Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6) (12 page)

“Please not here,” I whisper softly. “Outside, baby.”

He lets me hang for a long moment before he nods his head in agreement. He removes his hand from my cheek, dragging his thumb against my soft skin as he does, and takes my hand in his. How is it possible for anything that feels so perfect, so right, to be so toxic? It doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t make it not so. My heart takes another hit at that thought. I hate this so much. More than I can explain.

We walk out into the parking lot hand in hand. I try to ignore the eyes on us and just focus on the conversation we now need to have. Wyatt Strand isn’t the kind of man who will allow me to just walk away. He warmed me once, years ago, that I belonged to him. And everything that means. I’m not fighting it. I can’t. He’s mine and I’m his. That’s something I could never deny. Especially not with the two incredible kids we’ve created.

“You running from me?” His deep voice calls at the end.

“I can’t do this,” I say. I’m pleading now, but that’s too bad. I can’t bring myself to care. As embarrassing as it is.

“What can’t you do? Because it sure didn’t sound like you couldn’t do this when you were coming on my fingers.”

I flinch. Which is so not like me. I don’t shy away from a fight, I don’t flinch, and I sure as fuck don’t avoid confrontation. You can’t survive a childhood like the one I had without toughening up a little. And by a little, I mean that by the time I started kindergarten, I knew better than to cry over stupid shit. Dad didn’t allow it, and Mom never encouraged it.

I won’t do that with my kids.

“I just can’t, okay?” Wyatt won’t understand, no matter how I explain it. He hasn’t had the benefit of actually being a parent to understand. And maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. I’m unsettled here. Every time I come back to this place, I feel like there’s a million things I need to apologize for. I tied to reconnect with Wyatt. I know I did, but maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe I could’ve done more. I could’ve insisted that he go to rehab or get clean. I could’ve done so much more than I did, which was run.

“I can’t fight with a goddamn ghost. What’s wrong with you?” Wyatt’s words are harsh. So harsh that a drop of his saliva hits my cheek. I take a deep breath and lock my jaw in place before I fly off the handle. Checking my temper has never been one of my strengths.

“This is our thing, Mugs. I act like an ass, you put me in my place, we fight, and then we fuck and do it all over again.”

“Well, maybe that doesn’t work for me anymore. Maybe I see this for how toxic it really is.” And I rush off toward my SUV to get away. It won’t work. I already know that well before he catches up to me.

“Open the gate!” I try not to sound panicked as I shout my order to the prospect who stands guard, but I think I fail miserably. He doesn’t even look to Wyatt before moving to the lock at the center of the gate and pulling one side open halfway. I turn to give him a quick nod, but something past him, outside the gate, catches my attention.

My feet still as I try to figure out what I’m looking at. Something looks off, feels wrong, but I can’t make out just what. Outside the clubhouse gates is the parking lot for Forsaken Custom Cycle. It’s a front for the club’s illegal businesses and doesn’t get much action. Every now and then the boys will have a big order to fill, but that’s usually around the time of the annual parade Fort Bragg puts on to show off its love of Americana. It’s basically a big party for bikers and the only time I think FCC actually earns out. So, this time of year, the lot should be mostly empty.

But it’s not.

“Fuck, Amber,” Wyatt says from behind me. He wraps his arms around my midsection and pulls me to him. I try to shush him, but he just holds me tighter, so focused on this fracture between us that he’s ignoring his instincts. He feels it, I know he does. He wasn’t raised in the club, but he’s had the same training I have—even more, actually.

“Something’s wrong,” I whisper. I keep my lips as still as possible while I mentally check every car in the lot. There’s an old Impala hanging out by the door to the office. I think that’s been here for a while now, so I ignore it. It’s the black van sitting off to the side with a dude in the driver’s seat that bothers me. He’s got a paper map open in front of him, and he’s trying to figure something out with it. But it feels off. He’s parked in a weird spot, not in any space I’d choose if I had to suddenly pull off the road to figure out where I was.

Wyatt’s senses kick in. I can feel it in his arms. They tense around me. His breathing slows even as his heart rate spikes. This is my man kicking into warrior mode. One of the first things that made me fall for him was his sense of stillness in the midst of war. I can’t even remember what started it, but back in the day, a fight broke out inside of Detroit’s clubhouse. Even though my man was just a prospect back then, he took out two threats before they even got a shot off at my dad. Wyatt didn’t earn his rank by fucking Forsaken’s princess. He earned it through hard work, bloodshed, and loyalty. I had absolutely nothing to do with what he’s accomplished.

Just a few seconds pass, though it feels like it’s been several minutes. Wyatt’s mouth is at my ear. He speaks so quietly that I have to strain to make sense of his mumbling. “Black van, far right. It’s blocking the light post.”

It’s only now that I remember the 160-degree security mirror the club had installed on the light post for the guard on duty to see what’s on the other side of the fence as he opens it. Except that right now the van is blocking the mirror, and the prospect is way too focused on what we’re doing to pay attention to what’s on the other side.

Wyatt walks around me to the prospect. He’s got a hand up, ordering me to stay put. They exchange a few words with the prospect confirming that he’s been keeping an eye on the van and has inspected the other side of the fence and that nobody’s there. Wyatt claps him on the back, pulls out the piece he keeps tucked into the back waistband of his jeans, unlocks the safety, and then puts it back in place, covering it with his cut. Then he walks past the open gate toward the van.

I don’t like it. It feels like a trap.

“Hey, Rink,” I say and head over to him. He’s still got the AR-15 in hand and is shielding himself from the street. If I’d been in doubt about the kind of fucked Forsaken is, the clubhouse gates being locked at all times and 24/7 prospect duty with heavy artillery sure as hell suffused my doubt. The threat from Mancuso is definitely greater than that of local law enforcement, I guess.

“I need your piece,” I say and point to the waistband of his black jeans. He wrinkles a brow and shakes his head.

“No, ma’am,” he says nervously.

“Either give me your personal gun, or I’ll be taking this beauty right here,” I say and place my hand on the barrel of the AR-15. “You play sniper or backup. Your choice.”

“I’m not giving you my choppa,” Rink says and hands over his .22.

I flick off the safety and give the kid a taunting smirk. I like him, so I won’t tell the brothers about this, but I will tease him about it. Patting him on the shoulder, I say, “Oh, sweet boy, I’m from Detroit. That’s only an AR-15. An AK-47 is a choppa.”

I leave Rink there without looking back. He’s on guard duty, which means Wyatt trusts him. So I trust him, too. I keep the gun down by my side, as hidden against my black yoga pants as possible. Wyatt is already storming up to the van, telling the dude in the driver’s seat that he can’t park there. The guy rolls down the passenger window and nods at Wyatt, promising to move. He talks quickly and stumbles over his words as he asks Wyatt how to get back to the highway. I watch from the distance, keeping both my man and this random dude in my sight. The driver gets out of the van, his door squeaking loudly upon his exit, and he walks around to Wyatt with the map in hand. For the briefest moment, I feel like my instincts have led me down a path of paranoia. This is insane. The dude is just lost.

A few cars pass by on Main Street, which happens to be what the highway turns into once you hit the town limits. Just as I’m relaxing and about to put the safety back on, the back door of the van slowly opens. It’s soundless, really. If I weren’t watching it happen, I wouldn’t have any idea. The van itself is beat up, old, and not in the best repair. The driver’s door squeaked when it was opened, but this one doesn’t, which means one thing—I was right. This looks like a fucking hit on Forsaken, and oh hell to the fuck no is this going down.

Fear shoots through me. They couldn’t know it would be Wyatt who would come out here to deal with the suspect vehicle. For a split second I hate that it’s Wyatt. Even knowing that Rink and I have his back, having my man in danger never sits well with me. Zander hasn’t even gotten his dad yet, and now this? Not on my watch.

A bruised and bloody man half stumbles out of the back of the van. He’s holding one arm protectively against his chest. It looks broken. He has a knife in his other hand. He drags his feet on the pavement as he moves toward Wyatt. The noise catches Wyatt’s attention, and he steps back from the bloodied man and the driver, his back now to me, as he draws his gun. The driver nods resolutely, and it’s only now that I notice he’s wearing a black suit. His olive complexion and the suit give him away immediately—Italian mafia.

“Mr. Segreti respectfully demands that our debt to Forsaken has been paid with the delivery of Mr. Florentine, the man who put the wheels of our little spat in motion,” the man in the suit says. Segreti? What the actual fuck has the club gotten themselves into? Their war was with Mancuso . . .

The man with the knife, now known as Mr. Florentine, lunges at Wyatt. Wy dodges him easily and screams at the man to put the knife down. Rink shouts from behind the fence, letting Wyatt know he’s got his back. Florentine doesn’t drop the knife. Instead, he lunges again, and this time, Wyatt puts his gun away and takes the fucker to the pavement.

Taking my eyes off Wyatt, I refocus my energy on the nameless driver. He scurries around the van to the driver’s side. He’s trying to get away, but he’s not going to get far. I push off the concrete under my feet and run at the guy with Rink’s gun in front of me. The man is half into the driver’s seat by the time I reach him. He’s got one hand in his suit jacket and the other on the steering wheel.

“By the time you pull your piece, the van will have a new paint job,” I say evenly. He doesn’t move, so to make him take me seriously, I close in and press the barrel of the .22 against the back of his skull and wait. Slowly, he removes his hands from his jacket and the steering wheel, putting them both in the air. Now that he’s less of a threat, I remove my finger from the trigger and slam the butt of the gun into his head as hard as I can. He falls to the ground just a second later. He’s face up, with his eyes closed and his mouth open. I back up and wait for the boys. I can hear them in the distance, all heavy feet and deep voices, as they rush out. Knowing they’re on their way, I put the safety back on the gun and drop it to the ground.

“Amber!” Wyatt shouts as he rounds the van and grabs me from behind. I melt into him and close my eyes. He spins me around so my face is in his chest and lifts me up. I don’t fight it. I just hold on to his neck and keep my face pressed into the base of his throat. I can be strong and tough. I can handle my shit—like I did with Rig—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t keep me up at night. It doesn’t mean I don’t think about Rig’s face right before he died as I kiss my boy good night and rock my baby girl to sleep. It doesn’t mean I’m not haunted by it. It just means that I do what I was raised to—I protect my family even if it screws me up in the process. And I don’t complain. I don’t cry. I don’t talk about it. Except for here, in Wyatt’s arms, where I can be scared. Where, if even just for a moment, I can feel a little human and a little afraid.

CHAPTER 10

I left the clubhouse as soon as I could. I don’t run from a fight, never have. But it’s different now. I’d never killed a man before either. But then my boy was taken right out from under me, and it was like a lifetime worth of guilt and doubt came crashing into me. Was I doing my best with my kids? Was I screwing them up more because I raised them, mostly, the way I’d been raised? Being a club kid isn’t easy. A lot of women think they can handle the lifestyle, and then they get pregnant and realize they can’t. My mother was never that woman. If anything, I’d only ever known her as this fierce creature who protected her family—
all of them
—at all costs. I’ve always prided myself on being just like her. I can handle anything.

At least I thought I could.

That scene back at the clubhouse didn’t make a lot of sense. It’s clear the boys are in more trouble out here than I thought, which only spurs another set of fears in me about the safety of my kids. What bothers me most is how I reacted to it. I hate feeling so vulnerable. That is by far the worst part of having kids. Your soft spot is obvious to every fucking asshole on the planet. Nobody has to touch me to hurt me—they just have to be a threat to my children, and suddenly my worst fears are coming true.

“Mom, I can’t really breathe.” Zander’s voice is muffled by my shoulder blade. The moment I got back to my dad’s house, I plopped down on the couch next to him and pulled him to me. I haven’t let go since.

Dad’s asked if I’m okay, to which I managed a terrible lie that promised him I’m fine. Piper abandoned her blocks on the floor in favor of crawling into my lap. Her presence made me feel a little better, but the truth is, I’m coming unhinged. This Segreti is a threat to my man and, by proxy, my children. Growing up in such a violent world makes you numb to the reality of it, I think. I’m not numb anymore.