by Jc Emery
Contents
Cease
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
NOW PRESENTING MR. & MRS. STONE
AND IT NEVER ENDS...
SNEAK PEEK
ACKNOWLEGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
the Bayonet Scars finale
Cease
Love is never more real than when it's forever.
JC Emery
Series & Titles By JC Emery
Bayonet Scars
Ride (No. 1)
Thrash (No. 2)
Rev (No. 3)
Crush (No. 4)
Vow (No. 4.5)
Burn (No. 5)
Crave (No. 5.5)
Haunt (No. 6)
Cease (No. 7)
Praise for the Bayonet Scars series
"5 HOLY CRAP I couldn't even breathe Stars!!!!"
Book Drunk Blog's review of Ride
http://bookdrunkblog.com/
"This book is so good. I give it 5 hearts. Oh so goooooood. I want more!!"
Books, Chocolate and Lip Gloss's review of Thrash
http://www.bkschocolateandlipgloss.blogspot.com/
"Holy crap does J.C. Emery know how to keep readers on edge! This is the 3rd book in the series and it's getting even better and better and.... yep, you guess it...better! Talking about keeping you glued to the reader and sitting up on edge...even at times yelling at character or two... You're really missing out if you have not started this series yet!"
Undercover Book Reviews's review of Rev
http://undercoverbookreviews.blogspot.com/
"I absolutely fell in love with this series the moment I began reading Ride. The MC and the women they love are great characters, full of humor, sass, ruggedness, strength, love and passion. Crush was as no exception."
Naughty Moms' Story Time's review of Crush
http://naughtymomstorytime.com/
Cease (the Bayonet Scars finale)
Copyright © 2016 by JC Emery
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a reputable third-party website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Design by Brenda Gonet at Star Bound Books
Formatting by JC Emery www.jcemery.com
Editing by Michele Milburn
Mature Content Warning
The Bayonet Scars novels are a dark and gritty romance series which features graphic sexual content, violence, and foul language that is intended for a mature audience. Each novel features a different couple, though it's not recommended that they be read out of order due to the series story arc.
For Dawn.
For the last three years of f-bombs, unruly characters, and screwdrivers in inappropriate places.
DEATH SILENCES. LOVE ECHOES.
Ruby Buckley is no stranger to loss. She lost her twins in their infancy, lost her son to his demons, and lost herself to a life she never wanted.
Until him.
Jim Stone is lost. He's a father who doesn't know how to parent, a brother who doesn't know why he ever patched in, and is completely numb to everything around him.
Until her.
Craving normalcy, Ruby wants to live straight, but that's easier said than done when a member of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club is determined to make her his old lady. She's plagued by a past she can't escape. He vows to give her a better future, even if means delivering the impossible.
But falling in love was only the beginning.
Twenty years later and they're still going strong, even if the world around them is crumbling. Jim's put his club on the line and given Ruby the impossible– her now adult twins she thought she'd lost forever. She has everything she's always wanted.
But at what cost?
Love is never more real than when it's forever.
CHAPTER 1
Ruby
Brooklyn, New York
April 2016
Mancuso's downfall
Time after time, I never cease to be amazed at how deeply I can be hurt.
Just a flesh wound, Mama.
Jim's words echo in my mind over and over again. They're all I hear as I watch my husband--the man who taught me that men can be good--being lifted into the back of the van by his brothers. Blood pools at the bottom of his vest and drips to the pavement.
My daughter--the precious baby I thought I'd lost forever--is being carried to the van by the boy who became my son at the age of eight. She's lost so much blood. The dark red liquid completely covers her face, neck, and chest. My heart falls into my stomach as I catch sight of the blood smeared all over Ryan's cut and his face.
My husband's been gutted, and my daughter's been sliced open.
Both bleeding.
One dying.
Maybe two.
Hopefully none.
And all I can think about is my own selfish need to keep them with me. If I'm not a mother to my daughter or a wife to my husband, then I don't know who I am. I'll still have my sons--all three of them--but it's not the same. My boys don't need me the way my man and my girl do. I won't get to hang on to Michael for much longer. He's a Mancuso, and he'll be staying in New York to take over the family--and it doesn't matter how I feel about that. Ian, my eldest, has his wife, Mindy. He thinks he still needs me, but he doesn't. Ryan, the boy I have to remind myself isn't really mine, has Alex. My daughter.
If we lose her, there's nothing anyone can do to make it better. Ryan will never recover, and neither will I. He'll shut down, just like Rage did when we lost Sylvia, and even I won't be able to reach him then.
If we lose Jim, we lose our rock. I lose the only person I ever trusted enough to give my whole heart to besides my children.
I won't survive it.
CHAPTER 2
Phoenix, Arizona
March 1997
The ache in my jaw doesn't dull even after I swallow what he gives me and lick my lips. A fake smile plasters itself on my face, my eyes shine, and I give him a little purr. His dick is tiny as fuck, but all the coke he did is making my job much harder than it has to be. If I didn't need this so much--if it wasn't for my boy--I wouldn't be here. My stomach rolls at the satisfied smile that rests on the strange man's lips, but I power through my disgust and move to crawl up his body. I'm stopped short of his mangled, dirty face by the sharp pain that radiates from my scalp. He threads his fingers through my hair, gripping it closer to my flesh, and gives a hard yank. My eyes narrow before I can stop them. I compliment the way he tastes to smooth things over, but it's too late. He's already seen the look, and he's no
t having it.
"You're supposed to be a compliant little whore, so act like it." A drop of saliva hits my cheek as he spits the words down at me. I don't flinch or look away. He wants me to back down, but I don't. I can't show any anger or fear. I've spent the last couple of months trying to be his club's perfect little whore so I could earn my ride to California. And it hasn't been easy. Of all the clubs I've hooked up with, his is probably the most depraved and disgusting I've stepped foot in. I need out, and not just for me. My boy is depending on me to get him a little slice of stable, so it doesn't matter how much I hate this man, I'm going to swallow every drop he gives me, and I'll do it with a fucking smile if it means I can get Ian a little bit better.
"You want that ride to California?"
I nod my head and lick my lips eagerly, like I'm some kind of stupid dog that doesn't know danger when she sees it. His eyes fall to my lips, and he loosens his grip on my hair just slightly. Just enough to give me some relief.
"Talk, bitch," he says. There's food between his teeth. His breath is foul. I hate this guy, but since I got here, he's been the most aggressive about getting me into bed. I've let him have his fill plenty of times, but once I realized this place was no good for my boy, I started making it more difficult for him to get me back to his room. So far, my plan has worked. He's more desperate than ever to get a hold of me, but if he wants what I have, he's going to have to deal to get it.
"I want the ride to California, and you want my pussy. We made a deal . . ." I come close to saying his name, but I'm not even sure I know it, so I stop short. To emphasize my point, I rub my hands on the tops of his thighs. He watches my hands while he makes me wait for an answer.
"You want that ride, you're gonna have to fucking earn it."
And I do. I take everything he gives me, only wincing once when I can't block out how rough he's being. I do what I do every time a man takes me to bed--I just mentally detach from my body and go through the motions. I purr when I'm supposed to, I tell them I love the way they feel, and I so scream loudly when I'm supposed to be orgasming that they puff their chests out with pride. I take them however they want, again and again, and I don't complain. I leave my son with other whores, and I drop to my knees if that's what they want. Anytime. Anywhere. And I scrub their scents off of me every single night, but it never goes away.
And it doesn't matter, because a kid can't eat off of love. My devotion to my boy won't buy him new shoes when his are worn out. I don't have any marketable skills, an education, or any luck in picking friends, so I just do what I need to, take what I must, and find a way to live with the consequences of how I choose to survive.
Even when it leaves me bruised and raw and wincing every time I move, like now.
The disgusting pig behind me grunts as he slams into me, his fingers digging into my hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin sends a shiver up my spine, but not for the reason the man thinks. He's close to coming, and I silently thank his sad little dick because his lack of girth is about the only thing saving me from running out of here right now. Just as his body begins to shake, there's a loud banging on the bedroom door. There isn't a working lock, so whoever is banging is at least being semi-courteous. The man ignores it, grunts loudly, and holds on to me tighter. I lower my head, breathing in and out slowly, trying to keep myself from screaming. He wants me to lose it, to break down and beg for him to stop. The sick fuck gets off on that shit, but I won't do it. I refuse to give that to him.
The door flies open, bringing in a gush of cool air the stings my naked body. I try not to look up to meet the intruder's eyes, but it's too difficult. A woman stands in the doorway, the same woman I left Ian with. When I told her my name is Ruby, she told me her name is Gem. Which sounds like total bullshit, but I went with it. She's coked-up half the time, got a cock in her the other half, but she likes kids and she's been good to mine, so I've relied on her since I got here. Only tonight, I shouldn't have left Ian. He was in one of his moods. I told myself this is a means to an end and left even though she didn't look like she was in a good place. It was better than leaving him alone when he's like that, though, so I did it. And now, just by looking at her, I know I fucked up and made the wrong choice. Gem's eyes are frantic, and she's shaking slightly. She's got fresh, bloody scratches up and down her arms.
"It's Ian," is all she says, but it's enough. I scramble to get away from Tiny Dick, but he frantically grabs for my hair and pulls it hard, keeping me in place. Instead of helping or saying anything, Gem stands in the doorway, watching Tiny Dick slam into me, his portly body shaking in the process, as he rides out his orgasm. I should feel humiliated, disgusted with myself. Instead, all I can feel is fear. Gem wasn't all scratched up when I left Ian at the motel with her. She seemed fine, chill even, despite Ian's mood. Now she looks like she's been through hell and back. Even her once perfectly-applied makeup has taken a beating this evening. Thick black smudges surround her eyes, and her bright pink lipstick is worn off, though only halfway.
When Tiny Dick finally finishes, he pulls out and shoves me forward onto the floor. I land awkwardly, my shoulder hitting the wood floor first. I force myself to ignore the pain as I scramble into my jeans and top, totally ignoring my underwear and only grabbing my bra as an afterthought. As I dress, Gem tells me that she left Ian in the motel room by himself. That she didn't know what to do. That she was close to calling an ambulance.
"We leave at eight," Tiny Dick says as I rush out of the room and toward the motel as quickly as I can. I don't even stop for my shoes--a cheap pair of dollar sandals I bought at Goodwill in the last city we stayed in--and run out of the clubhouse barefoot. It's close to midnight, but thanks to record highs, the ground is still warm to the touch. I stumble just slightly as I step into the busy road but don't let myself fall. Correcting myself quickly, I dodge an oncoming motorcycle and run at full speed across the hot blacktop, over rocks and other sharp objects I can't see, through the motel parking lot, and up the stairs to our second-floor room.
I stop only when I'm at the open door. I should run in. I should ignore the desperate cries and the crashing sounds. But I can't. Ian's moods range from sweet and quiet to destructive and insane. He's been through hell, and he's not quite back yet. I can't blame him, but I know better than to barge in on him when he's losing his shit. The last time I got him to a doctor, they said he was tall for his age. That was a while ago, and it's been at least six months since I needed to get him back in. It's not easy finding a free clinic to check him out when we have no permanent address and my driver's license is from New York and has been expired for a year.
Slowly, I walk into the room and call out to my boy as I survey the damage. The two bedside lamps have been knocked over, one completely broken and the other just tipped. The Bible that sat in the bedside table is scattered around the room, the back and front half of the book on the floor near the TV, with the rest of the pages covering the floor and the bed. I notice the word sin scrawled in Ian's messy handwriting etched into the pages. And on the white walls. And even on the dresser, though it's hard to tell there since all he had handy was a black ballpoint. This is everything I fear but nothing surprising. Six months we've been doing this--cycling through one meltdown after another--and no matter what I do, it's never enough. One psychologist said my boy needs to be hospitalized, but we tried that and he only regressed. They wanted him to talk about his trauma, to explain in detail what happened to him. Fuck them and their bullshit. My boy won't talk about it, and I won't make him. It's bad enough he had to live through what that sick fuck did to him. They always want to know where his scars come from. I always want to ask which ones they're talking about--the ones they can see or the ones they can hear.
It's bad enough that I can't down enough Jack or take enough dick or do enough lines to block out the memories of that bastard touching my son. I won't make Ian talk it out with a goddamn stranger, even if it means we handle this on our own and in our own dysfunctional way.
When he's finally in my arms, I hold him tight against me, barely giving him room to breathe. Even when he pushes against me, I don't let him go. I just tell him what he needs to hear, never stopping until he takes a deep breath and drifts off to sleep.