Read Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6) Online
Authors: JC Emery
Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6)
a Bayonet Scars novel
Haunt
Love is never more beautiful than when it consumes you.
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)- coming soon!
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Haunt (Bayonet Scars, No. 6)
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.
KINGS RULE MEN. QUEENS RULE KINGS.
Wyatt Strand is a hard man. He has hard features, speaks with harsh words, and has a hardened heart. Having served the Forsaken Motorcycle Club as Vice President, Wyatt is used to taking responsibility for his brothers, but when he’s handed the gavel everything changes. His brothers are now his men and the threat from the Italian mafia still looms in the distance. A president needs focus, but that’s nearly impossible when his old lady blows back into town and drops two very large bombshells on him.
Amber Wallace is a tough woman, but an even fiercer mother. She once told a lie to protect her unborn child that tore her away from the man she loves. And now, years later, she’s coming home to make amends. Wyatt’s changed, but the club hasn’t. Women are to be obedient. Unfortunately for Forsaken, Amber’s not about to let a few rules stop her from living the life she always imagined.
The Forsaken Motorcycle Club started a war with the Italian mafia and they’ve paid dearly for that choice. With a new president at the helm, the wheels are finally in motion to take down Mancuso once and for all. Even if it means taking the fight back to where it began.
Love is never more beautiful than when it consumes you.
For Mandie,
I couldn’t do this without you.
PROLOGUE
June 2001
I reach out from the warm cocoon I’ve created for myself in our bed. My hand slides across the cold sheets as if I’m going to find him there. I know he’s left me again. I felt him get out of our bed the moment my breathing evened out and he thought I was asleep. Just like every other night since he accused me of being pregnant.
In all fairness, I am. But still. We weren’t trying, but we weren’t being very careful either, so in a way, we should have expected that second blue line to show up.
We’re happy about it.
Well,
I
am.
His daddy used to be.
Now I’m not so sure.
During the day, Wyatt is devoted and loving but still a badass. He’s the man I fell in love with back when he was still a boy. But as the day wears on, he becomes less and less of the man I know and more of a cold-blooded soldier for the club. I hate it. I used to party with him, but now he has me tucked safely into bed every night while he does things he thinks I don’t know about.
And I’m sick of it. Sick of everything. And he’s too stupid and self-absorbed to see what’s really happening here.
It’s not the baby that makes me sick to my stomach every morning. It’s the overwhelming smell of perfume and sex that radiates off of him as he crawls into our bed. He doesn’t even shower before wrapping me in his arms and rubbing my belly.
“Don’t give me any trouble tonight, you got that?” I say to my rounded stomach. Our baby is a little hellion. He acts up at all hours, but especially at night. He kicks at my ribs and pushes on my bladder, and the only thing that calms him down is if I give him some attention. All I have to do is be busy doing something else and he starts acting like I don’t talk to him all freaking day and we don’t spend every single second together. Lord help me if this is any indication of what’s to come once he’s born. I might have to follow in my own mother’s footsteps and add a little whiskey to his bottles.
Baby Z—that’s what Wyatt likes to call him—adjusts his position and sits his little baby ass right on top of my bladder. While he makes himself more comfortable, he makes me uncomfortable. Not that he cares. As my dad keeps reminding me, it’s not about me anymore, and it’ll never be about me again. My dad’s words play in my head on repeat as I waddle to the bathroom to get ready.
“It’s not about you anymore, kid.”
I try to fight off the sinking depression that settles in as I flush the toilet and wash my hands. The girl I see in the mirror is unrecognizable. She’s not the fun, crazy girl I was seven months ago. She’s not full of life and so in love that it borders on obsession.
No, that girl’s gone.
That girl was sixteen.
The girl I see in the mirror is seventeen. She’s already somebody’s old lady. She’s about to be a mother. And she has no clue what she’s doing anymore.
“Let’s see what your daddy’s up to.” My eyes are fixed on my little boy—well, of his current accommodations—who is kicking at my ribcage. I give him a poke and try to explain the situation so he’ll settle down. “I can’t bust balls if you keep kicking me this hard. Quit knocking me off my game.”
A woman walks by my SUV and turns her nose up in my direction. My window is down, so I know she heard me. People do this—especially lost girls. They either judge me for talking to my kid, or they judge me for being knocked up with my kid—all the time. I wiggle out of the SUV and straighten my back as I waddle toward the front door of the clubhouse. She’s walking ahead of me, purposefully slow, and when she gets to the door, she holds it open for me.
“Trying to figure out who the dad is?” she asks in a snide voice.
I roll my eyes and pull my long, reddish brown hair over my shoulder so she can see exactly who she’s talking to as I walk by. I spent twenty minutes hunting for this top specifically. It’s an old Forsaken tee that’s all cut up and tied back together on the sides and over the shoulders to give it a sexy vibe with the back shredded down to my bra strap. It’s one of the few sexy things that fits me these days, and it perfectly displays the large tattoo of my man’s name on my back.
Turning around and giving her a cocky smirk, I say, “Bitch, please.”
The clubhouse is dark inside, but not nearly as dark as the one in Detroit. I don’t know if I like it or not. Everything here is so different than it is back home.
This is home now
, I remind myself.
Mom died and Dad lost his shit, gave up the gavel in Detroit in favor of leading the California Nomads, and moved me and Michele out here—to Fort Bragg. Just like he promised, Wyatt followed, and just like my dad promised, the Fort Bragg Forsaken have accepted me as one of their own. It wasn’t a given that Fort Bragg would recognize me as Wyatt’s old lady since Detroit was where I was voted in, but they have. Not that it means much right now, because Wyatt still wears his Detroit patch. He’s hesitant to talk to Jim about being patched in to Fort Bragg—mostly because it means leaving Rig, his mentor, but also because his mom is still in Michigan—but I have faith that the longer he continues to work with the brothers out here, the more comfortable he’ll feel making this change permanent.
“Shouldn’t you be at home?” my sister asks from behind me. She’s one to talk. The little twerp is barely sixteen. I’d know her voice anywhere, but especially here. It’s one of the few things that remind me of a time when our mom was alive and everything was normal. Mom died just over a year ago, but it feels like it’s been eons since she took her final breath.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I turn around, waiting to roll my eyes until she has the benefit of seeing my displeasure for herself, and place a hand on my belly. “Does Dad even know you’re here?”
“I doubt he even knows where
he
is,” she says and rolls her eyes. I don’t argue because she has a point. Since Mom died, our dad’s been semipermanently checked out, and ever since he dumped us in Fort Bragg, he’s been MIA except for the few times he’s popped into town to make sure we’re still alive. “Besides, it’s not like anything’s happening tonight anyway.”
“Just don’t get anybody arrested,” I say and give her the best of my serious expressions. She likes to flirt with the brothers and prospects, but she’s way underage, and I don’t want to see anyone doing time for tapping her—even if she’s asking for it. Mom was great at dirty looks. Michele never acted like this when Mom was still alive. Our mom never failed to convey her displeasure with a single look. She seriously gave the best hairy eyeball I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a lot of hairy eyeballs. I don’t do them nearly as well as she did, judging by the flippant expression on my little sister’s face. She’s such a little bitch sometimes.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says and walks off toward the front door. I have to give up trying to play mom with that one. Pretty soon I’m going to have my hands full with my own kid, and Michele is going to be left to her own devices.
God help her.
I leave all thoughts of my sister behind as I make my way down the hall to the pleasure palace. We don’t talk about it, but I know damn well that Wyatt hangs out in here more than he should. And considering his old lady is knocked up and waddling, he shouldn’t be hanging out in here at all. But the brothers play by their own rules, and they don’t give a damn what I think. The chaos of the clubhouse dies down the farther I get down the hall. Men walk by me, some in cuts and some not. They don’t pay me any mind, and I like it that way. I’m not supposed to be here, and anybody who knows me well enough knows that. It’s not like Rage gives a shit what I do, but Wyatt told me to stay home in front of everyone, and that means I’m to stay home. Your old man’s word is law when it comes to the club, and it doesn’t matter that it’s total bullshit. It only matters that that’s what he wants, and so I’m to stay home.