Burn (Bayonet Scars #5)

An eerily familiar scent fills my nostrils. It’s a decadent combination that smells woody and earthy but clean at the same time. I tense from head to toe and battle to maintain my composure. I used to love this scent, but now it brings me back to a time I’m still struggling to get past. Very slowly, I turn toward the scent, already knowing what I’ll find. I’m going to find the owner of the black Mercedes. I’m going to find a man in an impeccable suit, and he’s going to be handsome and strong and polite, even when he’s in the midst of carrying out a kidnapping.

I’ve barely caught sight of his olive complexion when he notices I’m staring and turns to face me. His lips form a smile.

“Melinda Mercer. It’s nice to see you.” He sounds friendly, as he always did pre-kidnapping. Well, he was friendly mid-kidnapping as well. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t still scary. It was the beginning of everything that led to that night. And whether it makes sense or not, I fucking hate him for it.

“Go to hell.”





Chapter 8



“That’s no way for a lady to talk, now is it?”

“Bite me.” The words slip off my tongue quickly, before consider the repercussions. The last time I saw him, he warned me and Holly that he doesn’t like to be yelled at and greatly values compliance. But that’s when we were at home, and my nails were wet, and I was caught off guard. I’ve met bigger monsters than him and lived through it. Still, my hands shake around my mostly empty water bottle. I grip the plastic tighter to make it less obvious, but all that does is create a crunching sound.

“You have no reason to fear me.” His dark brown eyes are on my nervous hands. Those eyes and his bright white smile used to make my breath hitch. They used to make me blush. I used to think about all the things I didn’t expect to think about again. But that was before. That was when my only concern was that no man worth dating would want to date a junkie. Doesn’t matter that I’ve been clean for four years now. Once a junkie, always a junkie. The only thing worse than being a junkie is being sexually impotent. Put the two together and the only thing left for me is my fantasies.

“You were an unfortunate casualty in a war you have no part in.” I think he’s trying to comfort me, but I can’t really tell. Men in expensive suits with fancy cologne and luxury cars don’t grovel. Not that men in dirty jeans and worn leather vests grovel either. Actually, the only man I ever saw grovel was Heath. We were so young then. If he were still here, I don’t know if the man he would have become would grovel now. Maybe not.

I quickly pull myself from my thoughts and look around. How the hell did he get in here? How has nobody pulled a gun on him yet?

“What the hell are you doing here?” I practically shout in panic. Peeking down the bar, I see that Chel is busy with a burly, older man with a long graying beard. He says something she must like, because she reaches across the bar and gives him a peck on the cheek with a sultry wink.

“Relax, Bean. We’ve come to a truce.” The confident smirk on his face angers me. It sends shivers down my spine and a vengeful hatred to my heart. This man scared me. He made me suffer in relative discomfort on a sea wall, and my only crime was being home on my day off. He left me there to wonder if I would make it home that night, if the tide would sweep me away, or if I was left there to rot.

“You’re not allowed to call me that. Actually, don’t call me anything.” I could stab him in the face. I mean, I could slap him at least. I won’t, but I want to. How dare he call me that nickname. How dare he call me anything.

“Let me make it up to you.” Still with the fucking smirk. “Another water?”

Ian’s words float into my mind. The warning he gave me at Smirk’s house was terrifying. I haven’t tried to score since. Still, it’s a lot of responsibility he’s placed on my shoulders. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that Ian doesn’t make empty promises.

The next person you try to score from dies. The next person who hurts you dies. The next person who stands too close to you, looks at you wrong, or just bugs me fucking dies.

The man beside me raises his glass of brown liquid, empties it in one sip, and then shakes the glass at me suggestively.

. . . or just bugs me fucking dies.

I can’t drink. I can’t. I mean, I can control myself. I can stop myself from falling back into the rabbit hole. I know I can. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I don’t want to cause anyone pain, aside from myself, that is. And yet, the wheels are in motion and I can’t stop myself.

“Vodka. I’d love a vodka.” I contain my smile and try for relenting to an unfavorable request. Ian won’t really kill him if they’ve entered a truce, would he? He couldn’t. I just can’t believe he would, and that’s how I convince myself this is okay. I rub the black chip in my pocket and force myself to feel the pang of sadness.

Four years, two months, and fifteen days.

Four years of keeping a needle out of my arm.

Leo gets Chel’s attention and asks her for a vodka. Her eyes slide to mine and in a bitch move, I shake my water bottle at her innocently. She gives in and brings the vodka to Leo quickly along with a new bottle of water that she places in front of me.