Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) (25 page)

Smiling smugly, I raise my glass of whiskey to him and mutter, "You can wait, you impatient little punk," and take a swig of the brown liquor.

Life is calmer now. Ryan's not. It's easy, or easier at least. But Ryan
is
less difficult. Having twins that act just like him has pretty much limited the energy he has to expel bitching at people for the most random of shit. That and the fact that now that bud's legal in California, he can pretty much just stay high. At least it mellows his ass out some. The club's had to find other ways to supplement the loss we've taken on our profits due to taxes. Still, we've fared better than other businesses, so we make due. The Fort Bragg charter is bigger now. With less violence and risk, our members have hung around longer than they used to. Slowly, we're becoming a retirement destination for aging Forsaken.

I think I knew I was officially old the day Wyatt and Amber's son, Zander, patched in. It doesn't matter that Zander is as big as his dad now--I'll still always see him as the smart-mouthed teenager he was when he first came into my life. Nowadays, he's more likely to be found eyeing Izzy Phillips than he is acting like a punk kid. Like he is now, I think with a smile out the window at Zander. The boy is almost thirty, so he's more man than anything. At twenty-four, Izzy is old enough to know what she's getting into with Zander. And judging by the looks she's giving him when she thinks he isn't looking, they're going to be getting into something soon. A few feet behind Izzy stands Elle, her older sister, and Amber, Zander's mom. Both women are staring the couple down, practically shooting daggers at the kids. I let out a soft sigh and snort.

"I know this is you," I say to an empty room. My eyes fall closed for a moment, and I let the silence surrounding me sink in. Jim's been gone for over ten years now, but I hear his voice just as clearly as I did the day he died. He laughs--at least in my head he does. And it's fucking beautiful. My life is busier than my kids think it should be, so I don't get to hear Jim's voice as much as I used to, so I relish these times of quiet. "You're getting those women back for being a pain in your ass when they were younger."

"Hey, Pop! You want to quit distracting Mom from making the hamburger patties so your son can chill out, please?" I turn in place to find Alex standing on the other side of the breakfast bar. Her brown eyes dance as she shakes her head at me. It's no secret that I talk to Jim. It's kind of a joke at this point. I just don't tell them that I know he can hear me. I don't know about God or church or any of that shit, but I know my man hasn't left me alone.

"He can wait," I say and take another sip, emptying my glass. The front door opens and then slams closed. Little feet stomp inside in a dramatic huff. My sweet Esme practically throws herself into the room. With the way she acts, you'd think she's eighteen and not eight. Her near-black hair is piled high atop her head, and her wide gray eyes are shooting daggers at her mother.

"What's up, Chicken Butt?" Alex says, turning her attention to her daughter. Alex isn't even remotely fazed by her daughter's attitude. She gets it enough at home from both the girl and her father that she can't afford to get riled up every single time somebody pitches a fit.

"
Your
husband won't stop complaining about how long Grandma's taking," Esme says to her mother before turning away. Sitting herself down in the chair across from me, she stares at me blankly.

"Hey, you blame your grandpa for that one," I say, picking up the speed of my patty-making.

"Thanks, Grandpa," Esme shouts with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Would you crazies stop talking to Grandpa and get the damn patties made already?" My grandson sticks his head in the window and gives us a warning look, like his eight-year-old ass can do something about it if we don't. He's the spitting image of his twin sister. All dark hair and gray eyes with a complexion that seems to shift between olive and a pale pink.

Alex's and Esme's heads whip around so quickly that if I didn't know better, I'd think they might be possessed. Alex's scar catches the light, and it looks just as angry and painful as it did the day she was released from the hospital all those years ago. My daughter takes too long with her response. It's Esme who responds with, "Shut up, Michael." Even knowing they named him after his uncle, hearing my grandson's given name sometimes throws me off. We normally call him Track because he can outrun just about anybody he comes across. While Esme, in honor of her mother, gets called Queenie.

Looking out the window again, I watch Track rush off to bitch to his father about our speed or lack thereof. My smile brightens when I see Ian and Mindy approach with the kids. After Chel died a few years ago, they took in Xavier and DJ, who are now thirteen and six. It was tragic the way we lost her. Marks lost control of his bike when they were on a ride up the coast. Chel and the baby didn't make it. Marks did, until he couldn't take any more and took his own life six months later. He was a good man who loved Chel with his whole heart. Did right by her. Married her, treated Xavier as his own, had DJ, and was expecting a little girl. But sometimes that's just how life is. It takes the best ones early and leaves the rest of us to suffer the consequences.

Out in the distance, closer to the barn, are Wyatt, Grady, Jeremy, and Diesel. They have a few prospects with them, including Chief's son, Stephen. Duke and Nic sit side by side at a picnic table with their daughter Robin, who's a teenager now. On the opposite side is Cheyenne, who's about to give birth to her and Jeremy's son any day. Their toddler-aged daughter, Haley, sits between Chey and her grandma, Holly. My line of sight follows Track, running around in the distance, being chased by Charlie and Jim, Grady and Holly's kids. Once, a few years ago, I made a joke about the growing size of the Forsaken family, to which Amber announced she was pregnant again. It was right before Elle and Diesel started trying, but after one miscarriage, they decided not to go through that again.

Ryan stomps in the house with his mini-me son hot on his heels and shakes his head at the stack of patties in front of me. I've been done for almost five minutes now, but I wasn't about to rush them out to Mr. Temper Tantrum. Even if he is damn cute when he's acting a fool.

"Al, I think you need another baby," I say. My eyes are on Ryan, but my comment is for his wife. I'm smiling like a goofball, fondly remembering the day the twins were born.

Alex snorts in response and starts telling me how that's not going to happen in a variety of ways. Ryan moves behind Alex and holds her against him. Softly, he places a kiss to the scar between her eye and ear. He does this a lot, touching her scars, kissing them. He never shies away from them or seems to think she's any less beautiful with them. If anything, she's more beautiful, I think. I can't help but watch this man and woman who remind me so much of me and Jim. I love my kids, I love my family, and I love this club. There will always be violence and danger on the periphery. That's life when you live outside the bounds of the law. But there's also loyalty and pride. And family.

A black suit comes into view, blocking my sight line of the kids off in the distance. I blink, my eyes trailing up the long torso, and nearly burst into tears at the sight before me. His olive skin is darker than the last time I saw him, but that's to be expected in summer. His brown eyes dance, almost exactly like his sister's did just a few minutes ago.

"Come on, Mom," Michael says. "You didn't think I'd miss my niece and nephew's birthday, did you?"

My eyes fall closed for half a moment as I tell Jim I miss him--silently this time--and suck in a breath. Alex is screaming in excitement, and my boys are rushing to the house to meet their brother.

"I miss you, baby," I whisper to myself as I watch the kids flock to our newest arrival. A cool wind picks up out of nowhere and engulfs me. I revel in it, knowing that it's my man's way of saying,
"Miss you, too, momma."

Wars begin, nobody knowing the devastation they'll cause. Blood will be shed, people will be lost, and when it all settles, nobody will ever be the same. There will always be violence and hate--and death. But there will also always be love.

And family.

And it never ends.

SNEAK PEEK

Rise

(Book 1 in the Mancuso Crime Family series)

Leo

Brooklyn, New York

April 2016

The streets are a fucking mess. Everywhere I turn, another customer's business has been jeopardized by the lack of follow-through in the Mancuso organization. Between that and the fact that half of the organization has jumped ship to side with Tony Vescovi, I can't get a single customer in the Ocean Hill neighborhood to pay their protection fees. Maybe I was out in California for too long and I've gotten soft, but it's hard to argue with a ninety-year-old woman who reasons that she shouldn't have to pay for a protection detail that's gotten her robbed twice in the last month. Somehow I ended up leaving her bodega short fifty bucks because she conned me into buying some ugly porcelain cat figurine. Which is how I ended up strolling the streets of Ocean Hill with Luigi--that's the porcelain cat's name, apparently--tucked under one arm.

On my way back to my car, I ignore all the places where I used to love to stop in favor of just getting the fuck back to Michael's house. I'm dying to get some legit New York pizza, and I'd kill for a cannoli right now, but I can't have my first trip back be so casual. I'm here on business, and that's how this trip needs to stay--business related. Ignoring the grumbling of my stomach, I climb into my black Mercedes and peel out like I have somewhere to be. I don't, but it's all about image. Last Brooklyn heard about me, I went on an extended vacation out west with my fiancée and only came home after she dumped my ass--an image which is detrimental to my position in the family. Add that to the rumors about my brother-in-law working with the feds, and Brooklyn's faith in me is shot. When I finally make it back to Michael's house, my mood is shot. I don't know what I expected, coming back to Brooklyn after over a year away, but this wasn't it. I worked hard to build my reputation, and if today is anything to go by, I'm going to have to start from scratch all over again. This bullshit is something we do not have time for.

I'm not even fully out of the car before I notice the woman standing on the front porch. She's young but definitely an adult. She's got a nice blouse on over a pair of jeans. Her long brown hair is pulled back in a wavy ponytail, and she looks like she's not wearing even a stitch of makeup.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yeah, I'm here to see Michael."

"Is he expecting you?"

"No, but--"

I cut her off before she can go any further by saying, "Then you can't see him today. How about you give me your name and he can give you a call when his schedule clears up." I feel like a fucking secretary, but the boss made it clear before I left--he doesn't want to be disturbed. We're a little light on guys right now since Michael took out half of them in the warehouse a few days ago. We'll regroup, and soon enough we'll be back to normal. I won't have to fight with the goddamn lock like I am now. The key doesn't seem to fit all that well in the keyhole, but I play it off like I'm waiting for her answer instead of having trouble. Her dark green eyes shine in annoyance as she stares me down.

"The name is Adriana Thomas," she says, leaning in and changing the angle of the key just slightly. With the flick of her wrist, the door is open and I'm watching her invite herself into the house as if she's been here before. "And no thanks. I'll show myself in."

What the hell just happened?

ACKNOWLEGMENTS

Seven novels, a novella, a novelette, and a half a million words later, and here we are, saying goodbye to the Bayonet Scars series. After spending the last four years in these characters' heads, I'm not sure I know how to say goodbye. But I do know that you-- the reader-- have given me more than you'll ever know. So many of you have become my friends and I'd be lost without you.

Dawn, I blame these nine volumes on you and your constant encouragement to add "just one more" book. No, we're not going for an even ten. You're cut off.

Mom, this has been a crazy ride, hasn't it? From that time little baby me slid out of your vagina to the day I mentioned outlaw bikers and I swear you listened to me talk for the first time in your life, we've been through a lot. And since I'm needy and I miss you, I'm coming home (well, home-ish) and we're going to wear matching outfits and order Britt around because we're older and we can, OK?

Mandie, you're awesome and you know why. I'm not getting sappy with your salty ass.

Brenda at Star Bound Books, your covers are the reason people took notice of these books. You've been with me on this journey longer than anyone. That means the world to me.

Michele, you're a fantastic editor and a gracious friend. I love your notes in the margins and attempts at getting me to understand proper hyphen usage.

Dani, you get the first actual thank you here, and it's for not smothering me in my sleep or paying someone else to do it. I'm disorganized and perpetually late with everything, but you still seem to like me. Thank you for taking a chance on me as your first client and as your friend, I'm insanely proud to be part of your journey.