Spartan (Forsaken Sons MC Book 1) Read online

  Spartan

  Forsaken Sons MC

  Book One

  Jessica Joy

  Spartan

  Copyright 2020

  Jessica Joy

  All rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, please delete it and purchase your own copy from an authorized retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Adult Content Warning: For ages 18 years old and older due to graphic sexual content, explicit language, and violence.

  Blurb

  Tessa only ever wanted her happily ever after. The husband, the 2.5 kids, and the white picket fence. That's what everyone is supposed to want, right? That was until her dream turned into a nightmare that left her with no choice but to take her newborn son and disappear.

  Sawyer wanted to run. Slowing down meant everything could catch up. The past he wanted to forget, the demons he was fighting so hard to leave behind. But when he needs a change, the last thing he expects is to get knocked on his ass by the single mother across the street.

  As the past catches up with both of them, it forces them to face their demons and the devil himself to outlast, overcome, and maybe find the forever they never dreamed they could have.

  Acknowledgments

  Cover Design: GreenLizard Designs

  Cover Model: Gera Rodrigues

  Cover Photographer: Ric Rodrigues

  Content/Developmental Editing: Rogue Readers

  Proofreading: Alyssa Rivera @ Rogue Readers, LLC

  Alpha Reader: Jennifer Ritch,

  Beta Readers: Jenna Sage & Brittany Franks

  Special thanks to Chris Geisler, Emily Anderson, Melissa Rivera, Brittany Franks, Jenna Sage, Jennifer Ritch, Alyssa Rivera.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Special Thanks

  About the Author

  To Joyce

  For always believing in my ramblings and never trying to silence my voice

  Prologue

  Everything hurts.

  My fingers flex in the carpet and every muscle screams in protest as I push up on to my knees.

  God I hurt.

  I can’t catch my breath. Panting, each breath sends pain shooting through my ribs. Trembling, I drag my hand across my face and swipe at my eyes, wiping away a sticky substance. My head pounds and I wince against the harsh light that’s stabbing into my eyes. Joints creak and muscles ache as I crawl to the nearest wall and claw myself up, crying out in agony from the effort. The wall is cool against my forehead, a soothing balm to the fiery pain lancing through my body. In. Out. In. Out. I attempt to slow my panting and still my racing heart. As my body stills, I raise my head and a mark on the wall draws my attention.

  The walls in here aren’t red... Are they?

  Shaking, I slap at the hair sticking to my face, pain radiates across my scalp and my palms come away damp.

  Why am I wet?

  I stare in bewilderment at the glistening dark crimson coating my fingers. Swaying, I struggle to clear the fog clouding my thoughts and I take in my surroundings. Bedroom, I’m in the bedroom; but it feels foreign and detached. Nothing makes sense; why can’t I remember how I got here? The thoughts just keep slipping away before I can get ahold of them. The lamp laying on its side on the nightstand confuses me.

  Ouch, that bulb is bright.

  The sickly-sweet stink of amber and musk assaults my senses, causing the pounding in my skull to deepen. Fighting the confusion, one thought breaks through the haze. It’s silent. Why is it so quiet? I can’t remember the last time it was this quiet…

  Oh god… Evan!

  My breathing increases and my mind races as panic creeps up my spine. Stumbling down the hall to the nursery, I rush to the crib and look inside. A choked sob escapes when I see a small bundle of fleece in the far corner. Evan is curled up on his side, his favorite turtle Lovie clutched in his tiny fist against his cheek. He isn’t moving but I can see the soft rise and fall of his little chest as he sleeps. There are streaks on his plump, rosy cheeks from the dried tears. He must have cried himself to sleep. Without waking him, I check my baby over, making sure he’s okay before letting myself sink to the floor. Curling into myself, silent sobs wrack through me before I manage to draw a stuttering breath.

  Oh shit, that hurts. I need to stop doing that.

  As the events of the evening start coming back to me, I choke off the tears. There isn’t time for wallowing in self-pity. I don’t have a choice anymore.

  I have to leave. I have to disappear.

  Chapter 1

  Sawyer

  Who the fuck is knocking on my god damn door!? The last thing I need today is someone trying to make me join the land of the living. Not gonna fucking happen. I don’t want to open my eyes; I just want to sleep the entire fucking day away. The knocking stops and I try to sink back into the sweet, QUIET, slumber. Then whoever it is starts another round on my door. I let out a groan as I roll over to my stomach, slapping the pillow on my head.

  The knocking turns to pounding and I chuck the pillow at the door out of reflex. This is why I don’t stay at the compound and exactly why I have my own place away from everyone. None of these fuckers can get up in my business when I’m at my place. The asshole on the other side of the door keeps up the pounding and starts shouting my name. I managed to croak out “fuck off” around the cotton and sleep filling my throat. The pounding stops. Maybe I scared the prick away… SLAM, SLAM, SLAM. Jesus, that prick is gonna break the fuckin’ door.

  He starts shouting again, “SAWYER, WAKE. THE. FUCK. UP.”

  That’s it. I’m putting a bullet between his eyes.

  Reaching toward my nightstand for my gun there is a loud crack as the jamb gives way and the door smashes against the wall. The blanket is ripped off me and cast aside.

  Fuck, this again?

  “Get yer arse up Sawyer. No way in hell are ye rotting away in here today. Ye’ve two minutes to get yer arse to the common room; and put some fuckin’ pants on this time. In three minutes, I’m coming back in here with me pail if ye’re not!” Gage, the damn Judas, demands before he slaps my ass and leaves the room, slamming the busted door behind him.

  “Mother-Fucking Fuckhead Asshole,” I grumble, rolling up to sit on the edge of the
bed. Facing the light of day was not on my to-do list today, but knowing Gage, he’ll hold to his threat and come back with that damn ice bucket. “Bog-trodding paddy fucking bitch…”

  Stumbling to the bathroom, careening off the door frame, I manage to prop myself over the toilet to empty out. Sliding my hand along the wall I look for my strewn about clothes. Wrestling with my shirt I realize it’s inside out, “God fucking dammit.” Once I’m mildly presentable, I trudge out of my room and down the hall to the common room of the Forsaken Sons compound.

  The compound is a renovated railroad roundhouse. One end of the building has a massive common room occupying part of the space with a couple couches, a pool table, and an appropriately (obscenely) large TV hanging on one wall. Along the far wall of the common room is a long bar, dozens of bottles in front of an honest to god western saloon mirror along the back and stools lining the front. There are tables and chairs scattered around the room made from wood barrels, empty wire spools, oil drums, and other assorted “manly” materials. Most of the Brothers live here at the compound, double bunking in the barracks back the way I just came since most of us fuckers don’t have families to tie us down. You can throw an empty can, spit some chew or flick a cig in any direction and hit one of us dumbasses in the head. Being around people is something I need almost everyday, keeps me moving along, but today is the one day in a year when it’s a fucking curse.

  I don’t want to see anyone today. I don’t want to do anything. It’s the one day that I want to pass unmarked, uneventful, and if I had my way, un-fucking-conscious. I make my way through the common room toward a stool at the end of the bar, slumping onto it, pointing down at the bar top with a finger. Kiki, the resident bartender, reaches into the well for a Grain Belt but I wave her off, “Naw Keek, going hard,” I grumble.

  “It’s ten in the morning Sawyer,” she says, shooting me a look.

  “Do I judge you for your fuckin’ life choices little girl?”

  “Jesus, who the fuck pissed in your cornflakes?” she asks, setting a generous pour of amber liquid in front of me, neat of course. She knows what I want. With a withering look at her I throw back the bourbon, slamming the glass down on the bar top and motioning for another.

  “Well, aren’t you just a ray of fuckin’ sunshine. Pour your own damn drinks ya sodden heap of grump,” she snaps, setting the bottle in front of me as she saunters off down the bar. Even in my fuzzy, hungover, pissy mindset I can’t help but watch her ass and admire; boy does she know how to walk. Wait, I wanna be mad at the world today; oh yeah, the bottle. I pour another glass for myself and shoot it down, letting the burn of the bourbon numb the ache building in my chest.

  Two years, it’s been two fucking years; still feels like just yesterday. I still see those last moments every time I close my eyes; I feel that day running ice cold through my veins. Maybe one day I’ll be able to sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing, checking every dark place in the room while straining to hear any noises. That morning, in that shithole apartment in New Jersey... I fucking hate New Jersey. I tried to hold it together after, to move on, but there’s no moving on from something so profound it knocks your world off its axis and rips your heart from your chest, and declares the day ‘the worst of my life.’ So, I ran from that shit, from that evil place, and those evil things. I pulled the chicken shit move and ran; l ran from the pain, from the heartache, from the accountability to anyone and everyone, including myself. I packed my shit, left my patch and a note for my prez, left my club and disappeared into the wind. I got on my bike and just rode west like a goddamn cowboy trying to find his sunset. I didn’t know where I was going, I just kept hearing my high school English teacher, “Go West, Young Man.” Sound advice for an old bat. I knew I needed to put Jersey in my rear view and never look back. I spent six months on the road, always feeling like the past was catching up, like I could never really outrun everything. I probably should have realized sooner that I was running from my own damn demons.

  I don’t know what brought me this far north, it’s fuckin’ cold in this god forsaken tundra. I remember seeing a travel brochure with a picture of the fall leaves in Duluth and decided, why the fuck not, looks nice enough. They don’t fucking put the icicles longer than your arm on the post cards. I turned my bike north and rolled into town as fall was losing it’s fight with winter. I ended up drunk in some dive bar called Willies with an anthropomorphic penis as the mascot. I had been nursing a Heineken and wondering what the fuck I was going to do if I got snowed in with my bike when the bartender slid a glass of bourbon in front of me. I looked up at him in question and he raised a glass and inclined his head toward me.

  “Like the bike.”

  I grabbed the glass and took a drink. Mmmm, Knob Creek, fancy stuff for a shithole like this. Good man. “What makes ya think it’s mine?”

  “There’re only two men who’d ride a bike like that ‘round here, and I know both of em, so it’s gotta be you laddie,” I laugh and toast my glass to the man.

  I ended up closing down the bar that night. Gage, the bartender, kept feeding me free drinks and by the end of the night I didn’t know my own name. He called me a cab and set me up at some no-tell motel, saying I could pick my bike up tomorrow from his boss’s place. My sorry ass was too drunk to put up much of a fight, so I went along with the plan.

  I showed up at the gates of the compound just before noon the next day. When Gage came out, he said there was a party and I should come meet the Brothers. Last night had just worn off so I saw no problem in starting another round of fun, so I stayed.

  I met King, the President of the Forsaken Sons, that night along with the rest of the Brothers; they rekindled something within me that I thought was lost forever. Being back in the compound and around the Brothers, I realized just how much I had lost while out on the road. I missed having Brothers to bullshit with instead of “single serving” strangers at a bar. The connection, the shared sense of community; I missed having a family, especially after New Jersey.

  I showed up for a party and lo-and-behold, I ended up joining that damn Club. I lived through my year as a prospect and got my patch. Now here I am eighteen months in, considering putting a bullet in one of my Brothers’ heads if he doesn’t shut the fuck up… I guess I’m really part of the family now.

  Speaking of the fucking devil, Gage’s chipper ass plops down on the barstool next to me as I pour another drink for myself and I can feel his goddamn fucking smile burning into the side of my face. No way in hell am I giving the bastard the satisfaction of engaging in this bullshit or sharing my bottle. He got me out of the room, I’ve paid my dues to him this fine day. All I want is to be alone and wallow in my own misery goddamnit.

  “Dammit man, I was looking forward to drowning yer arse. Didn’t think ye would get yer shit together today,” he says, his thick Irish brogue grating on my hungover and frayed nerves as he reaches for my bottle.

  “Fuck off” I snarl, slapping his hairy paw away.

  “I know, today’s shit Brother- talk to me,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  “Not looking for a therapy session either,” I mumble into my glass, brushing him away again.

  “Fine. Pass me the bottle then, and I’ll get tits up drunk with ya. Not gonna let ye drink alone ye bastard,” he reaches for the bottle of bourbon again and I snatch it away, curling around it and giving him my back.

  “Jaysus Sawyer. It’s not a fuckin’ babe’s bottle,” he laughs, smacking me upside the head. I growl and slam the bottle back on the bar, righting myself on the stool.

  “Fuck off ya leprechaun.”

  “Get yer sorry arse up Sawyer. Not letting ye drown this shit in a bottle, no matter how magically delicious ya find it.”

  “Not asking permission mom,” I grind out, throwing back another shot just to spite him.

  “I get it laddie, but last year it took ye almost a fuckin’ month to get yer shit straight. We’ve got a run n
ext week and I ain’t picking up yer slack.”

  “Gee, thanks fucker.” I’ve had enough of his shit, Road Captain or not, I don’t need him questioning my ability to do my job on top of everything else. He doesn’t want to watch me drink myself into oblivion? Fine. He doesn’t have to watch. I push up from my seat and stalk toward the front door. Someone calls my name, but I don’t even bother to look and just flip the bird to the room pushing through the main doors and into the cold early April wind. It’s still before noon and there’s entirely too much day left for my liking. Patting my pockets, I find my keys and hop on my bike. Picking my way through the parking lot, I make my way through the gates of the compound and I open up the throttle. Speed out of our little town and down toward the city in search of a bar that won’t ask so many fuckin’ questions.

  After riding for a while, I roll up to a shit hole dive bar on the north end of the city. It’s a dilapidated A frame hunting lodge that hasn’t been kept up in the last 20 years at least. The parking lot is more pothole than asphalt and the windows are so caked with grime or advertisements I can hardly make out the flickering ‘OPEN’ neon sign. It looks like there was once a sign by the door proclaiming the name of this quaint little shithole, but it’s long gone judging by the rusted mounts and broken masonry of the wall. If there is a place more broken and forgotten around here, I’ll be damned if I can find it; should suit me just fine. Dragging my ass inside, not a single head moves to note my passage to the cracked and busted wooden barstool at the end of the bar that creaks ominously as I settle into it. The crustiest, old sailor, salty dog barkeep looks up from his paper showing his unkempt gray hair and full on ZZTop beard. “Whatcha want?” he pushes out in a grunt.