know it,” I say. “Go on.”
“Well, you’re an asshole. You barely answer my calls anymore, you go MIA for hours on end, and nobody can tell me where you’ve been. You want me to pick up where we left off like nothing’s fucking wrong, but guess what, buddy? Something is wrong. I feel like you’re hiding something from me, and I’ll overturn every rock in this damn county to find it.”
“That’s because I am hiding something from you,” I admit, feeling rather proud of myself. She does this, sticking her foot so far down her throat she ends up offering to suck my dick on the regular after she realizes she’s been an asshole. My girl’s a little bitchy and a lot paranoid, but she’s mine, and if she didn’t prove that she’s Forsaken-level difficult once in a while, I’d worry I picked the wrong chick.
I pause, waiting for her to start bitching, but she doesn’t. She does narrow her eyes, though, and shake her head. “I’m not going to lay into you like I want to, because I have a feeling you’re setting me up to make me into an asshole.”
“And why would I do that?”
“You like getting your dick sucked,” she says. I try to tell her that she enjoys it as much as I do, but she shoots that idea down pretty quick. “No woman likes sucking dick as much as a man enjoys it, and if they say they are, they’re goddamn liars.”
“Speaking of sucking dick,” I say, trailing off and placing a kiss to the shell of her ear.
She shakes her head and pushes on my chest. “Nuh-uh.”
“Fine, I’ll just have to give you your real gift.” I lead her up the steps to the front door. Pulling out a set of keys, I hand them to her and step back. A sheepish grin appears on her face as she draws her bottom lip into her mouth. Swiftly, she gets the door open and steps inside with a gasp.
I’m no expert with making shit look good, but I know several women who think they are, and they did a damn good job helping me out. The cabin had never been updated from when Rage built it, and while it was functional in a utilitarian kind of way, it wasn’t what I wanted to bring Chey home to. Now, after months of work, the wood floors shine with fresh sanding and a slick polish. The walls have been patched where needed, and each room is painted a different color that Chey loves. I managed to veto hot pink from the design team, who almost went rogue and did it behind my back anyway, but almost everything else was a go. I don’t give a shit that the walls are violet or that the sofa’s gray fabric has a tiny bit of sparkle to it. Not that it’s going to matter in a few months anyway. That shit is going to get so worn out the sparkle will be forgotten.
“Is that the rug Holly and I spotted in the city?” Chey asks, pointing at the black and white rug that sits in the center of the living room. Holly called it a chevron rug, but I think she’s lost her mind. That rug doesn’t look like it belongs in a gas station. Again, another piece that looks good now, but who knows how it’s going to wear. More hard-earned money spent on shit I don’t care about. It’s my fault really—I told them to do something that would make Chey happy. And judging by the happy tears, it worked.
She walks around the corner to the kitchen and reaches for my hand. She gives it a squeeze and thanks me about a hundred times. I’m glad she likes the updated and extended countertop and the new appliances. It’s just stuff, but it makes her happy, so it’s worth every dime. She leads me by our joined hands into the bathroom where she giggles over the rainfall showerhead and the makeup station.
“But all of this looks like this place is for me,” she says. “What about you?”
“Baby, as long as I get to fuck you on that pretty couch and under that fucking shower head, I don’t give a fuck what any of this shit looks like.” Because I don’t.
We walk into the bedroom, and she eyes the king-size bed. With a happy sigh she says, “There’s your influence,” in response to the framed mirrored headboard I had made in exchange for a new strain of bud we just started growing.
She turns around and places a soft kiss to my lips. Unable to control myself, I grab her by the hips and buck into her. A breathy groan escapes her, urging me on. I do it again, which earns me a desperate plea. “Make love to me in our bed,” she says. Like she even has to ask.
We undress one another with frantic movements, pulling and shoving nearly to the point of ripping everything in the process. Soon I’m without my shoes, pants, and boxers and am left with my top half fully clothed. Her chest rises and falls in desperation as she gently removes my cut and tosses it at the foot of the bed, but once that’s out of the way, she nearly chokes me trying to get my red shirt off. Her hands trace the outline of the tattoo I’m having done. Just three more sessions and all the tiny details will be complete. It’s the scene from that fucking van, in that fucking moment when everything changed. But I didn’t want faces because those distort bad as you age, so instead the van is empty. There are no people crying, and no blood—just lines made up of names and dates that I can’t ever forget, no matter how hard I try.
“It’s almost done,” she whispers as she slows down her movements.
“Yeah.”
Chey leans in and places a kiss over the lines of the names of each of the men we’ve lost. She doesn’t cry about it anymore because my girl knows it doesn’t do us any fucking good to think about that shit. Instead, she does the best fucking thing she can—she honors our losses by making sure we all fucking live for the ones who didn’t make it.
I’m slightly less rough with her as I free her of every one of her articles of clothing. When we’re both naked and my dick is throbbing so hard it’s almost painful, I lay her down on the bed so that I can see us in the mirror.
Yeah, this view is totally fucking worth the bud I had to give up for this.
She parts her legs, welcoming me in. I could slam into her right now, especially with how much I need this. But I’d rather not hurt her. She needs to enjoy this as much as I do, and with finals and all the bullshit with graduation and finishing the house, it’s been almost a month since I got into her pussy. Almost a month would have been a godsend back when she first left for school. We were lucky if we got together every other month. But after her being gone so long and once I’d earned my top rocker, we made it a point to see each other more often. Come hell or high water I’d see her every other weekend at the very least. Sometimes on a transport down south, I’d sneak away and we’d have a quick fuck at her place. It was always too short and made me feel like shit for running in, busting a nut, and running out. When it upset her, she’d say it—loudly and until her throat went hoarse—but that was rare. Now, though, I’m not letting her get so far away.
I slide down her beautiful, naked body and kiss her hip before making my way to her slick center. No longer nervous about her body or afraid to ask for what she wants, she parts her legs even more and moans when I finally give in and tease her tiny bud. Soon enough, she’s unable to stay still, close to coming and a panting mess. When I crawl back up her body and slide into her, my eyes roll back in my head. The best part of our lives is beginning now, in this bed, with just the two of us making this place our home.
“What’s that noise?” she asks suddenly, barely able to suck in enough breath to form the question.
“What noise?” I try not to get distracted and to keep my rhythm going. If she’s hearing other shit besides me, then I’m not doing my job, so I reach down and massage her clit in slow circles.
“It sounds like panting,” she says with a scrunched face and through broken speech.
“That’s you, baby,” I say. She shakes her head, opens her eyes, and looks around the room as best she can. I’m sliding into her, going as deep as I can, when she lets out a terrified scream and uses her nails to claw at my exposed flesh. I look around and find the reason for her fear.
“Shit,” I mutter without stopping my ministrations. The little brown eight-pound ball of fat and fur stares at her from under his splayed, floppy ears. He growls, raises his butt in t
he air, barks, and brings his head down to the comforter. At this age, he’s cute when he’s being territorial, but it won’t be so cute when he’s a full-grown pit who thinks he runs this shit.
“Gentle,” I command, still refusing to stop what I’m doing. The dog takes a moment to think about the command before he quiets down. When I order that he sit, he decides instead to walk around the bed to get a better look at Cheyenne. He’s never seen her before, so this is new for him. He’s barely three months old, so he’s still learning his commands. He’s smart, though, so I have no doubt that in time he’s going to be an excellent guard dog for my girl.
“I’m guessing he’s ours,” she whispers, looking slightly less afraid now. Her back arches when I hit a particularly sensitive spot, and her eyes flutter. “Not in front of the dog.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “This is our bed, and I’m not going to stop fucking you every time nosy ass over here decides to enter a room.” Really, he and I are pretty good friends at this point. I’m hoping Chey doesn’t mind him sleeping in the bed with us, because since I got him last week, he’s slept by my feet above the covers.
As creepy as it is, the damn dog watches us the entire time. In a few minutes’ time, she seems to forget about his presence, until my dumb ass has to comment with, “Watch Daddy. I’ll show you how to handle bitches.”
“Asshole,” Chey whispers, almost like it’s a compliment, and reaches down to stroke the sensitive flesh behind my ballsack. A hot jolt rushes up my spine as she clenches down on me, and we come together in near silence with our eyes open and watching each other shudder and shake with the ripples of pleasure that pass over us.
“Thought the place was too big for just us,” I say and nod to the dog when I’m able to speak again. “He doesn’t have a name yet, so that’s been kind of confusing for training purposes.”
“Can I name him Leo?” she asks.
I pull out of her and shake my head in disagreement. If she wants to name the fucking thing Leo, she can, but I don’t have to be happy about it. Somehow, she and Scavo developed a friendship while he was here. She says he makes her feel brave. I want to support her friendships, but I won’t lie—that kind of pisses me off. I want to be her everything, and the idea that she bonded with somebody else doesn’t sit right.
“Don’t be like that,” she says and crawls to the top of the bed where she buries herself under the covers. “You know it’s not romantic or sexual. He’s like a brother to me, and I’m sorry that he’s gone. That’s all.”
“Yeah, I get it. Doesn’t mean I want to name my dog after the guy,” I gripe and crawl up the bed to join her beneath the covers. I stare into her green eyes, taking a moment to really see her and just be fucking grateful that she’s here and with me willingly. Because I would have totally kidnapped her if she had objected to coming home with me. I told her once that she was my always, and I fucking meant it.
She smiles softly, leans in, and grabs ahold of the goatee I’ve been working on, and tugs. She smirks as she says, “We could name him Ryan.”
Back when I was a prospect, the idea of naming a dog after Ryan would have scared me. But now? Fuck it. I’m sure it’ll be funny when he finds out. Plus, it wasn’t my idea anyway.
“Ryan, come see Daddy,” I say. Yeah, I’m one of those fucking people who treats their dog like their kid. Grady thought it was funny until he realized who little Ryan’s mama is if I’m his daddy. The dog stares at me and then Cheyenne and then back to me before prancing up the bed to my lap. I give him a quick rub under his chin and then behind his ears before dropping my hand and letting Chey bond with him.
“Go to Mama,” I tell him. Ian’s dog training guy told me to familiarize him with her scent early on, so I did. We’ve spent the past week learning how to find Mama by her scent. Just yesterday he managed to complete the entire session without any issues. Next week we’ll have to up the ante.
“Go to Mama,” I repeat. This time he seems to understand, and he takes the few steps to sit at her side, tail wagging against the comforter, and waits for praise. I watch as she tentatively shows him her hand and goes about waiting for his acceptance. Once granted, she rubs him behind his ears, under his chin, and along his spine.
“I can’t believe you did all of this for me.” Her green eyes shine in the fading daylight, illuminating her pale skin and dark brown hair. She’s gorgeous, even more so than when I first fell in love with her.
“Believe it, babe. I told you we would have our always, and this is it,” I whisper and lean over to kiss her.
“I’m never leaving this bed,” she whispers back and presses her lips to mine. We’re lost in slow, sated kisses for so long I almost forget what we’re doing until she says, “Hey, don’t you owe me a ring?”
Yeah, I do.
I really fucking do.
The End
Vow (a Bayonet Scars novella, No. 4.5)
HE REFUSES TO GIVE IN. SHE REFUSES TO GIVE IT UP.
Alexandra Mancuso knows all about regrets. She talked to the wrong person and started a war that’s ravaged her newly adopted motorcycle club family and threatens to cost Alex her life. Now, she’s cautious with the commitments she makes.
Ryan Stone, road captain for the Forsaken Motorcycle Club regrets nothing—except putting Cub in danger one time too many. The Forsaken Motorcycle Club has a plan to end the war with the Mancuso crime family and they need everyone’s head in the game. But Ryan can’t focus on the club when he’s so distracted by a certain reckless brunette. She gives him everything except for what he really wants.
Today, he refuses to take no for an answer and maybe, just maybe, this time Alex won’t be able to stand her ground.
True love always defies the odds.
Dedication
For my readers—you insisted Ryan wasn’t romantic enough. Here you go.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 1
Alex
For what feels like the hundredth time, I raise the semiauto and point it at the tree line, doing my best to focus on the black-and-white target. With my right index finger, I pull the trigger, squeezing my eyes shut in the process. The blowback from the gun scares me, making me freeze. I hate guns. I hate the violence of it all. But this is the life I was born into, and it’s the life I choose. I have to get used to them eventually.
Slowly, I open one eye and check out the target. It’s brand new—I just painted and mounted it this afternoon—and should now have a bullet hole. If I made my shot. Which from the looks of it, I didn’t. Damn it.
I try not to get too frustrated with my total ineptitude at self-defense. It’s not easy, though. Mom has tried to teach me how to defend myself, but that’s not working out so well. Apparently I can’t block a punch to save my life, which pisses Ryan off to no end. Not that it takes much to piss him off. He’s always been a bit of a testy sort, and that’s only magnified by his concern for my safety. I hate that he worries, so when he’s gone on a run, I come out here and get in some target practice.
Again, I raise the gun, focus on the target, and pull the trigger. My eyes involuntarily shut, and I freeze up once more. I can never keep my eyes open once I pull the trigger. It’s been months now that we’ve been coming out here and working on my shot, and it’s done no good.
Tears of frustration well in my eyes. I hate this. I just want to be able to defend myself so my entire family—my new family—doesn’t have to worry about me so much. It’s been nearly a year since the club saved me in New York and brought me out here. Nearly a year, and the club’s been attacked, members have died, their old ladies have been targeted, and it’s not going to stop any time soon.
There’s always something going on around here, and they never really tell me anything. Mom tells me I’m safe and that’s all I need to know. Ryan pats my butt and says, “Gonna have to tap that later.” Because he’s a true
gentleman like that. And Jim? Anytime I ask him a club-related question, he sarcastically remarks that he must have missed my patching-in party. When he first started in on that, I didn’t know what to say. But now? I just roll my eyes and walk away. I should stop asking Jim questions, but I kind of feel like it’s our bonding time, and I don’t get to hang out with many people. Even Duke doesn’t come around and bug me like he used to. Now that Nic is closer to delivering, he spends all his time at home. Not that I miss him or consider him a friend or anything.
The gun weighs heavily in my hand as I think about my next move. I squeeze the handle until I can’t feel much of anything anymore. Months have passed, and I’ve gotten nowhere with any kind of gun. I can’t take an attacker down either. The best I can do is intimidate a Lost Girl—something Mom has spent an inordinate amount of time teaching me. She says that Carlo Mancuso is only one man, but whores sprout up like a wild fungus that you always have to be on the lookout for. I may not be able to protect myself or keep anyone alive, but I sure as hell can keep a bitch off my man.
But I can’t save him. I can’t give him even a tenth of what he’s given me, and I never will. So I try again. This time I try telling myself the bullet will boomerang and kill me if I close my eyes. A third shot doesn’t hit the target, and my eyes flutter closed. It’s not the panicky squeezing that normally happens with the harsh jerk of the gun. So I try again, and this time I refrain from fluttering a little more. With three more quick shots, I find myself screaming at the top of my lungs at the stupid fucking invincible target. I pull the trigger again and again until the clip is empty and the gun clicks in protest. Still, my screams are as loud as I can manage, and I kick at the dirt beneath my feet. I must look like an idiot—like Ryan—throwing a tantrum when I don’t get my way.