Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7)

by Jc Emery

  Here's the thing about my boy--he's sweet and loving and sensitive, but he's also mischievous and ornery, and he has a strong sense of justice.

  "Just calling it like I see it." There's a dangerous twinkle in his eye that I don't catch until it's too late. He jumps up in the air and lands right in the middle of the puddle. Dirty water splashes everywhere, soaking my shoes and the bottom half of my jeans. Ian's jeans and shirt are completely drenched, but at least they're not DOA like his only pair of shoes are.

  My nose scrunches up and my brow furrows, but I swallow back the angry rant that threatens to escape. It's not easy.

  "Shit," I say much too harshly. I didn't budget for shoes, even if he is due for a new pair. Frustration wells in my chest and gets comfortable. I try to ignore it, but it's not working. I can't catch a break no matter what corners I cut or how hard I hustle for an extra couple of bucks. Every time I turn around the kid needs something else. This time it's shoes, but before this it was underwear, and before that, it was jeans because he kept climbing the low brick wall at the park and tearing them up. No matter how many times I try to remind him that we have to take care of our things because I can't afford to keep replacing them, he's still hard on his shit. He's an eight-year-old boy, and I know it's going to happen, but that doesn't make the money just materialize out of nowhere to pay for it all.

  When I finally calm down enough to look at my boy, he's got his eyes trained on the ground and his arms straight down by his sides. If I were really mad and not just giving up on the idea of ever getting ahead, he'd already be in tears and running away. I try so hard to not be that mom who yells all the time, but I slip sometimes, and when I do, it tears us both up. Those are the days where I wonder if I should even have him. Not that I'd give him up now. The state would throw my boy away and label him because of his behavioral issues. I don't care if I have to steal everything he needs for the rest of my life. I won't let him fall into the clutches of a greedy asshole who just wants to collect a paycheck.

  "Hey, shit happens, right?" I say and ruffle Ian's dark blond hair. He goes stock still and doesn't look up despite my casual tone. I need to stop the impending meltdown. I don't have the energy for it today. Skipping the whole pick-me-up speech and ignoring the fact that I'm going to pay for this later, I swoop down and pull my boy into a bear hug. When he doesn't fight me, I lift him off the ground with a deep breath and settle him into my arms. He's not such a little boy anymore, and that's never more apparent than when I carry him. It takes a long moment, but eventually he settles against me, snuggles his face into my neck, and wraps his arms around me.

  "I love you, Snot."

  I feel the smile against my neck before he whispers, "Love you more, Booger."

  "Do not," I declare, giving him a squeeze. He squeezes me back and settles against me once again. I'd thought he would have asked me to stop with calling him Snot by now, but he hasn't. My muscles ache from the exertion of hauling around a growing boy who's more than half my size, but my heart is warm. A lot of kids wouldn't be cool with me snuggling them in public, but not my kid. He doesn't care who's watching or what's going on. My sweet boy with his gentle heart. He's too soft for this world. I know I can't protect him forever and that eventually the world will get its way and harden him, but he's already been through so much, and I'm going to do everything in my power to keep him sweet for as long as I can.

  I walk us into the office of the motel we've been staying at and look around. The aged Formica counter is devoid of paperwork for the first time all week, and Robert, the day clerk, is MIA. The owner's paid more attention to the interior of the common areas than the individual rooms, but even those are outdated and worn. Still, it's a roof over our heads and there's hot water, so I'm not going to complain. The day clerk has been flying solo since we got here, and he's let me exchange maid services for a free room, but this morning he called up to the room to ask me to stop by the office. I've been tense since that call, worried that he's going to ask for more than just maid service in the exchange. It wouldn't be the first time a man used his power to manipulate me into doing something I don't want to do.

  My arms are practically numb, my knees ache, and my calves are burning by the time muffled shouting erupts from somewhere in the back. Behind the counter is a small cubby-like area with an opening on the left for access to the lobby and a door in the back for the manager's office. Ian tenses in my arms, so I rub his back, and he calms down not long after. The manager's office door swings open.

  "You don't want to lose anything else, you'll do as you're told." A deep, angry voice barks out the order. There's something familiar about it that I can't quite place until I see the person the voice belongs to. Barging out of the office is that Ryan kid's dad, the way too smooth and attractive biker I met on my first day in town. I'd successfully avoided him and his club since that meeting, not that it's been easy. The club owns this town, that much is obvious from the little bit we've seen of the town. It probably would have been easy to take him up on the job offer--well, kind-of offer. I'm not even sure he meant to offer me the job, since it was technically his son who'd made the initial suggestion. I just panicked and didn't want to be embarrassed or called a whore. Besides, I want things to be different for my boy, and that means I have to make better choices. I'll find a permanent job eventually, and then we can get an apartment, and it'll be a real home.

  The man's eyes fall on me, and he stops. A slow, conniving smile spreads across his face, and it's so striking that I have to suck in a deep breath to center myself. He purses his lips and moves again, this time slower, more deliberate. As this nameless man moves toward me, his muscles tense and flex. His eyes darken, he licks his lips, and he smirks. I stand perfectly still, doing my best to pull my eyes from his. I can't. There's something about him that draws me to him. Maybe it's his commanding presence or the lust I feel when I look at him. This man is a goddamn disaster waiting to happen, I just know it.

  "Just the woman I wanted to see," he said slowly. His eyes fall and travel up my body, a scowl forming on his face as he realizes his view is blocked. His expression changes from predator to protector. I don't know how I know that, but I do. Maybe it's something I see in myself, the change in expression. His dark eyes darken some, and a scowl forms. I'm just grateful to not see pity on his face. The moment a man's eyes go wide and he stares at me sadly is the moment I know it's all gone south. Love me, hate me, I don't care, but I don't want anyone's pity.

  "Walked away the other day. Not cool, babe."

  "Figured you were just being polite." I try to keep myself calm. This man unnerves me like no other. I just can't keep my shit together around him. Jesus, woman, get it together, I chide myself.

  "I'm never polite," is his response. I don't doubt him, and if I'm being honest with myself, I know damn well he wasn't being polite the other day. I was just being awkward and didn't know what else to do, so I did what I do best--I ran.

  "Okay then," I say and adjust my grip on Ian. My arms feel dead and my back aches, but my boy's body is tenser than it was when I picked him up, so I refuse to set him down now. Not until he's ready.

  "The kid can't walk?"

  "He can," I say carefully. I'd think after so many years of questions about my boy that I'd have a thicker skin by now. But I don't, and every judgmental comment just grates on my nerves. Just because he's quiet and he's far too big to be cuddled up in my arms like this doesn't mean he can't hear when people talk about it.

  "Does he talk?"

  "Excuse me?" My hackles are raised and my eyes have widened. I can't help the look that's on my face right now--a mix of frustration and anger--at the suggestion that my boy is slow. He's anything but. He might be shy and, yeah, he doesn't talk a million miles an hour, but he's bright and capable and perfect.

  "Jesus fuck, it was just a question, lady." He runs his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends, and blows out a deep breath.

  "Not only can my boy walk and talk, but h
e can also hear the things you're saying about him."

  Ryan's dad, whatever his stupid name is, throws his hands up in the air and backs his way out of the office, saying, "Whatever."

  The doorbell chimes over the man's head, and when it stops, Ian squirms and I let him down. His eyes are still distant and his face is expressionless. As much as he likes me to carry him, he hates when people start asking questions. I could probably try to break him of the habit, but I'm too selfish to do so.

  Robert, looking frazzled and nervous, wrings his hands together as he exits the office and approaches the counter. He puffs out his cheeks and stares at the cheap, outdated countertop before looking back up at me. I know this look. This is the look of disappointment and fear and regret. I've seen this look way more times than my twenty-five years should account for.

  "Listen, Ruby. I can't have you doing this no more."

  I knew it was coming, but it still stings. And it's sooner than expected to boot.

  "Okay, um. Can we at least finish out the week with our arrangement? I have to buy my boy some new shoes, and I haven't been able to save anything yet. It's only been a week."

  "Can't. Sorry."

  As frustrated as I am with his suddenly short and rather dismissive attitude, I can't blame him. My problems are not his problems.

  "Okay, um. Got any idea who's hiring in town?"

  Robert's head cocks to the side in confusion, similar to the reaction I assume he'd give a naked woman, since I'm pretty sure Captain Comb-over's never seen a real set of boobs before. That's catty, but I don't even care. I just lost my not-super-sweet-but-still-better-than-what-I-had-before gig, and I got no other leads. So as far as things go, this whole situation sucks.

  "Sweetheart, ain't nobody gonna hire you in town. Not with Jim Stone running up in here like he just did."

  "I'm sorry, what?" Now I'm the one staring at him in confusion.

  "You might get a kick out of playing with fire, lady, but I sure don't. When Forsaken tells me I ain't supposed to be employing you, I listen." Robert pauses just long enough for my brain to start getting with the program. "Don't know what you did or why, but you got a target on your head. Jim Stone wants you for some reason, and if I were you, I'd go quietly."

  "Is that his name?" I ask and point to the empty door to the lobby. Robert nods his head in confirmation. Jim Stone. He sounds like an ass.

  "Ain't nobody in town gonna give you a job, Ruby. Jim's made sure of that. Best you can do is take the one he's offered."

  My upper lip curls in disgust as I realize what he's saying. Here I am in a small town, in an isolated part of California, with nothing really near enough to get a job outside of town, and no car to take me there anyway. So much for starting fresh, free of the confines of club life. Jesus freaking Christ, this is perfect.

  "I'll get the money for the room to you tomorrow, and I'll pay up for the week." I give Ian's arm a gentle tug, and we leave the lobby just as quickly as we entered. I'm fuming. My blood boils--okay, not literally--and my nerves are totally shot. I made the right choice--to get a job and stand on my own two feet. I took that first step toward independence and security and a life worth living. Something I could be proud to give my boy. But then Jim Stone happened and that all went to hell. Somewhere in the back of my mind, an excitement stirs in me. It's a ballsy move that I can almost respect. He's forced my hand, for some reason that's well beyond me, but at least I'll have some kind of job. It can't be worse than anything else I've endured to put food in my boy's belly. Or to keep him safe.

  "Are we going to see the motorcycle club, Momma?" Ian's voice is louder than it's been in a while. Loud is good. Little boys are loud--that's normal. It's when he gets quiet that I worry.

  "Yes, baby, we are," I say absentmindedly as we head down Main Street and trudge the few remaining blocks to Forsaken's clubhouse. I'm frustrated and mad at the very fact that this stupid man has just inserted himself into my business and made a decision for me without even asking if it's what I want. But there's also that niggling wonderment. I'd never admit it, not even to Ian, but sometimes it's nice to be saved. Not that I'm expecting a knight on shining chrome or anything, but it'd be nice if this guy turns out to be reasonably decent. I'm not expecting much, but he offered me a job when he didn't have to, and he's seeing to it that I take him up on his offer.

  "Do you like this club?"

  I think about his question a good block before answering. "I don't know yet. They seem like good people, yeah?"

  "Yeah, maybe," he says. "Is Ryan going to be there?"

  "I don't know, honey," I say. Truth be told, it's a weekday and too early for the school year to have ended, so he's probably at school right now. Like Ian should be. My heart sinks.

  We walk up to Forsaken Custom Cycle with our pinkies linked together. The auto shop that sits in front of the clubhouse has a single garage bay open, and the office door is partially propped open with what looks like a brick. I'm still all sorts of angry and frustrated with Jim Stone, but now I'm equal parts nervous and on edge, too. Maybe he's not a bad guy, and this is a good thing.

  No doubt sensing how tense I am, Ian smiles up at me says, "You got this, Momma." God, this boy. He makes me feel invincible and good. Like I'm not a total screwup.

  "You lost, sweetheart?" A man who can't be older than thirty--or have showered in the last few days--walks out of the garage bay with his eyes trained on me.

  "I'm looking for Jim Stone," I say firmly with my chin out and proud.

  The man sizes me up from head to toe and back again. He's vaguely handsome in a way. Probably plenty handsome had I seen him before Jim Stone set his sights on me. As infuriated as I am with the man, I can't deny that I'm attracted to him. It's like I'm dead set on being attracted to the least desirable, most potentially-damaging man I can find.

  "What do you want with him?" The man narrows his eyes, and it would intimidate me except for the fact that Jim's jet-black hair comes into view over the man's shoulder.

  Raising an eyebrow, I smirk and say, "I guess he'll find out when I talk to him."

  "I got it, Butch," Jim says, effectively dismissing him. The guy pauses a moment before he gives Jim a dark expression and stalks away. Once he's gone, I'm all too aware that I'm alone with Jim Stone now. He closes the distance between us, his bulking arms on display. I have to fight to remind myself that I'm annoyed with him. I'm flustered at the situation he's put me in, but above all, I'm terrified of what he's going to want me to do for him. I know nothing about this man or his club. I don't know a damn thing about this job he wants me to do.

  "Say thank you." Jim's stupid-gorgeous gray eyes sparkle. I direct my attention from his eyes to his mouth, hoping I'll find that part of him less inviting, but it's a no-go. His lips are parted, and when he notices me looking, his tongue darts out, wetting them. I suck in a deep breath before regaining my composure and giving Ian's hand a reassuring squeeze.

  "Is there a reason you're stopping me from feeding my boy?"

  He's silent. Too silent and for too long. Ian takes a careful, slow step behind me and squeezes my hand back.

  "Say thank you," he repeats. Now I'm sucking in a deep breath because his arrogance knows no bounds.

  "Are you serious right now?" I shout, letting go of Ian's hand and closing the distance between me and Jim. I jab a finger toward my boy and step aside so the arrogant ass can see his face. "Look at my son. He's a little boy in a new town, and in case it's escaped you, he needs things like clothes and food and a roof over his head. All things I can't provide for him without a job. So how dare you bar me from getting a job in this town and then demand I thank you for the effort."

  Jim grabs my arm and pulls me against him. I don't pull away, but I stay stock still and turn my face away, hoping he's not the kind of bastard who will hurt me in front of my kid. Jim's breath is hot and tangy against my cheek. Even though his grip on my arm doesn't hurt, I know all too well how that can change at any time.

 
; "Let's get something straight, babe. You ain't got shit in this world except a kid who needs a whole lot more than he has right now, which is exactly why I made damn sure you won't find another job in this town. You might not like my methods, but everything I'm doing is to help you take care of that kid. From this point forward, you belong to Forsaken as long as you're in this town. You leave, you do so on your own--without the kid."

  A mixed rush of anger and panic fills me and I push against him, but it does no good. Tears fill my eyes at the suggestion that he could take away my boy. I can't lose another kid. I won't watch another man take my child away. I'd rather die first.

  "Stop fighting me and fucking listen," Jim says, his voice softer now. "I'm helping you. You work at the garage keeping shit straight and in the clubhouse keeping things clean. You're not here for sex, you won't be abused, and you won't lose your boy. You get on your feet and you want to leave, you can take him. But until you're stable enough to get him some real clothes and a place he can call home, you and that boy are under my protection and my supervision. You feel me?"

  I can barely process what he's saying. He wants to help? People don't just do shit like that. There are always strings attached. Most clubs give their whores a little money here and there, depending on what they do for the club, but they don't employ them in the strictest sense of the word. I can't just ignore the repeated threats to take Ian from me, but I'm afraid I don't have a choice but to do as he says. In somebody else's life, this would be a godsend. In mine, it's how a nightmare begins. Jim's not the first man to offer me help to take care of my son. Ian will always wear the scars of that situation on his body for everybody to see. But mine? They're not visible--I'm the only one who knows they're there. No matter how much time passes, they'll always be there.

  "Do I have another choice?"

  "Don't like the deal, I already spelled the other choice out for you."

  "Fine. When do I start?" My voice shakes with an anger and fear that brings me back to the last man who made me an offer I had no choice but to accept.