Chapter 17
Ripper
I rubbed at the center of my chest, missing a piece of myself.
“Lawrence, front and center,” my captain said.
***
Skype Instant Message – She’s living in a dorm with a cool chick.
Year Two - Age 25
I huddled in front of the sandbags with my M4 in my hands, waited a beat, and then I was up, squeezing the trigger at the insurgents who broke the perimeter.
Four hours later, I was finally seeing a medic about a graze I had on my right arm.
My captain walked in then and gestured to five men at his back: “This is him.”
***
Skype Instant Message – *photo of Creedence in her cap and gown*
Skype Instant Message – She graduated with honors.
***
Skype Instant Message – She misses you. She stopped crying herself to sleep last week.
Year Three - Age 26
“Last mission was hard. Need you to pull another one,” my captain said.
I nodded.
I tapped my lucky charm in my ACUs.
***
Skype Instant Message – Some fucker asked her out.
I growled.
Skype Instant Message – She told him she was taken.
Too fucking right.
***
“Need you for another mission,” my Captain said.
I was ready.
I brought my lucky charm out and pressed a kiss to it.
***
“Got another one for your team,” my Captain said.
He handed me the folder.
That night, I opened my pocket and pulled out that tattered picture of us on the alcove Novalie had taken.
Then I pressed a kiss to it, pocketed it, gathered up my gear, and headed out.
***
Skype Instant Message – Garret and me are trying to get her to move from the apartment she’s in. It’s seedy as fuck.
***
“It’s hotter than Satan’s tit out here,” Blaze griped.
Piston snorted, “And how would you know how hot it is?”
“Because he likes the way his neighbor’s tits fit in his mouth,” Kink responded.
“My last neighbor was a sixty-seven-year-old woman,” Blaze said.
Kink looked at him and lifted a brow, “And? Bet she needed the lovin’. Also, bet she can show you a thing or two.”
And there went Kink, proving how he got his handle.
Piston looked at me and lifted a brow, “You got a comment, Ripper?”
I shook my head, “Nope. I’m a southern boy. Live for this.”
I pulled my lucky charm out of my pocket, kissed it, and put it back.
“What’s that?” Blaze asked.
I shot him a look and muttered, “My future.”
***
Then... a week.
One week of needing her more than I needed air to breathe.
A week spent being a prisoner of war.
And when I saw our captain, I kicked Piston’s foot and said, “Took them long enough.”
Year Four - Age 27
“Fuck me, the intel is fucking wrong,” Blaze said into the mic.
I nodded, pressed my comms link, and whispered, “Been wrong before.”
Kink spoke then, “Fuck ‘em.”
Piston snorted into his mic, “Fuck ‘em indeed.”
“Fuck ‘em indeed. Boys, let’s bring on the rain,” I said.
And we did.
Her face was on my mind the entire time, guiding me home.
***
Sadly... we should have listened to Blaze.
None of us knew the path for our extraction was littered with IEDs.
Year Five - Age 28
Five months of physical therapy.
One hundred and fifty-two nights of waking up in a cold sweat.
One hundred and fifty-two days of keeping one pair of eyes at the forefront of my mind.
One hundred and fifty-three days down, knowing the world lost four incredible people.
And an umpteen number of days left of this life I was supposed to live.
***
They handed me my discharge papers.
I loaded my things in my truck and headed home.
***
I parked my truck outside her apartment, where she’d just moved after securing her job forty-five minutes from the clubhouse.
Year Six - Age 29
I wasn’t a man known for his good intentions.
What I was known for... was not giving a fuck about anyone or anything.
Or so everyone knew.
Four floors up.
Fourth window to the right, I breathed in and out four times, and then the light flicked on.
She was home.
She was safe.
Now, it was time for me to go to work.
***
Storm
I sat back in my chair; at the same time, a phone rang.
Ripper leaned back, checked the caller, then hit a button and answered the call, “Okay?”
We all watched as Ripper listened to the caller. Then he said one word, “Stay.”
And with that, he hung up the phone, stood up, and without another word, prowled to the door, opened it, and headed into the main room of the clubhouse.
I stood up and followed him, “Ripper.”
He didn’t stop.
He was almost to the front door.
His heavy footsteps sounded like thunder.
“Broth...” I started to say but was stopped by the one name that fell from his mouth.
He stopped, looked over his shoulder and said, “Creedence.”
With that girl’s name out of his mouth, I knew I needed to either have a hole waiting for whoever messed with Cree, or I needed to have our lawyer waiting at the jail. “What do you need?”
He growled, “Some little punk-ass bitch slashed her fucking tires.”
Well, fuck.
Wes, one of the new prospects who showed a lot of potential, asked, “Uh, should I ride with him?”
“Do you want him to beat your face into a bloody pulp?” I asked.
“Yeah, I think I’ll stay here. If that’s alright with you?” he said as he sat back down.
“Comes to Ripper, if it involves a young woman named Cree, you leave him the fuck alone. You don’t look at her. You don’t talk to her.”
Clip stood then and followed Ripper out the door.
Ripper wouldn’t do that to Clip, because he knew that one woman held all of Clip’s attention.
Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped themselves around me, and before I could rip whoever it was a new asshole, I inhaled and caught my woman’s scent. Caramel, vanilla, and sandalwood, fuck, but I loved that mixture on her skin.
“Where’s Ripper going?” Lena asked.
“Someone slashed Cree’s tires,” I told her as I grabbed her left hand, brought it to my mouth, and pressed a kiss on her wedding rings.
“Lord help whoever did it. Because they will be meeting him.” She said.
That was the God’s honest truth.
Literally.
Ripper prowled into the clubhouse three hours later with a body thrown over his shoulder.
The body had long blond hair trailing over his back.
At the same time, Clip followed in his wake.
I whistled, getting everyone’s attention, “If you ain’t a patched brother, get the fuck out.”
Year Seven - Age 30
I saw her on the security feed.
Stay in your car, baby. I’m not ready.
Fucking hell, please.
Then I let out a breath when she drove past.
I left a note on her kitchen island while she was at work.
“I’m not ready. I’m trying. – R.”
***
I beat the brakes off the man who was trafficking young kids.
And then, I did what I did best... I mangled his body and left his throat lying beside him for the buzzards to enjoy.
I felt like I was raging out of control.
I knew.
I knew what I had to do.
I got out of bed, dressed, and headed out to my bike.
Starting her up, I pulled out of the clubhouse and headed home.
Year Eight - Age 31
With my key that no one knew I had, I used it to unlock her door.
That was a hell of a lot easier than relying on the lockpick I’d been using.
And with footfalls as soft as I could make them, I walked to her bedroom.
Seeing her lying there, I felt the calm I had been chasing start to envelop me.
Sitting in the chair at the foot of her bed, I let out a breath and then dragged one in deeply.
Her scent washed through me.
Jasmine.
My fucking kryptonite.
Year Nine - Age 32
For the past four years, I had done somewhat of a ritual.
And if I deviated from that ritual... I didn’t fucking sleep.
Not until I knew she was safe.
***
And that night, I slept out in my truck. When I woke up the next morning, that nightmare I’d had every night for the past twelve fucking years... the one where it was her in my sister’s place... was gone.
The first smile I’ve smiled since that night I fully made her mine.
And yeah, she was right. That night should have happened.
And I was glad as fuck it did.
‘Cause it was memories of that night that got me through a week of being a prisoner of war on top of everything else I’d been through.