The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Read online

  Contents

  Drifter Book One A Nomad Series Novel

  Wanderer Book Two A Nomad Series Novel

  Roamer Book Three A Nomad Series Novel

  Loner Book Four A Nomad Series Novel

  “The Happily Ever After” A Nomad Series Short Story

  Excerpt from Straightened Out

  Other Books by Janine Infante Bosco

  About the Author

  ***NOTE: Contains explicit sexual situations, violence, sensitive subjects, offensive language, and mature topics.

  Recommended for age 18 years and up. ***

  Copyright All Rights Reserved 2016

  Drifter Book One 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: 978-1539963998

  ISBN-10: 1539963993

  Published by Janine Infante Bosco

  Copy Edited/formatted by: Jennifer Bosco/ JB’s Cover Obsession Design

  Proofread and edited by Trish Bacher of Editor in Heels

  Cover Design: JB’s Cover Obsession Design

  Cover Image by: Wander Aguair by Wander Book club

  Cover Model: Matthew Hosea

  -Prologue-

  Stryker

  Silence.

  It engulfs me, provides me with a false sense of security the moment I close my eyes and drag my subconscious into the depths of sleep. But it’s quickly ripped from me by the sound of tortured screams. A woman shouts in a foreign tongue, and though I don’t understand the Afghani language, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt she’s yelling for her innocent child to run, to seek shelter, and for the man with the laser pointed at her child’s head, not to shoot.

  I am the man with the sniper rifle.

  I am the man perched on a roof, with my finger firmly wrapped around the trigger.

  And that bitch just sent her fucking child to play in the sand with a bomb strapped to his back.

  For a moment, I want to believe she’s not playing me—that her kid isn’t a ploy in some sick terrorist plot. I ignore the sounds of my men commanding me to take my shot, insisting that time is of the essence and if I don’t do it, I’m betraying my country. I loosen my finger around the trigger and open both my eyes and watch the boy lift a handful of sand through the scope attached to my rifle. He opens his palm and spreads his fingers wide letting the grains of sand fall through them before he looks back at his mother.

  She shouts more of that foreign bullshit and I wish I could get my hands on her and slice her tongue from her mouth.

  It’s the final thought that crosses my mind before I pull the trigger and watch the boy fall back into the sand as my bullet pierces him between his eyes—innocent eyes that were once wide with wonder now are dull and lifeless.

  Sweat beads along my brow and I can feel the bile rise in my throat as I wait. Everything around me fades as I stare at the boy in the sand. I lose myself and question my purpose, my mission, my platoon. Everything. The bomb doesn’t go off and I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. I frantically peer into the scope, moving it to the right in search of the mother. I picture the Virgin Mary cradling her lifeless son pulled from the cross and wait for the woman dressed in black garb to do the same, but she’s nowhere in sight.

  Before I can divert my eyes back to the boy, the blast erupts, robbing me of the opportunity to look into his eyes one final time because his head has been blown off his body and the fragments of him are now one with the sand he was playing with.

  This is war.

  And this is hell.

  All that’s left is the sound of my own screams vibrating through my body, deafening as it pounds my eardrums and invades my head.

  It’s those screams that pull me from my sleep night after night. I’ve given up on getting a full night’s rest, using my bed only to fuck, and even that didn’t happen too often.

  Until her.

  I used to pound my dick into any willing pussy, never bringing them into my bed, believing I didn’t need that false sense of hope that I’m normal when I’ve got a woman wrapped around me, begging to spend the night in my arms after I’ve thoroughly fucked her—only for her to realize I’m fucked in the head when I wake her up screaming like a little bitch.

  Yeah, I didn’t need that shit.

  Hell, I didn’t want it.

  Until her.

  But, I’ve learned my lesson and I’ve learned it the hard way. It’s the reason I’m sitting in a chair in the corner of a fucking filthy motel room—waiting for the sun to rise as I stare at the battered and bruised woman in my bed, when all I want to do is climb in next to her and pull her into my arms, take away her pain and forget mine. I clench my fists and keep them pinned against the arms of the chair as I take in the dried up blood on her naturally pouty lips. Lips that skimmed every inch of my body, lips I crave every night since.

  I tear my eyes from her mouth and zero in on her eyes that are swollen shut—beautiful fucking eyes I know are pale green. Eyes once vibrant with life and mischief will now be full of torment and fear when the swelling goes down and she can fucking open them again.

  Her long brown hair is splayed across my pillow, matted with blood and knots from being fisted and pulled, leaving her scalp sore and just as bruised as the rest of her. I let my eyes travel the length of her, knowing the body she’s hiding behind her clothes matches her face in color and shame.

  A knock sounds on my door and I tear my eyes away from the restless beauty squirming between my sheets—wishing it was pleasure that had her twisting and not torment.

  Torment can’t be erased, it can’t be silenced—that shit sticks with you.

  It lives inside you and destroys you, fractures your soul and rips your life to shreds.

  I may have rescued her tonight, but the woman in my bed is as good as dead. Her soul has been taken, chewed up and spat out by the men who attacked her. When she wakes up all she’ll know is grief.

  She’ll mourn the life she had and wish the one she’s left with ends.

  I pull open the door and stare into the dark eyes glaring at me. The glare belongs to Jack Parrish, president of the Satan’s Knights.

  “Where is she?” A familiar voice demands, forcing me to peel my eyes from Jack and narrow them in his direction. The man, usually dressed to the nines, is a disheveled mess. Still dressed in his tailored pants but his shirt is untucked and only partially buttoned. Rocco Spinelli, the up and coming gangster stares back at me.

  I cross my arms against my chest, barricading my door as I size him up for a moment before turning my stone cold glare back to the man who hands me my orders.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” I sneer.

  Before Jack answers me, before Rocco has a chance to argue, my broken beauty releases a soul shattering cry that echoes off the walls of my room. I glance over my shoulder, ready to charge into action when Rocco grabs my cut, catching me off guard and shoves me out of his way as he rushes to the bedside.

  I’m about to attack the motherfucker when Jack pulls me back.

  “Get off me,” I grind out, watching as Rocco leans over the bed.

  “That woman wrestling her demons in your bed is Rocco’s sister,” Jack mutters, leaning over my shoulder.

  Fuck me.

  -One-

  Stryker

  3 years ago,
Satan’s Knights Albany Charter

  “Let me stay the night, Stryker,” Ally pleads, lifting her head from my chest as she rolls the barbell pierced through my nipple between her fingers and looks up at me. I blow out a breath, force myself not to roll my eyes because I don’t want to be a dick. I turn my gaze to her, curly red hair sticks to her sweaty face. Her lips are swollen from being wrapped around my cock and her eyes shimmer with a shred of hope.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I growl. Reaching for her hips I push her off me before tearing my eyes away from her and sparing myself the disappointment reflected in them. Ally’s got high hopes and I don’t have the heart to crush them. She doesn’t want me; it’s not my bed she desires. At the end of the day all she wants is to belong to someone instead of everyone. She’s a self-proclaimed whore who spreads her legs on a dime. She’s no one’s property and everyone’s all the same. She belongs to the Satan’s Knights Albany charter and any motherfucker with the reaper on their back gets between those thighs.

  Still, she’s not like the rest of the washed up cunts that troll through the clubhouse looking for a hit of whatever smack we’re dealing these days, willing to trade pussy for a fix. She used to be the good girl, the one you laid claim to, gave your colors and took home to your mother when you were pretending you weren’t a fucking criminal. The story floating around here is her old man owed the club money, a lot of fucking money, and when he didn’t pay they fucking killed him and took his daughter as payment. No debt goes unpaid, not under Rush’s rule.

  Rush is the president of our charter and when he got tired of Ally’s cunt—or rather when his old lady found him fucking her on top of the bar—Rush passed her along to the rest of us. Gone was the good girl with a bright future, born was the used and abused Ally, strung out on drugs with no reprieve in sight.

  I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and grab my worn jeans from the floor, pulling them up my legs before I turn around and watch her lean against the iron headboard.

  Fucking girl looks as lost as I feel.

  A part of me wants to save her, to shake some fucking sense into her thick skull and tell her this isn’t the life she’s meant to have.

  But I ain’t nobody’s hero.

  My eyes divert up to the worn, tattered American flag nailed to the wall above my bed. I stare at the stars and stripes. The debris embedded into the fabric is all the reminder I need. It’s what reels me back from the edge when I think I’m the fixing kind. It tells the story of a man who isn’t worth the medal stuffed in the back of his drawer, the man who survived devastation only to live in hell.

  It reminds me I can’t save anyone.

  I pull my shirt over my head and slip my arms through my leather cut before sitting down on the edge of the bed to put my boots on.

  “I’ll leave,” Ally says from behind me.

  “I’ve got some place I need to be,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at her, watching as she scratches at the dry patches of skin scaling her arms. “Stay, sleep that shit off,” I order, knowing by the time I get back she’ll be long gone, on the hunt for more junk to fill her veins and the need to be in my bed will be long forgotten.

  “You’re not like the others,” she says thoughtfully as I stand to my full height, grabbing my gun off the nightstand and shoving it into the waistband of my jeans.

  I fixed her with my cold eyes.

  “Nah, sweetheart, I’m not,” I agree, rolling my neck as I bite the inside of my cheek and crack my knuckles. “They’ve still got a little life left in their black souls,” I ground out, fisting a hand and bringing it between my pecs.

  Hollow.

  Just like the ground after an IED splits it open and swallows the destruction.

  “Nothing left here,” I add, before I turn around and walk out of my room, not giving her a second glance before closing the door.

  I make my way through the common area, ignoring the members of my club that still linger around the bar. They’re my brothers, yet I can’t bring myself to call them that. I’m a patched member of their club, I’ll ride to my death, take a bullet for any one of them, but I won’t let myself get attached to these fuckers.

  Been there, done that.

  Being a United States Marine changed me, hardened what was left of my heart and killed my soul. I didn’t expect to find a brotherhood, never thought I’d become close to the men I served with overseas, but I did. Most soldiers are lonely and missing their families while they are on tour, but I ran from the family I was born to and found the one I belonged to. The men I defended our stars and stripes with were the men who became my family and the broken home I left behind was nothing but a distant memory.

  I step outside, reach for my cigarettes and pull one from the pack with my teeth. I straddle my bike as I pat my pockets looking for a light. Once I’ve lit the cigarette, I take a long drag, filling my lungs with smoke as I sit on my bike and mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to do, where I am about to go, and what fucking hell will be waiting for me when I pull my bike into the driveway.

  Memory after fucked up memory rises to the surface threatening to drag me down. Her voice is so real, her cries and pleas so fucking real—just as vivid as the image of her backed into a corner as he strikes her with his belt. She sinks to the floor, her body surrenders to the harsh slap of leather against her flesh as her dull eyes peer through his legs and find mine.

  Go back to bed, Chase. Mommy’s fine.

  That was the first time I saw my father beat on my mother. I was as naïve as she was; I thought it was a one-time fluke. The next morning he woke, stared at her bruised body and vowed never to do it again. He kissed her, told her he loved her and apologized over and over—only to do it again a week later. Every beating became worse than the one before and the apologies died on his tongue.

  I begged her to leave him, pleaded with her to run with me to some place far away where he couldn’t find her, but she wouldn’t have it. She made one excuse after another—there was no work, the stress of the bills, or my favorite, your daddy loved the bottle too much last night, he didn’t mean it. It was clear she would not leave him and I told myself that was because he had ruined her, robbed her of her will and her self-respect. She couldn’t leave him because she had nothing left inside to fight for.

  It was my job to rescue my mother.

  I’d grow up, drag her away from my old man and help her heal.

  But I had to become a man first and my father wasn’t going to teach me how to be one—the motherfucker couldn’t because he never was one himself. He may have a dick but that didn’t make him a man, he was nothing more than a pussy. There wasn’t a trace of testosterone in that bastard’s body.

  I enlisted in the Marines, prayed my mother would survive without me, that she’d keep breathing, and vowed to come back for her. Just give me a chance to be the man you need and I promise you he won’t ever touch you again. You stay strong and remember this shit is only temporary.

  I’d kill the motherfucker with my bare hands.

  Father or not.

  I may have had a plan, but the Marines had a bigger plan for me, and I was sent overseas, to a bigger hell than the one I left my mother to burn in. A hell where women and children died, and sometimes I was the bastard who pulled the fucking trigger.

  A hell where I lost my whole fucking platoon—every man, every brother, not one of them survived the last attack of our mission.

  Except for me.

  I was the lone survivor.

  After the brutal attack I was discharged from my orders and sent back home with a medal to hang on a shelf for my duty served. I didn’t want to go back home, I didn’t want to look my father in the eye and watch my mother fake a smile. And I sure as hell didn’t want a fucking medal reminding me of everyone I watched die.

  I had nowhere else to go though, and I promised her I’d be back for her. If anything, I was a man of my word. Integrity, that’s the shit real men are made of. I showed u
p on my mother’s doorstep, dressed in uniform with that fucking medal burning a hole in my pocket.

  I can still remember the relief in her eyes as she stared at me for the first time in years, taking in every single inch of me—all seventy-four of them. The tears fell from her eyes as she lunged for me, wrapping me in her delicate arms, holding on as though I was a figment of her imagination.

  For a moment, I thanked God for sparing me, for allowing my mother this moment. It all went to shit when my father emerged and told me I was a worthless piece of shit that let his men die.

  You call yourself a soldier? You’re a disgrace to your country.

  I ignored him, I came here for my mother. This was the last fucking time I had to deal with this fuck’s mouth and the bruise marking her left eye was the last one he’d ever get to give her.

  I packed whatever was left of my shit, ordered her to the same—this shit was over.

  But I was the only one who walked out of that house, never to return again. She wouldn’t leave, she chose him over her freedom.

  Land of the free.

  Home of the brave.

  It’s too bad my mother lost her bravery somewhere between I do and I tripped down the stairs.

  That’s when I found the Satan’s Knights MC. It took a year for me to earn my colors and a whole lot of blood painted my hands in those twelve months. I was used to that though—ripping the life out of someone came as natural to me as breathing did.

  I had no fear, figuring I was on borrowed time as it was—making me an asset to my club and to the men I rode with. I was tough as nails and motherfuckers ran when they heard my pipes.

  But as lethal as I was, I was weak when it came to the woman who brought me into this world, and no matter how much I wanted to I could never turn my back on her. Once a year, on her birthday, I make it my business to visit her. I like to be there before the sun rises when my piece of shit father is still nursing his hangover and passed out on the couch. I don’t stay long, no longer than it takes to drink a cup of coffee and for her to assure me things are fine.