Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6) (3 page)

“Yeah, he is.” He’s calmer now, and we’re finally moving past this. I lean up and brush the back of my hand over his cheek. I love this man. Sometimes I just have to remind myself of that.

“Otherwise,” Wyatt says slowly and pauses, his voice dropping so low I barely even hear him, “I’d kill you for betraying me.”

It takes me a minute to realize what he’s said, but by then it’s too late. His hands travel up my belly and over my breasts to my neck where he squeezes at my tender flesh. It only hurts a little. Not as much as I thought it would, but enough for me to come to terms with what’s happening here. Enough to know that this is it. I can’t stay here no matter how much I love him. I can’t let this be my baby’s future.

“He’s not mine,” he says. “I still love him too much to hurt you, so I’m going to let you leave.”

I stand there motionless and watch as Wyatt releases me and steps back. His eyes are dead and his shoulders are slumped. He’s a million miles away.

“Baby, he’s yours. I never fucking cheated.” It’s a plea. A pathetic, desperate, sad-as-fuck appeal to a man I barely know anymore but love anyway.

“Tell me the truth.”

Something snaps in me, and I make a choice I can’t take back.

And I lie.

“He’s not yours.” The words come out so slowly and broken that I barely recognize my own voice. It’s ridiculous. They’re just words, but they mean so much. I don’t let myself feel the weight of them, nor do I let myself look Wyatt in the eye. I just stand there and lie like it’s the easiest thing to do in the world. It’s easier than breathing. It’s easier than thinking. I don’t like liars, but in this moment I’ve become one of them. And I don’t let myself feel it, because I think if I do, my knees will buckle and I won’t be able to leave. And I
really
need to leave now.

“I’m going to get my dick wet. When I’m done, you better be fucking gone.”

He turns and leaves.

And then so do I.

I think I’ve waited long enough to avoid seeing him when I waddle out, but I haven’t. To the left of the front door, leaning against the wall with his hands laced behind his head, is Wyatt. He’s staring into the hall absently. It’s obvious because when he sees me, his eyes flicker to life and his shoulders straighten. I don’t have a choice but to pass him on my way out. I make my way slowly down the hall, desperately wanting to move my eyes from his but unable to. A loud man stumbles down the hall and bumps into me. I’m pushed into the wall. I right myself quickly and keep going. I have to swallow the lump in my throat and force one foot in front of the other. And still, my eyes don’t leave his.

It isn’t until I’m just a few feet away that we break eye contact. He looks down and smirks at his feet. My eyes follow his to find the same woman who made the snotty comment to me on my way in on her knees. She’s unbuckling Wyatt’s belt and staring up at him like he’s a god or something. It’s the same look I used to give him. My steps falter. I’m just a few feet from the door, but I can’t make myself move. After his belt, she goes for his zipper. She reaches into his boxers, but he—with his eyes still on her—shakes his head and says, “Down.”

Wyatt’s dick—
my
dick—springs free as she pulls his boxers down. I don’t see what her tongue is doing. I don’t see anything except for the tattoo above his dick that says my name—a declaration of a forever that’s never going to happen.

Because this is the end of us.

CHAPTER 1

August 2015

8 months to Mancuso’s downfall

My stomach rolls as I sit in the passenger seat of my own freaking vehicle. My ass hurts from the long-ass drive out here from Detroit, but it’s the handcuffs that link my right wrist to the door handle that bug me the most. I’ve pulled at them, tried to pick the lock with a bobby pin, and jiggled the fucking things since Diesel slapped ‘em on me. Not that I thought my attempts would do any good. They’re the same cuffs the cops use, not the soft type you use for sex. Not that I know much of anything about sex these days.

“Is this really necessary?”

Diesel doesn’t even look my way before he says, “Yes.” I huff, but his jaw ticks and he opens his mouth to speak before I can. “Your boy safe?”

“Yes.”

My kids are with my dad and Elle at his house a few miles outside of Fort Bragg. The only reason he’s even home is because I told him we were coming in and needed a place to crash. God only knows where he was when we talked. I’m not even sure why the man keeps that house since he’s never there.

“Then yeah,” Diesel says.

“Something you need to learn—my word is my law. I mean what I say and I say what I mean. I told you I’d face Wyatt, so I am. The cuffs aren’t necessary.”

He’s quiet for a long time, ignoring me like he didn’t even hear me. He pulls us onto Main Street, and we drive for a few blocks before things become more familiar. This place was my home once. I knew it well. Detroit doesn’t feel much like home anymore—hasn’t for a damn long time—but this doesn’t feel like home either. The only place I really feel at home is with my kids.

In the distance, I see the Forsaken Custom Cycle sign. It’s old and faded and doesn’t do much to advertise for the business. Not that the guys do much with the business aside from their own repairs and the occasional upgrade for a local. I steel myself for the sinking feeling in my gut, but it never comes. Instead, a sort of dead weight settles in my belly, telling me that this is much worse than I think it is. I made my choices, and now I have to live with them.

Fuck.

“Looks like you’re gonna puke.” His voice is void of any judgment, but he’s going somewhere with this, I can tell.

We pull into the parking lot of the shop and I’m faced with the closed gates to the clubhouse. I can’t see anything beyond the gates because of the black slats in the chain link that keep prying eyes from club business. I don’t realize I have a death grip on the door handle until the sweat from my hand becomes uncomfortable. I left Wyatt because he made me. It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t want to leave him. I never would have if he’d given me any choice. But I was seven months pregnant and he’d slammed my head into a brick wall. He’d threatened to kill me and then forced me to watch him get his dick sucked on my way out.

Diesel honks the horn, and I have to close my eyes to block out the view of the clubhouse as the gates open. I can’t do this. I can’t. I fucking can’t. My lungs strain for air that isn’t coming. I can’t do this. Fuck. Every muscle in my body is tight, and I swear to Christ I think I might swallow my goddamn tongue. I double over and use my free arm to cover my head, like if I can hide in this seat, then I won’t have to face Wyatt for what I’ve done. Tears well in my eyes, but I force them back before they can spill down my face. I may be freaking out, but I refuse to cry. I’m an adult, and I made my choices. I have to deal with them.

Diesel puts the SUV in park, cuts the engine, and waits. He doesn’t comfort me in any way. He just lets me freak the fuck out and is damn patient while I do it.

I don’t know how long it takes me to calm down. I just know that eventually my breathing stabilizes and I figure out how to stop my heart from beating itself right out of my chest. When I sit up and take a deep breath and calmly look over at Diesel, I find he’s staring at me with what might be sympathy in his eyes. Or maybe it’s boredom.

“Thus the handcuffs,” he says as a way of defense. I don’t admit that he was probably right to cuff me. “Got mad respect for you, babe. You earned your title as my VP’s old lady, you’re raising two kids on your own, and my woman loves you, so that means I got love for you. Your title means your life is more important to me than mine is, but get this—regardless of how shit went down, you got my VP’s kids, and I put my ass on the line to help save one of them. Those cuffs ain’t about disrespect for you. They’re about respect for your old man and my brother. Something you need to learn about me is that I’m a family man, and Forsaken is my family. So yes, the cuffs are necessary.”

My lips turn up in the corners even though I try to hide my smile. Diesel just shakes his head, gets out of the car, and walks around to my side and uncuffs me only to slap the other end on himself.

“Got Church and I’m already late, so you’re going to keep your ass in your old man’s room.”

“I could just tag along, ya know,” I say. Like that would ever happen.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters and drags me toward the clubhouse. There are two other vehicles in the lot and a line of bikes along the side of the building near the entrance. I avoid checking them out, preferring instead to avoid the mental guessing game of figuring out which one belongs to Wyatt. We walk in, but I keep my eyes on the floor the entire time. It’s bad enough that I’m here, doing what I’m doing, but it’s even worse that I’m handcuffed to a brother in the process. If I weren’t so fucked up, I might be able to feel embarrassed about the situation I’ve found myself in.

Every step is so familiar, like deja vu or something. It’s not because the familiarity comes from the last time I was here. I showed up that night fourteen years ago to show my man I was still his woman, even if I was a woman with a waddle. I left that night totally devastated. Wyatt wasn’t mine. It was the worst night of my life. Every day after was better than that day. I didn’t have my man but I had my baby, and then when I actually
had
my baby, he was perfect and gorgeous. Even if I was the only thing he had in this world, I vowed to be enough for him. The second worst night of my life was realizing that I’d failed. I’m not enough on my own. Zander needs his dad even if his dad is a fucking asshole. The kid is half a foot taller than me now. He’s losing his boyish frame and is starting to grow muscles—all over but in his arms especially. I don’t think I realized how strong he’d gotten until we got into a fight about his disappearing this past summer and he pushed me out of his way. It took me back to the way Wyatt used to manhandle me, and I flipped out on him. It didn’t do any good. I’m not intimidating enough, I guess, and that’s the moment I gave up trying to tell myself that I could do this alone.

I just didn’t know how
not
to do this alone.

Not just for Zander, but for Piper as well. She’s still so young, and she doesn’t know any better, but she needs her a daddy. She needs a man who’s going to tell her she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. She needs him to make her believe that she’s worthy and strong and important just for being who she is. Because one day a man is going to try to treat her like crap, and she needs to know that’s bullshit and she’s worth more. I can tell her all of that, but she won’t absorb it the same way coming from me as she will from her father.

Fuck.

Diesel leads me into what I guess is Wyatt’s room. I’ve never been in here—or more accurately, if I’ve been in here I don’t remember. The last time I was here, Wyatt was just visiting from the Detroit charter and we’d occasionally steal away in a room to make love, but he didn’t have his own room. The space is totally impersonal. The outside wall is made up of exposed brick and the other three are painted a flat gray. There are scratches and a few stains on the paint. The space is pretty empty with an old wooden dresser, a metal folding chair, and a large bed on a black metal frame. I pause in the doorway for a minute while I eye the bed frame only to realize I’ve seen it before.

“He still has it.”

“Has what?” Diesel’s question surprises me. I didn’t realize I’d spoken my thought until now.

“Zander was conceived on this bed frame.” When I notice my hand on my belly, I pull it away. This was our bed at one time. This was the bed we shared in our home. This was the bed we made love in. This was the bed where my old man used to hold me, tell me that I’m his reason for breathing, and promise himself to me. A golf-ball-size lump forms in my throat, and no matter how many times I try to swallow it, I can’t. Diesel uncuffs himself from me and pulls me to the bed where he forces me to sit. He loops the cuffs around a metal bar only to secure my other hand as well so I have no hope of escaping. He leaves me here, on this bed, and shuts the door behind him.

Our old mattress had a pushy spring right in the middle, about two feet from the head in the center. I keep my eyes closed as I search for it. If Wyatt still has the frame, then maybe he has the mattress, too.

My butt wiggles over a spring that uncomfortably stabs the base of my spine. It’s like being taken back to high school, even though by then I’d already dropped out. This is our mattress.

And it’s in his room.

At the clubhouse.

My throat constricts in response, and I have to look away from the bed just to take a much-needed breath. Too much history assaults me all at once. I think I was in denial until now. I thought about this a lot—coming back here—but never really considered how it’d feel. I figured if I showed my face in this clubhouse, we’d fuck and fight and fuck some more, just like we do every time he comes to Detroit. He’d be fucked up on whatever he was dabbling in at the time, and he’d tell me everything I wanted to hear, and then he’d just disappear on me. Like every other fucking time I’ve seen him since we stopped being us. Except this time, I’d tell Jim about Zander and Piper and force their hands at sobering him up long enough to fucking remember he’s a father. And the kids would visit him. And my life would stay the same except I’d get a break every now and then. If I imagined how shitty the reality would feel, I’d never have let myself consider forcing him to have a part in his kids’ lives. Not that I chose this.