(Bayonet Scars, No. 6)
by J.C. Emery
Expected publication: May 19th 2016 by Left Break Press
Kings rule men. Queens rule kings.
Wyatt Strand is a hard man. He has hard features, speaks with harsh words, and has a hardened heart. Having served the Forsaken Motorcycle Club as Vice President, Wyatt is used to taking responsibility for his brothers, but when he’s handed the gavel everything changes. His brothers are now his men and the threat from the Italian mafia still looms in the distance. A president needs focus, but that’s nearly impossible when his old lady blows back into town and drops two very large bombshells on him.
Amber Wallace is a tough woman, but an even fiercer mother. She once told a lie to protect her unborn child that tore her away from the man she loves. And now, years later, she’s coming home to make amends. Wyatt’s changed, but the club hasn’t. Women are to be obedient. Unfortunately for Forsaken, Amber’s not about to let a few rules stop her from living the life she always imagined.
The Forsaken Motorcycle Club started a war with the Italian mafia and they’ve paid dearly for that choice. With a new president at the helm, the wheels are finally in motion to take down Mancuso once and for all. Even if it means taking the fight back to where it began.
Love is never more beautiful than when it consumes you.
A loud bang sounds on the other side of the closed door. My heart skips a beat and I jump from my spot at the head of the bed. The darkness makes me jumpy. I don’t know what it is, but the solitude kind of freaks me out.
The hinges on the door creak as it opens. Light filters in, bringing with it a sort of relief. Two shadows appear in the doorway— one large and bulking and one small and slender— casting a shadow over the bed and most of my body and face. Their bodies are pressed together. The larger body sandwiches the smaller one between himself and the door frame. My stomach drops and my mouth goes dry. I have to push back the hurt and remind myself that even though I’m technically his that doesn’t mean he’s even remotely mine.
Because even though it’s been almost three years since I’ve seen him, I’d know him anywhere. Not many people get to be Wyatt’s size and nobody carries themselves the way he does. When he walks, it’s with this humble confidence that just radiates, but he’s totally void of any arrogance. At least, that’s who he is when he’s sober.
The woman he’s with giggles. She fucking giggles as his hands trail up and down the sides of her body. Jesus Christ, the sorry fuck is hooking up with girls now. Grown ass women don’t giggle and we’re too damn old to be fucking around with coeds. The little bitch— not that I’m pissed about having to watch my old man maul a damn teenybopper or anything— flips the light switch, basking the room in a soft yellow light. I cringe, blinking away the spots in my vision. Once I’m able to see clearly again, I steel myself to face the only man I’ve ever loved.
I clear my throat and snicker when the girl turns to face me. She can’t be more than a year or two out of high school, if even. She’s your basic bottle blonde with too much makeup and not enough pretty to back it up.
“Oh, shit,” he whispers.
My eyes travel from the whore to Wyatt. I have to actively work to suck in a breath. His light brown hair hangs down to around his hulking shoulders. He’s still beautiful even if he has totally lost that youthful boyish beauty he used to have. It’s been seventeen years since I met this man, but his eyes are the same. The narrow shape makes him look like he’s always grouchy even when he’s laughing, but the blue-green color is inviting and makes him seem almost gentle— like an enormous teddy bear— even though he’s definitely not. I get lost in his eyes just like I do every night as I tell our son and baby girl that I love them. Piper’s eyes are rounder, but the color is spot-on, and when she gets mad there’s no doubting who her daddy is. Zander is another story. As he’s grown and become more of a man, I see less and less of myself in him and more of his father. Sometimes so much so that it’s painful.
Coming back to my senses, I adjust wiggle my wrists to give the pair a little wave and with the brightest, fakest smile I can muster, I say, “Honey, I’m home.”
About the author:
As a child, JC was fascinated by things that went bump in the night. As they say, some things never change. Now, as an adult, she divides her time between the sexy law men, mythical creatures, and kick-ass heroines that live inside her head and pursuing her bachelor's degree in English. JC is a San Francisco Bay Area native, but has also called both Texas and Louisiana home. These days she rocks her flip flops year round in Northern California and can't imagine a climate more beautiful.
JC writes adult, new adult, and young adult fiction. She dabbles in many different genres including science fiction, horror, chick lit, and murder mysteries, yet she is most enthralled by supernatural stories-- and everything has at least a splash of romance. http://www.jcemery.com
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