Burn (Bayonet Scars #5)
J.C. Emery
For my readers.
You fell in love with Ian first. Thank you for allowing me to see him through your eyes.
Tragedy cuts deep. Revenge burns deeper.
The blood of their enemies coats the leather of their cuts and a trail of bodies lie in their wake, but the Forsaken Motorcycle Club isn't done yet. Carlo Mancuso still needs to pay for his sins. Nobody knows that more than Ian Buckley, the Treasurer for Forsaken.
Ian prefers his pleasure mixed with pain and he's only ever at peace when he's doling out justice. Convinced that he's too unstable and sadistic to take an old lady, he keeps his trysts, like all of his relationships, brief and anonymous. But with his club at war, and the stakes being so personal, Ian's feeling the events around him more deeply than he expects.
Mindy Mercer is the sweet daughter of Fort Bragg’s most respectable cop. At least that’s how the town sees her. Very few people know the Mindy who hides her tracks and battles her cravings by lying to everyone around her. She thinks she has control of her addiction until she suffers an attack that leaves her searching for a way out of her own personal hell.
Mindy has never been more desperately in need of a savior and Ian has never seen a more beautifully destroyed creature in his life. Their attraction is intense, but their damage is extreme. Some scars never heal, and some people never get better.
Love is never more painful than when it can kill you.
14 months to Mancuso’s downfall
Prologue
The ceramic mug warms from the inside out as I fill it up with freshly brewed coffee. It's my new addiction-- caffeine. The French roast smells divine-- sweet and spicy--and even better when I add a splash of creamer and a teaspoon of sugar. It's not quite sweet enough for me and he's going to object, but I know him better than he thinks.
Left to his own devices, Ian Buckley drinks his coffee black even though he doesn't like it. I know this because when he makes it himself or orders a black coffee, he never drinks but half. But when there's cream and sugar, he can't drink it fast enough. I don't get it-- his resistance to admit that he likes things a little sweet. It's just one of the many things about him that I don't get.
That's okay. I have time to learn about him.
I cross the kitchen, mug in hand, and try to wipe the smile from my face at the sight of his big body at my kitchen table. His back is to me and his shoulders are hunched forward with his arms outstretched on the wooden table. I round the table and place the mug in front of him. He leans back and gives me a small head nod. He's not much of a talker which can drive me a little crazy since I like to talk. He never tells me to shut up though.
Taking my seat beside him, I drag my half empty coffee mug toward me. The mug is sweating from the ice I dumped in it in an attempt to cool myself down. I should be grateful that my parents have been so good to me, but I can't help the irritation that creeps in every time Mom turns the thermostat up another degree. It's sweltering in here.
The dampened ceramic is uncomfortable to the touch, stirring up thoughts I'd rather not have. The wooden desk, damp from my tears. The pain. The sick way they speak to one another. The hate.
My skin crawls with the memory as I try to focus on something else-- anything else-- and wipe my hands on my yoga pants to dry them off. With my eyes cast downward, I take a deep breath and notice that my fingers are shaking.
"You're in your kitchen with Ian," his deep voice says so quietly and so calmly that I barely hear it. I know where I am. I haven't forgotten this time, but helping me seems so important to him that I can't bear to take that away.
When I raise my eyes, I take a deep breath and offer him a small smile. He doesn't relax. His brows stay pushed together and that scowl is still on his face. The raised skin of the scar that runs from his ear to his eye has caught a drop of sweat that has yet to slide down his cheek. He's beautiful in a way I can't make sense of and don't want to.
Without taking his eyes off mine, he brings his mug to his lips, tilts his head back, and gulps the contents then sets the mug down and reaches across the table. He grabs two napkins from the stack that I have yet to put away. I should have gotten to it already. He drops one napkin on the table and uses the other to wipe my mug free of the condensation. He wraps the other around my mug to keep my hands dry.
"Thank you." The words feel so empty in comparison to what he does for me but they're all I have. No nod, or smile, or even a flicker of his eyes tells me he's heard me. Just because I didn't slip into the rabbit hole this time doesn't mean I won't and it doesn't mean I don't need him.
I need Ian Buckley more than I need the breath in my lungs, more than the blood in my veins, and more than a shot of whiskey.