Free Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) by JC Emery Page A

And I know he wanted me to be there. But he was high today. And mean. He wasn't just an asshole. Jim was something I've never seen him as before, and it scared me. I want the guy I was getting to know, who treated me like a person, back. I want the guy who I thought was my friend, not the man who showed up today.
    "Go," she says, more urgently this time. "You're more than a mother. Go be a woman for a change."
    I don't hesitate or think twice about my decision. I just . . . go.
    The clubhouse is only a few blocks over, so the walk isn't long. If anything, the cool summer air is refreshing. You'd think it'd bring me to my senses, but it doesn't. The salty tones from the ocean and the crispness from the evening's rain wakes me up in a way I'm not sure I've been in months, if not years. I doubt Sylvia Stone shows up to play babysitter for just anyone, and I'm even more doubtful that she lets herself be vulnerable in front of people she doesn't trust. If she trusts me enough with her confessions, then I should trust her enough to let myself believe that maybe life is getting better, that maybe Jim isn't just the bastard he was being this afternoon. Maybe, if I can be a good mother now even if I wasn't then, then perhaps it's possible for Jim to be a good man, too.
    Inside the gates of the clubhouse, there are three metal barrels filled with God-only-knows what and set ablaze. The outside lights shine bright. The lot is free of people, but a large crowd roars and swells beyond the tall, chain-link fence. I've never seen people back there before, much less so many. Fort Bragg sits directly on the coast, with much of its shoreline high above the Pacific. The clubhouse sits a few hundred feet from the edge, on land that once belonged to the US government but was long-ago parceled off for pennies on the dollar. Jim once told me there was only one reason Forsaken ever crossed that fence line and it's for something he hopes he never has to witness. It's stupid, considering the excited roars from the crowd, but still, I pause before I push my way through the gate in the chain-link. I've been in town for months, but even with my tentative friendship with Jim, and working for the club, I still feel like an outsider. I'm not a member or family or even somebody's woman. And Jim's made damn sure nobody touches me, so I'm not a lost girl, either. I'm just . . .me. And here I am, at this party that's a big deal for Forsaken. But I push on because, despite feeling out of place, I can't bring myself to turn back now.
    You're good for them.
    The cheering is loud at the edge of the crowd, but in the middle of it, it's deafening.
    Forsaken from different charters hold up cans of beer in victory, shouting at the men in the center of the ring. Men and women in plain clothes crowd around the brothers, their excitement no less apparent.
    An older Forsaken from Nevada leans into the man next to him, who I automatically recognize as Rage, Jim's father. "Ten bucks says your new VP hits the ground before he can get another punch in."
    Rage snorts his reply and puffs his chest out. I peer up at him with narrowed eyes. He takes note of me immediately but doesn't soften in my presence. With his eyes locked on mine and words meant more for me than the man he's addressing, Rage says, "If he can't handle fresh meat, then he hasn't earned the right to wear the patch." I find myself harboring a not-so-deep-seated hatred for Jim's father. No wonder Jim doesn't know how to show Ryan much softness--he sure as hell didn't get any from his own father. Sylvia's confession rings in my head as my mouth runs away with me.
    "If your VP can't hack it, maybe his president can't either," I say and push my way through the crowd before Rage can show me how he got his nickname. I know he's a mean old bastard, and I've seen enough of him to know better than to ever mouth off to him again.
    "Hey, Psycho," a familiar voice shouts from nearby. My head shoots up as I make it to