Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) (5 page)

Jim grabs my arm and pulls me against him. I don't pull away, but I stay stock still and turn my face away, hoping he's not the kind of bastard who will hurt me in front of my kid. Jim's breath is hot and tangy against my cheek. Even though his grip on my arm doesn't hurt, I know all too well how that can change at any time.

"Let's get something straight, babe. You ain't got shit in this world except a kid who needs a whole lot more than he has right now, which is exactly why I made damn sure you won't find another job in this town. You might not like my methods, but everything I'm doing is to help you take care of that kid. From this point forward, you belong to Forsaken as long as you're in this town. You leave, you do so on your own--without the kid."

A mixed rush of anger and panic fills me and I push against him, but it does no good. Tears fill my eyes at the suggestion that he could take away my boy. I can't lose another kid. I won't watch another man take my child away. I'd rather die first.

"Stop fighting me and fucking listen," Jim says, his voice softer now. "I'm helping you. You work at the garage keeping shit straight and in the clubhouse keeping things clean. You're not here for sex, you won't be abused, and you won't lose your boy. You get on your feet and you want to leave, you can take him. But until you're stable enough to get him some real clothes and a place he can call home, you and that boy are under my protection and my supervision. You feel me?"

I can barely process what he's saying. He wants to help? People don't just do shit like that. There are always strings attached. Most clubs give their whores a little money here and there, depending on what they do for the club, but they don't employ them in the strictest sense of the word. I can't just ignore the repeated threats to take Ian from me, but I'm afraid I don't have a choice but to do as he says. In somebody else's life, this would be a godsend. In mine, it's how a nightmare begins. Jim's not the first man to offer me help to take care of my son. Ian will always wear the scars of that situation on his body for everybody to see. But mine? They're not visible--I'm the only one who knows they're there. No matter how much time passes, they'll always be there.

"Do I have another choice?"

"Don't like the deal, I already spelled the other choice out for you."

"Fine. When do I start?" My voice shakes with an anger and fear that brings me back to the last man who made me an offer I had no choice but to accept.

"Now. Trash bags on the bar," he says, hitching his thumb over his shoulder toward the clubhouse behind him. His other hand frees me from his grip, and he takes a few steps backward. "Place is a mess."

Before he can get too far away, I find myself wanting to say something to him, no, needing to say something. I might be his pawn right now, but that doesn't mean I have to be silent. My voice is steady and loud when I say, "Maybe you're just trying to help. Maybe not. But I won't ever forget that threat you just made."

CHAPTER 6

June 1997

Sometimes, on days like today, I have to remind myself how much better my life is now. Three months ago, when Ian and I got to Fort Bragg, we had nothing but a suitcase and a backpack between the two of us. My boy had one pair of shoes. He had nightmares almost every night. Not just nightmares, but full-on night terrors that had him completely flipping out, screaming, and hurting himself. The six months before we got to California were undoubtedly some of the worst of his short little life. Before men who swore to protect us became the monsters that hunted us, Ian was a happy little boy who took our chaotic life with the ease of a child who knows nothing else. Afterward, he was nervous and on edge all the time. Even the times the clouds seemed to lift, he was still only a fraction of his old self. But now? In the last three months, I've seen more of who my boy used to be than ever before. And even though right now I'm ready to string him and his troublesome best friend up by their toes, I'm grateful for the life I have. Hell, I'm also grateful that Ian has a friend, much less a best friend.

I keep all these happy, sappy thoughts in mind as I carefully pull up to the elementary school in my borrowed minivan. It's a nice minivan, as far as minivans go, but it's not mine and so I'm driving like Miss Daisy. I don't actually know who it belongs to because Jim won't tell me. Not that we talk all that often. In the last three months, I've determined a few things about Jim Stone. He's not going to physically harm me. He meant what he said when he told me I wasn't going to be paid to have sex. He really is trying to help. Still, I don't know what his angle is. Nobody does something for nothing, and Forsaken's been doing a whole lot for me and my boy. When I got my first paycheck--or envelope full of money--I thought somebody had made a mistake. There was more than three times what I expected to find. After trying to ask Jim about it, he told me to talk to Ryan--his nine-year-old son--who's the one who told Jim he better pay me well. Two weeks later, Sylvia, Jim's mom, helped me find a little studio for me and Ian really close to the clubhouse. Despite the daggers the woman throws out of her eyeballs, she hasn't given me any trouble and she's good to my boy, treating him just like he was her own.

Ryan Stone. God, that kid is adorable. He's also a fucking handful, with a mouth that's made me blush a time or two and an attitude to match. Most days I can laugh it off, but this isn't one of those days. It's only the third day of summer school and I'm already getting a call to pick both boys up early. The lady on the phone didn't say anything except that there were behavioral issues. Which is just freaking perfect. Ian does not need to miss any school. As it is, I'm damn lucky Fort Bragg has a summer program to catch him up for the upcoming year. As long as he does everything that's asked of him and he scores high enough on his tests, they'll place him in the fourth grade, like he's supposed to be. Poor Ryan only got screwed into summer school because Jim got excited about free daycare. Not that the boy couldn't use some extra help. He's behind in writing and math but excels in reading.

Tentatively, I smooth down my hair and walk into the office. I almost forgot how brightly decorated elementary schools usually are. All in all, this seems to be a good one, not that I know a whole hell of a lot about it despite the fact that Ian's been to six different schools so far. I'm determined to make sure there's not a seventh. So when Jim Stone tells the school I can pick Ryan up and deal with his shit, I'm doing it. Even if the ridiculous little boy isn't mine, it looks like he's my responsibility for the day. I just hope his dad doesn't mind the fact that he's going to have to live by my rules, then.

"Can I help you?" Denise, the school's secretary, looks about middle-aged with only minor graying in her light brown hair. She has a friendly smile on her face, just like the two other times I've met her, and seems to really care about the kids.

"Yeah, I got a call to come pick up my kids." The words roll off my tongue before I even realize I've said them. Ryan's not mine--I know that. Sometimes it sure feels like it, though. With his dad coming in and out of the clubhouse at all hours, just leaving the kid there with me and Ian, I sometimes wonder if he even realizes his son exists. There's been no mention of a mother figure, and the only people I've ever seen take much time with the kid has been Sylvia and Jim. Once in a while one of the members' old ladies will talk to him or give him a hug, but all in all, I think the boy is starved for affection. My hackles rise, remembering Jim's threat to take Ian away if I didn't get my shit together. The more I think on it, the more pissed off I become. There's more than one way to fuck a kid up, asshole.

"Their names?"

"Ian Buckley and Ryan Stone."

She hands me a clipboard to sign in. When I'm done, I set it down and wait while she makes a phone call. Barely any time passes before another lady, this one older and slower moving, comes out of a room and calls me over. I give Denise a friendly smile and beat back the dread that rises. I hate school administrators with a passion. Even the good ones are just too meddlesome for my liking. This lady seems nice enough. She introduces herself as Mrs. Marsh, and when she brings me into her office, I find Ian and Ryan sitting on opposite sides of the room, each facing a wall. Both turn their heads toward me just slightly. Ryan's nostrils flare and his bottom lip is jutted out, but there's a nervousness in his eyes when he catches sight of me. Ian looks my way, but his face remains passive, as if he's not really seeing me.

"Thank you for coming down, Mrs. Stone," she says and motions to a seat in the middle of the two troublesome little boys. Lord help me, she did not just call me that. Ryan's head jerks a little at the suggestion.

"Miss Buckley," I say. I almost explain to her that I'm not Ryan's mom or guardian, that I'm just his babysitter for the day, but I stop myself. For some reason, I don't feel like divulging all that business to her.

"Right. Miss Buckley, we had an incident today concerning bullying, and your sons' teacher felt it was serious enough to dismiss them from class early."

"What happened?"

"Ryan was overheard making fun of Ian on the playground and calling him names. When Ian began to cry, Ryan pushed him to the ground. The yard attendant tried to stop it, but Ryan completely ignored her."

Mrs. Marsh gives me a minute to process what she's just said. I have to close my eyes and take several deep breaths before I turn my eyes on Jim Stone's son, all the while reminding myself that he's a nine-year-old boy and not a fucking little demon. Man, if it were legal to whoop his ass, I would.

"Do things like this happen at home?" There's the assumption again. I shouldn't have suggested Ryan's mine. He's not, and the school now seems to be under the impression that I'm with his father or something.

"No, they sure as hell don't," I say, with my eyes still boring holes into the back of Ryan's head. When he finally does turn to look at me, it's a very slow pivot. The steel of his jaw is betrayed by the water in his eyes.

"I have to say, Miss Buckley, that Ryan's always had behavioral problems. I reviewed his records before you got here. I also took a moment to review Ian's records, and I'm worried. This is not the first time Ryan's engaged in bullying behavior, and it likely won't be the last. With Ian's past--"

I don't let her finish.

"Stop right there," I warn coldly.

But she doesn't.

Because she's either stupid or prideful.

"With Ian's past, I'm not certain that this is a healthy situation for your son."

My eyes shoot first to Ian. All I can see beyond his mop of unruly dark blond hair is the single tear that falls down his cheek. My boy's sensitive, and he really hates when people talk about his past. I'd give anything to never have him shed another tear. Not that I have much to give, but I'd do anything for the adults of this world to understand that when they talk about kids in front of them, it fucks them up.

"Miss Buckley?" Mrs. Marsh's voice is quieter now as she draws me out of my thoughts.

"My son is fine," I say and lean over to run my fingers through his hair. His shoulders relax just a little from the contact. "He and Ryan have been friends for months now, and this is the first I've heard of any bullying."

"With all due respect, you're new in town. I've been principal of this school for over twenty years. Ryan's father was a student here, and he wasn't much better. Don't get me wrong. I don't think Jim Stone or his son are bad people. The boy needs discipline, a firm hand."

Ryan's body shifts in his corner. I lean toward him and give him the same gentle treatment I did Ian. Ryan jerks in surprise and curls in on himself, as if my touch hurt him somehow. This poor boy. What kind of punishment does he get at home? I'm not here as a representative for just my son, but Jim's as well. Which is something he and I are going to have to deal with later, but for now, I'm their advocates.

"I'll agree with you there. The kid has a smart mouth, and he gets away with murder, but that doesn't mean he's somehow unfit to be around my son. He's a nine-year-old boy." Suddenly, I find myself protective over Ryan. I never want him jerking away from me like that again. Damn it. This whole situation is pissing me off, and not just at Jim for abandoning his responsibilities as a parent to be here, but at the principal who's just trying to help, and at myself as well for ending up in this situation. I have no business telling another parent how to take care of their kid, but Jim's negligence rings fresh in my head. My boy may not have had much, but he's always had me regardless of how fucked things were, and I have to believe that's the most important thing a parent can give their child. As I sit here and look at Ryan, I wonder if Ryan feels that kind of love from anyone.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," I say and stand from my seat. Mrs. Marsh blanches with my unexpected dismissal of the issue at hand. I'm not undermining the severity of bullying, and I'm certainly not condoning that behavior toward my own son. But it's not lost on me that neither boy is going to talk right now, so sitting here hashing out where Jim and I have gone wrong with our kids isn't going to help find a solution for either boy.

"Miss Buckley," she says, standing quickly and smoothing down her pantsuit. I can see the questions in her eyes, but I'm done and I need to get these kids out of here before my insecurities bubble over and I totally lose my shit on this poor woman. Without giving her a chance to protest, I lean forward and offer her my hand. She blinks once before snapping to and clasping her hand in mine.