Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) Read Free

me he likes the song because it's about getting back at someone. I don't think it is, but I let him believe what he wants, even if it is totally fucked for an eight-year-old to believe in vengeance. I should be teaching him better, I should be giving him more. I should be doing a lot of things, but instead, I just sit on that dingy motel carpet and scream-sing at the top of my lungs. Eventually Ian's voice falters and lowers, though he doesn't stop. I'm coughing through what I think might be the hundredth rendition of the song when Ian quiets and then stops. I lower my voice but keep singing. Tears sting at my eyes, but I hold them back when he opens the door and crawls out of the bathroom. His brown eyes are filled with tears, and he's got bright red, raised streaks across his cheeks and arms. My heart sinks at the sight, but I only bumble the words a little before I get back on track and force myself to keep singing. If I get too upset, he'll turn around and go back into the bathroom, and then it'll take another hour to get him out. This isn't about me--this is about a little boy who's scared and traumatized and doesn't know how to express any of it, so he just flips out and destroys everything, including himself.
    When he's finally in my arms, I hold him tight against me, barely giving him room to breathe. Even when he pushes against me, I don't let him go. I just tell him what he needs to hear, never stopping until he takes a deep breath and drifts off to sleep.
    "Clean, clean, clean," I chant as he dozes off as if saying the word will erase the sin he feels in his heart. Once his breathing has stabilized, I haul him into the bed and go about cleaning up the room. I get as much antiseptic on his scratches as I can, but he stirs too much, so I save that for the morning. When everything is as tidy as it's going to get, I crawl into the bed and wrap my body around my poor, broken little boy and cry as silently as I can so not to wake him.
    "Tomorrow we leave for California. Things will be better there," I whisper through the sobs that rack my body. "It'll be better. It will. I promise."

 
     
     
    CHAPTER 3
     
    Jim
    Fort Bragg, California
    March 1997
     
    My eyes scan the main room of the clubhouse, surveying the sea of leather crowded inside. There's a tightness in my chest with this many guys in here, and it doesn't help that more than half of them aren't even Forsaken. Fucking Arizona shows up with the whole goddamn charter in tow. These bastards need to learn that their dick size doesn't mean shit this far north. I have to tolerate them, though. Rage gets his prick hairs all knotted up if we start shit with other clubs for "no reason." Like having a bunch of orange, leathery-looking bitches up in my space isn't reason enough for shit to hit the fan.
    "Don't like seeing this many strange fucks in my clubhouse." Sterling Grady, our newest patched member, walks up to me. His eyes slide from one side of the room to another, and the corner of his top lip is curled up in disgust. The kid is barely twenty years old with more brawn than brains and an attitude to match.
    " Your clubhouse, Sterling?"
    He doesn't take the bait--something he's never done before--and it leaves me on edge until I follow his gaze across the room. Chief, Grady's surrogate dad, who's really better aged to be an older brother figure, is staring him down and shaking his head. Only person who can give this prick any kind of perspective is Chief, and thank fuck for it, too. Otherwise I'd have choked him by now.
    By Chief's side is his wife, Lona, who has an arm wrapped protectively around their daughter, Elle. Chief gives Lona a quick nod, mutters a few words, and sees them to the door. Right on their heels is my fucking kid. Ryan's just turned nine, and he's already hard up for Elle, who's just two years older than he is. I ignore the kid as he follows them out the door and decide to actually take care of shit so these assholes can get out of my