Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) (6 page)

"Boys, stand up and thank Mrs. Marsh for dealing with your shit." I mentally give myself a good, hard kick for cursing in front of their principal. Probably not the best way to convince people that I'm a fit mother.

Ian moves first, turning his stoic face to his new principal, and in a small voice, he thanks her. I wait a beat for Ryan to move, but when he doesn't, I clear my throat and tap my foot on the floor as hard as I can. His black hair swivels around slowly, and his gorgeous gray eyes lift to mine. He looks like a puppy that's been whacked with a newspaper. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like the look on him. I'm not callous, but the kid is a disrespectful little shit to most people. Except right now he's showing me respect. And that matters.

Reluctantly, Ryan mutters something akin to a thank-you as he stands up. The three of us leave the principal's office without another word. I walk a few feet ahead of the boys, not interested in coddling either of them right now. I hated being called into the office when I was in school, and I hate it no less now, but I especially hate being forced to defend and punish a child that's not mine. I could fall into this way too easily.

I could take responsibility for Ryan. I could teach him and love him and show him that some parents are sweet and gentle and kind. I could do it, and I want to, so much. But he's not mine. And deep down, I know why I'm so attached to him, why I feel the need to protect him. He won't ever replace the hole my twins left in my heart, but he does make it a little less painful. I don't think I realized how much focusing on other people helps ease my soul until I met this little boy.

We make it to the damn Donna Reed minivan before the boys start bickering. I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I don't even know who starts it, nor do I care. These kids are going to drive me to drink. Pulling open the door to the back of the van, I turn to the boys and give them a damn mean glare to fit my mood. "Get this shit out of your systems now, because the moment we get to the clubhouse, I'm going to have bigger shit to deal with than this crap you two are pulling."

"The clubhouse?" Ian's voice is quiet as he asks the question. Ryan huffs and climbs into his seat. I take a deep breath and assure Ian that nobody is going to hurt him. He relaxes only a little, It breaks my heart that he has these fears, but I can't get into what happened at the school without Jim.

"My dad's gonna be really mad," Ryan says as well pull away from the school.

"I imagine he will be," I say, barely managing my own frustration at the whole thing.

CHAPTER 7

The clubhouse is pretty empty this afternoon, despite the big party the lost girls are prepping for. When I left to go to the school, they were all discussing everything they needed to get at the store, so that's where they probably are right now. I can't say I'm not happy about having fewer people here to witness the shit storm I'm inviting on myself. It needs to happen, though. More than not wanting to get into a fight with Jim, I want him to take care of his kid. Ryan isn't my responsibility, and today is just one of the several times in the last few months that Jim's left me to parent his kid. And it has to stop.

Sylvia Stone, Jim's mother, sits at the bar with a highball filled with a dark, caramel-colored liquid clutched in her shaking hand. Her eyes are downcast, but the telltale nod of her head tells me she's listening to the woman who's leaning over the bar top and whispering in her ear.

Ryan rushes into the room, shouting for his grandma and taking everyone's attention away from what they were doing. This is typical for Ryan. I'm not sure he's ever entered a room like a normal person. Sylvia pulls herself away from the other woman, who I only now recognize as Lona Phillips, one of the brother's old lady.

"You're home early," Sylvia says to Ryan with a raised brow. She lifts her eyes to mine. Her brow falls, and the expression on her face is none too pleased. Join the club, lady.

"Got in trouble. Grandma, you should have heard Ruby yell at my principal. She was awesome!"

"I didn't yell and it wasn't awesome," I say dismissively in Ryan's direction. Sylvia's face lifts just a bit, and I might be imagining things, but it's entirely possible she's giving me the world's smallest, most demure smile. I must be tired, though, because in the entire time Ian and I have been in Fort Bragg, Sylvia Stone has never so much as regarded me with any kind of thought, much less smiled at me.

"Is Jim here?"

"Is his bike outside?" Sylvia's mouth stretches in a firm line, but her blue-gray eyes shine in a way I've never seen before.

"That a yes or a no? I'm not in the mood for your shit right now."

Sylvia smiles with narrowed eyes. It's more predatory than I expect. Her lips quirk up and she preens, saying, "There she is."

"He's in his room," Lona says with a tight smile. Lona doesn't hang around the clubhouse much, but when she does, she always has her and Chief's daughter, Elle, with her. Ryan doesn't think I've noticed, but he's sporting a pretty big crush on Elle. She's a few years older than him and miles ahead in maturity, but it doesn't seem to matter to the kid. Sure enough, Elle rounds the corner with a pool cue in her hands. She taps her foot impatiently on the ground and stares at her mother. "You said you'd play with me."

"In a minute, baby."

"We'll play with you," Ryan says. He grabs Ian's arm and drags him over to the unimpressed girl. To my surprise, Ian doesn't flinch or pull back. He just goes along with his friend. My jaw almost drops when I see a glint in my boy's eye that dances when Elle smiles at him. I let the sight warm my heart for just a moment before I force it down. I remind myself that I'm still pissed at Jim and can't have happy, fuzzy, mommy thoughts clouding my brain when I'm dealing with the way-too-sexy overgrown child. As it is, he has a way of distracting me from my purpose, and today I've vowed to myself that I won't be distracted.

Once the kids are off in the pool room, I excuse myself from Lona and Sylvia's presence and march across the room. The hallway off the main room of the clubhouse leads to the chapel--where the club's members have their meetings--and the pleasure palace, which is really no better than a seedy strip club but also houses six small bedrooms for the club's members to crash in when they need to. I know for a fact that one or two of them don't just crash in their room but keep it as their primary residence. Part of my job is cleaning not only the public areas of the clubhouse but the private areas as well. My least favorite part of the job is cleaning the bedrooms. I'm not stupid, so I don't talk about the things I find in there, but I can't say some of my findings don't make me look differently at some of the guys.

Especially Jim. When we first met, he was all suave and saying all the right things. Then he moved into the full-on flirting and casual mentions of how hot we'd be together. I've had more than a few rough nights of sleep after he'd dropped a comment like that, but the plethora of different-sized women's panties I've found in his room in combination with the dozens of condom wrappers gives me a damn good idea of what he's all about, and it definitely doesn't add up to the sweet nothings he tries to whisper in my ear. Jim Stone is a pig, plain and simple. Which I could handle if not for his incessant need to try to convince me he's not. I've fallen for that line of bull before, and I won't do it again. The price of being an idiot is way too high.

With an open palm, I slam my hands against the closed door to Jim's room. I don't even realize I'm banging until the door swings open and its occupants are glaring down at me. And they're pissed.

Jim's gray eyes are narrowed, and his bare, ripped chest heaves. Sweat collects on his brow and falls down his face. I suck in a deep breath and do my best to avoid thinking about how good he looks like that. Like he's run a marathon. Or fucked someone senseless. I don't have time to appreciate the view, though, because he has company, and she's damn intent on making sure I notice her.

"You need to wait your turn, sweetie." Condescension drips from every word that comes out of her swollen red lips. I'd call her on it, but I'm not convinced she's smart enough to understand it anyway.

"Maybe she wants to join us," Jim says. With a taunting smirk playing at his lips, he props himself up against the doorframe and lets his eyes roam over my body. Instinctively, my eyes fall to his chest and travel south. I don't want to look, but I do. And when my eyes find inches of skin below his navel, they keep going of their own volition. Tufts of jet-black hair protrude from between Jim's sculpted hip bones. His uncovered cock is out and proud. And pointing at me.

I gasp and snap my eyes up to his. I flush and stammer, totally failing at this whole being-unaffected thing I was going for.

"Yeah, she wants to join us." He snakes his hand out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I move to pull back, but he's faster than I am and hooks me around the back of my neck, bringing me closer to him. I stumble over my own feet and land against his totally naked body. I try to push off of him, but he's got me now with both arms wrapped around my midsection. Anger flashes through me. How dare he answer the door naked? Even worse, how dare my body respond to his nakedness? Because that's the real problem here. Jim Stone isn't the first man I've seen naked. He's not even the first one to force his nakedness on me. No, the problem is that my hands are hot and damp, and the apex of my thighs isn't much better. My entire body is buzzing at the possibility of being with him.

And I hate myself for it.

"Let me go," I hiss. I don't care how my body feels about the situation. I spent way too many years listening to my body's demands and ignoring my brain's warnings. I have a little boy who's counting on me, and I won't disappoint him again.

Jim--who shall henceforth be known as King of the Assholes--leans in and runs his sweaty nose along my jaw. He sucks in a deep breath and holds it for a long moment before exhaling. And then he does it again. When I'm forced to breathe, all I can smell is sex and sweat. And her.

I have a choice to make. I could breathe him in and let myself succumb to the nauseous feeling overtaking me at the woman's cheap perfume. I might get sick on him, but that would serve him right. Or--the more preferable option--I could force him to let me go.

As if reading my thoughts, he grins against my cheek and says, "Make me."

I could be beat for this.

I could lose my job.

I could lose everything I've fought so hard for.

But I don't give myself enough time to fully process how damaging this could be. My knee rears back as far as it can go before flying forward with as much force as I can manage. I make contact with bare flesh. Jim's response is immediate. He unhands me, and I take a few steps backward with my hands raised in front of me.

"Don't you ever touch me like that again." Something about the way he held me, and the suggestion that I'm nothing more than just a warm body for his personal pleasure, upsets me. I feel like a damn fool for ever thinking I might mean more to him than just an easy lay. I thought we were becoming friends or getting close enough that he'd see me as more than just a babysitter and a warm, wet hole. But I'm not, and once again I've just fallen for a line of bullshit, going so far as ignoring every red flag that's been waved in my face.

I've been a warm body before. I'm no better than the woman standing behind Jim, mouth agape and cussing me out. She's clutching a pillow to her front as if she's suddenly come down with a case of shyness. I've been her before. We all have to choose how to survive, and maybe being a lost girl is how she's managing to make it from sun up to sun down without throwing in the towel. I can't hate her for that, and I won't look down on her for it, either. But that doesn't mean I want to be her. It may only have been a few months ago that I was in her position, but those few months are important. They're the bridge between the woman who couldn't get anything right to the woman who's figuring out how to do right.

Jim's doubled over in front of me, gasping for breath. It's only a minute or so before he slowly rises to his full height. His face is red with a mix of anger and loss of breath, but his face looks better off than his poor dick. Not that he didn't deserve it, but maybe I didn't need to knee him that hard.

As I stare down this large, imposing man I see the guy I thought was becoming my friend. Jim Stone, despite being King of the Assholes, is the man who forced me to take a job that pays me well above what I should be making. He's the reason I have my apartment, even if I pretend he's not. My landlord let it slip that Jim bribed the man to give me the place for cheap without a security deposit. I suspect it was also Jim's doing that the apartment's appliances were upgraded right before we moved in. In hindsight, I probably should have weighed all this against his being an asshole before I decided to bruise his family jewels.

He takes a large step toward me and, instinctively, I step back. I want to believe he won't physically hurt me. I want to believe he won't fire me. But the reality is that it doesn't matter how nice he is or what he's done for me. He's Forsaken--an outlaw--and he makes his own laws and only follows the rules set forth by his club. He doesn't value kindness or forgive almost anything--his words not mine--and even if I want to think of us as friends, we're still virtual strangers. We don't talk much unless it has to do with work or the kids, and even then it's short and stilted. He almost always looks like he wants to say more but rarely ever does. And the times he does give himself more freedom to speak, it's to say something out of left field that I don't expect.