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Roamer (The Nomad Series Book 3)
Roamer (The Nomad Series Book 3) Read online
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
no·mad
[ˈnōˌmad]
NOUN
A member of a people having no permanent abode and who travel from place to place to find fresh pasture for their livestock.
A person who does not stay long in the same place; a drifter, a wanderer, a roamer, a loner.
Table of Contents
Dear Reader,
Dedication
© Copyright 2017 All Rights Reserved
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Excerpt of From the Ruins
Other Books by Janine Infante Bosco
About the Author
Dear Reader,
First you drifted with me, then you wandered with me and now, it’s time to roam together.
It’s time for the next wild ride in the Nomad Series—and wild it is.
It seems as we go further into the series, the situations become more complex, the characters more flawed and the trials and tribulations are much more challenging than the ones that came before.
When I first created Ally, I never expected her to be who she is. In truth, having her be Cobra’s long-lost sister didn’t come to me until I was writing the Epilogue of Drifter. Then, as I wrote Wanderer, I decided that Ally would be a perfect match for Satan’s Cowboy, Deuce.
Who better to tame the reckless nomad then the damaged girl?
It was perfect!
Then, I started to write Ally and Deuce and I cursed my bright idea from here to Hell and back.
You see, Ally is not like any other female I’ve ever written. She’s fractured beyond measure and what happened to her is not some elaborate stretch of the imagination. I did my homework with this one and at times I had to step away. I watched documentaries on children who were kidnapped and read biographies of the grown women who were found.
So, when it came to writing Ally, I struggled at first. I thought at times she was too dark and tried to rush through her recovery, afraid that I would lose readers. I would write Deuce without any hesitation but when it came to Ally, I would re-read the same sentence twelve times before deleting it.
So, how did it all come together? Three weeks before publication I reread what I had written. I loved it—until chapter seventeen. In trying to be safe, I lost the character and that’s not acceptable. I knew what needed to be done—I needed to stop being a pussy and give you all of Ally. The good, the bad, the ugly—all of it.
Then I had to give you the beautiful.
In a week’s time I rewrote the story, added depth to Ally and I, myself, fell in love with these characters. Yes, it will be hard to read at times—it was hard to write. As with Drifter and Wanderer, Roamer touches on some very sensitive subject matter. This book won’t be everyone’s favorite but I will say it is mine and that’s because of the strength the characters convey. They’ll be times—more frequent than not, when you’ll curse me and wish you never heard of Janine Infante Bosco.
But, I promise to give you a beautiful love story full of healing and unexpected surprises.
I ask you to remember while reading, there are people—children, women and families that have suffered through this type of tragedy. Not all of them got a happily ever after and in my opinion, it wouldn’t be fair to acknowledge the heartache of it all.
PTSD comes in different forms and just because we can’t see everyone’s scars doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
Now that I’ve scared the fuck out of you, I’ve got one question for you…
Are you ready to ride?
The men in leather are back!
Saddle up, you’re about to enter the unapologetic world of the Satan’s Knights MC.
A world created by a woman who has as little of a filter as her characters do.
In fact, I’m starting to think I was a biker in a previous life and if not then I’m sure as hell coming back as one in my next life.
The men are crass. They’re vulgar and they’re not scholars.
None of these characters are perfect. Like me, they are fractured and flawed.
But, they all have heart.
If you the word fuck offends you—well, then this book isn’t for you.
If you’re cool with it then, let’s fucking do this!
Take a chance, put all your money on red and ride with me.
Become part of this unconventional family.
Be
Property
Of
Parrish.
Now, it’s that time again.
Pick your poison and grab
the tissues too.
I’ve got one more drinking game for you.
Take a shot when your heart bleeds for Ally.
Take two when Deuce makes you swoon.
Take three when the Satan’s Knights make you laugh.
Pause.
Hold onto that bottle—you’re going to need it.
When your heart pounds, when you want to throw the kindle and scratch my eyes out…
Take one final swig.
Strike the match and let the fire burn.
When it’s all over and you’ve laid your kindle to rest…
Breathe.
Then write your review.
As always thank you for choosing me—for giving me your faith and trusting in my words.
That’s all sorts of beautiful right there.
See you on the other side,
Janine
***NOTE: Contains explicit sexual situations, violence, offensive language, and mature topics. This book deals with sensitive subjects, such as kidnapping and human trafficking. Please be aware of these triggers and keep them in mind while reading. Through the sensitive subjects, the storm passes and the sky clears.... there is a happily ever after waiting on the other side. ***
Dedication
To every lost child who thought the world forgot them.
© Copyright 2017 All Rights Reserved
Roamer Book Three A Nomad Series Novel
By
Janine Infante Bosco
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ISBN-13: 978-1547232987
Published by Janine Infante Bosco
Copy Edited/formatted by: Jennifer Bosco
Proofread and edited by Trish Bacher of Editor in Heels
Cover Design: JB’s Cover Obsession Design
Front Cover Image by: Photographer Wander Pedro Aguiar
Front Cover Models: Jonny James
Prologue
Present Day
Death.
Many want to believe they’ll go peacefully in their sleep; after they have lived a long life, conquered their dreams and left their mark on the world.
No one wants to be murdered.
They don’t want to suffer.
They don’t want to scream and beg for a pardon.
A woman doesn’t want to stare at the man who swore he’d love and protect her and wonder why he won’t save her when there are four guns aimed between her eyes. She isn’t supposed to wonder why one of the guns is his.
I can still feel her blue eyes pinned to me, silently willing me to do something. To rescue her. To be the man I promised her I’d be. I remember watching the hope fade from those eyes as the seconds passed and the safety on the gun clicked out of place. I can still place the moment when the drugs wore off and clarity filled her blue irises as she realized the end of the line was approaching.
Death.
It has a sound.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The bullets that flew through the air traveling faster than the speed of sound and piercing the skin I used to kiss, the body I once worshiped—that’s the sound of death.
Death also has a scent.
Something I learned after the gunfire died and seeing the sheets stained with the blood that poured from her body. The metallic scent mixed with the gunpowder that lingered in the air created the scent of death.
Death has a face too.
Worn features from a grueling life and lifeless blue eyes that a single tear falls from—that is the face of death.
Once a beauty, now a casualty.
The Bible portrays death as a new beginning. If you’re a believer, once your blood dries and your body cools you think your soul will be lifted to Heaven. You wait for your Lord and Savior to welcome you into the afterlife where your every sin is repented and all the ugly shit that found its way into your life fades.
As a man who delivered death to those he called enemies, I never thought much about the scriptures in the Bible. I didn’t believe the Lord suffered and died on the cross at Calvary. And I sure as fuck didn’t believe he rose on the Sunday that followed. But in that single moment, staring at the woman I loved, I wanted to be a believer.
I wanted to believe that wasn’t the end.
Somehow, someway there would be more.
More of her.
More of me.
More of us.
In life, we’re given responsibilities.
In death, we’re given regrets.
A man can only pray to whatever hell he believes in that the two don’t bleed into one another. A man is a failure when his responsibilities become his regrets.
If he’s smart he doesn’t do responsibility.
He lives free.
He dies free.
The dictionary defines responsibility as having the duty to deal with something or being accountable for someone. Merriam-Webster fails to mention responsibility comes with the act of commitment. A person can assume responsibility, but he doesn’t truly accept it until he commits his heart and soul to the duty or person.
A roamer cannot commit to anyone or anything, especially not a self-proclaimed cowboy who is destined to ride his chrome horse to his grave. No, a man like me, who is wanted dead or alive by his enemies, isn’t meant to have responsibilities.
He isn’t supposed to commit.
He’s meant to travel the road paved for him by those who stole his soul and forced him into a life of sin. All the while he keeps pissing on the law as he eludes the men gunning for him and dodges bullet after bullet. He earns his patch and wears the title of an outlaw proudly.
He doesn’t walk away from tragedy to find grace.
He never gets the fucking chance to find his ride or die girl, the one who stands by his side when his life is a mess.
And he sure as hell never gets to commit the perfect crime with her.
He doesn’t get to claim her heart or watch as she steals his.
Unless the outlaw roaming is me.
Then he gets the girl.
He finds the Bonnie to his Clyde and laughs in the face of the devil.
I ease my conscience by telling myself I tried to fight the inevitable, that I warned Jack Parrish I wasn’t the right man for the job. Still, he handed me all the broken parts of a tortured woman and made me the man responsible for piecing her together.
I could’ve walked away.
I could’ve handed him my patch and kissed Brooklyn goodbye.
Instead, I committed to the task with my heart and soul.
Because even after she ratted me out to Rush and got my ass abducted, I knew we were meant to be in one another’s life.
Like a lit match to gasoline, Ally and I were made to create fire.
Beautiful fucking fire.
The kind that lights up the whole world.
The kind of fire no one forgets.
The type you never escape.
She was an angel who lost her way to Heaven, dancing in chaos and pain. And me, I was the demon sent from Hell to make it all go away. In my quest to be what she needed, I broke rule after rule and watched a beautiful angel find her wings.
I forgot about the sound of death.
I forgot its scent.
And I allowed death’s face to be a memory.
I laid Chelsea to rest and carved out a piece of my soul for her to keep.
Legend says, when two souls are meant to be together the devil will find a way to keep them apart. Being a man who has tasted Satan’s tears and drunk from his soul, I thought I had outsmarted him and escaped the halls of hell, but no sinner is ever truly free from consequence.
We all pay one way or another.
Some pay
with their own lives, others pay with the lives of those they love.
Being a man who already lost one woman he swore to protect, a man who helplessly watched her suffer and die before his eyes, the choice became simple. I chose her life over mine.
She says I saved her.
Tells me I showed her how to live again.
Maybe.
But her life is just getting started. She won’t truly live until I’m gone.
Until I’m a memory.
A place in time.
Lifting the bottle of whiskey to my lips, I drain the little that’s left and glance around the motel room. I used to hate this fucking place, bitched to any one of my brothers who would listen, but these four walls became mine and Ally’s home. It’s here in this room where she laughed for the first time in twelve years. It’s on that broken-down table she sat at and tasted sushi for the first time. It’s through that bathroom door, inside the shower stall where she decided she wanted to create a bucket list. It’s the fucking bed that is now full of weapons where she gave her body willingly. The bed where she learned sex could be something she enjoyed and not something she dreaded. The bed where she laid with me and watched the movie Bonnie and Clyde a hundred times until she knew every word by heart. It’s this fucking room that lives and breathes the memory of the girl I fell in love with.
It’s here.
In the depths of hell with no way out other than death.
Rearing my hand back, I throw the empty bottle and watch as it smashes against one of the walls.
“Fuck,” I shout in agony as I swipe a hand over my face and fight for clarity.
Between the flashes of her smile and those intoxicating blue eyes, I find it.
I find my truth.
This is the end of the line and death is the wage of sin.
I take a step toward the bed and lift the bulletproof vest from the mattress. Clutching it in my hand, I stare at the guns scattered before me when I hear a knock on the door. Quickly, I slip my arms through the vest, secure it around my chest and reach for the closest gun.
Death has arrived and this time I am the face of it.
Striding toward the door, I pull the safety back on my gun and wrap my finger around the trigger.
“Deuce, open the door,” Ally pleads, causing me to pause mid-stride. “Open the fucking door or I’ll shoot the lock off.”
That’s my girl.
Pulling it open, I glance over her shoulder at the empty parking lot. She pushes her way inside as I turn around and kick the door shut. Staring at her, I bite the inside of my cheek and lower my gun. She places her hands on her hips and her blue eyes are ablaze as they lock with mine.