Blood & Bones: Rook
Every one of his brothers in the Blood Fury MC has them.
What he's done in his past. What he's involved in currently. What he still needs to do.
Even worse, what he's tempted to do.
With someone no one expects.
Least of all him.
But resisting her is impossible, no matter how much he tries.
Problem is, his club's on the verge of war, so she's either with the Fury or against them.
If she's against them, she's against them all.
Which will turn the thin line into an insurmountable wall dividing them forever.
Note: Blood & Bones: Rook is the seventh book in the Blood Fury MC series and is an enemies-to-lovers romance. As always, this book has no cheating, no cliffhanger and has an HEA. It's recommended to read this series in order.
Release date: May 1, 2021
Publisher: Double-J Romance, Inc.
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Blood & Bones: Rook
Jeanne St. James
When life kicks you in the balls and drops you to your knees…
Randy sat behind the wheel of the 1974 Pontiac LeMans and stared through the windshield. The neighborhood was sketchy as shit.
While he didn’t expect a gated, luxury community, the shit-hole house surprised him.
He’d found the Baltimore address along with her name in scratchy handwriting on the back of a torn envelope buried deep in his father’s dresser drawer. Under a loaded .40 caliber handgun with the serial number ground off and a full box of ammo.
Randy wondered why those three things were kept in the same spot. Was Dutch planning on coming down here for a final reunion? Did he hate the woman that much?
He wouldn’t be surprised if his father did.
They weren’t allowed to speak her name in their house. Not since the day she walked out.
That was three years ago. When he was twelve and his brother Chris was eight.
Three damn years.
Randy wondered if Dutch knew where she was all that damn time and never told them. Knowing his asshole father, he probably fucking did.
From where Randy had parked the piece of shit Pontiac at the curb, he twisted his head and studied the duplex through the passenger-side window. He had no doubt which one Bebe lived in.
The one with the rebel flag covering the front window.
Randy’s lips flattened. Figures.
One-by-one, he peeled his fingers off the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. He needed to get the hell out of the vehicle and go up to the door. He didn’t drive all this way for nothing.
He didn’t risk stealing the LeMans only for shits and giggles.
He was here now. He was doing this.
He was here to find out why.
Why a mother would just up and leave her sons. Never see them again. Never talk to them again.
Forget they ever existed.
He pulled a deep breath in through his nose, held it and blew it out his mouth.
The driver’s door creaked loudly as he forced it open. He had to slam it shut twice to get it to latch closed.
“Piece of fuckin’ shit,” he muttered, giving the door a good kick. He should’ve stolen a Corvette or something. However, this vehicle had been easy to pinch and he could start it with a screwdriver. It was why he picked it.
Plus, it wasn’t flashy. Like a Corvette.
His goal was to get from Manning Grove to Baltimore and back without getting caught.
By his father or the pigs.
He rounded the front of the Pontiac sedan, dodged the garbage bags piled at the curb, strode over the cracked concrete sidewalk and up the porch steps. The storm door that used to hang on her side of the duplex now leaned against the siding. The screen was busted out like someone had punched it and the wood frame was splintered.
He hesitated for the few seconds it took him to take another deep breath before using the side of his fist to beat on the wood door with the peeling paint and no window or peephole. She would have no clue who was standing on the other side.
She would either answer it or she wouldn’t.
“Who the fuck is it?” came from the bowels of the house.
If he answered that question, she might not open the door. Instead, he pounded again. This time harder and louder.
“God-fuckin-damnit! Keep your fuckin’ pants on!”
A lock clicked and the door abruptly swung open with an ear-piercing creak.
And there she was. The woman who had pushed him out of her snatch a little over fifteen years ago.
His upper lip curled as he took her in.
Her dark blonde stringy hair had three inches of solid gray roots. She wore frayed Daisy Dukes that showed way too much skin for her age or body size. Her cottage-cheese thighs squeezing out of the bottom of the denim shorts reminded him of a popped zit.
She had on a threadbare T-shirt that told people to “Get Fucked.” The neckline had been cut out and sliced down the chest to show off her tits. Ones not contained by any bra.
As she stared at him, she squinted one dull blue eye when the smoke from the Pall Mall swirled into it.
She looked like hell. Way worse than what he remembered.
When both eyes narrowed on him, she yanked the cigarette from her mouth. Probably so it wouldn’t tumble from her lips when they gaped open at the sight of him on her front porch.
“Which one are you?”
What a cunt.
Her gaze roamed from the top of his head down to his toes, then back up before she answered her own question. “Randy.”
Ding, ding, ding. You won the “Mom of the Year” award for recognizin’ your first-born son.
“Got tall,” she muttered.
“Yeah, no longer twelve.”
“What you doin’ here?”
Great to see you, too, Mom. He jerked up one shoulder. “Just in the neighborhood.”
She peeked her head out the door and peered around. “Yeah? You know someone ‘round here?”
Holy shitballs. “Yeah, I used to. Gonna let me in?”
It would be nice to at least get the chance to drain his snake since he only stopped once to piss in the woods during the four-hour drive.
She took another long drag on her Pall Mall, blew it out the door over his head and stepped back. She jerked her head toward the darker interior.
He guessed that was as good of an invite as he’d get.
She closed the door behind him, turned and raked her gaze over him again. “Kinda look like your father.”
“You mean Dutch?”
Hopefully she wasn’t going to surprise him by naming someone else instead.
When she ignored his question, he glanced around the tiny living room. He thought she left for bigger and better things. Looking around her place, it was clear she’d missed that mark. By a mile.
More like a hundred miles.
The house she gave up in Manning Grove might not be some big, fancy mansion, but it was a hell of a lot better than this rat trap.
The place was filthy. Worse, it stunk.
Overflowing ashtrays were scattered around the room. Empty beer cans littered every table. The couch had bare patches on the ass-indented cushions and what fabric remained was stained.
He had no idea what color the carpet should be.
He didn’t care, either.
Thank fuck she hadn’t taken him and Chris with her. He’d deal with Dutch being a dick any day over this hell hole.
After seeing what he saw, he decided he’d rather pee in the woods once he left Baltimore. He might catch crabs by using her bathroom.
“How the fuck d’you get here?” She yanked a corner of the rebel flag away from the window. The cigarette hanging from between two fingers came close to touching the dirty fabric that covered the equally dirty window. He didn’t warn her since it would be for the best if this place burned to the ground.
“Your asshole father ain’t here, is he?” She peered out, and jerked her chin up at the LeMans. “Whose car is that?”
She let the flag drop and turned on him. “You ain’t old enough to own a car.” Her brow furrowed and she used a cracked, dirty fingernail to scratch the corner of her mouth, then took another long drag on her cigarette. The ash hanging off the end had to now be an inch long. “You even old enough to drive?”
“You don’t know?”
She didn’t answer, which was his answer. She didn’t even know how old her sons were anymore. Or didn’t care. Most likely never did.
She’d forgotten about them both the second she walked out their front door with her shit packed in garbage bags.
The ash finally fell off the end of the Pall Mall and landed at Bebe’s slipper-covered feet. Of course, she paid it no mind.
His mother should’ve stuffed herself into one of those black garbage bags because she was absolute trash, too. She hadn’t been like this when she was with Dutch. She hadn’t been mother of the year material then, either, but from what Randy remembered, Dutch always rode her ass about taking care of the house and his sons. He would also get on her about her appearance. Randy didn’t think she listened to his dad, but the way she had spiraled down since leaving proved he was wrong.
Dutch and Bebe would get into some nasty fights. Both Randy and his brother had learned some really good curse words that way. It wasn’t the only thing they learned during their spats. Their parents would fight, sometimes even come to blows, then fuck through their anger. Didn’t matter where they were at the time.
Kitchen, living room, bedroom... Even on the front porch one night when she locked Dutch out of the house, accusing him of banging some other woman.
He made her come out of the house and get on her knees to sniff his dick to prove he hadn’t, then Dutch bent her right over the porch railing. It had been rough, loud and angry for both of them. It had been like two snarling tom cats fighting.
He and Chris, who were nine and five at the time, watched from the front window while the neighbors watched from theirs.
When Dutch was done fucking her, he forced her to her knees and made her suck his dick clean. Then he locked her ass out of the house for being a bitch.
Someone had called the damn pigs and both of them ended up spending the night in jail to dry out and for a shitload of minor charges. One of the women from the club had come over to stay with them that night. She slept in their parents’ bed with one of Dutch’s club brothers and they made a racket, too. Lots of squeaky springs, headboard slamming and screams of “fuck me harder!”
“So, why you here, boy?”
He mentally shook away that memory. “Why does Dad have your address?”
She only stared at him with those dull, empty blue eyes.
He came here for fucking answers and he was going to get fucking answers. “Why does Dutch have your fuckin’ address since you left us all behind? Why would he need your fuckin’ address?” He was trying not to shout but, by the end, he was shouting.
That made Bebe scowl at him.
Too fucking bad.
“That ain’t your business, boy.”
“Don’t call me boy.”
“You’re my boy, I can call you what I want.”
“You gave up that right the second you walked out on us.”
She took one last drag on her cigarette and ground it out in a mountain of butts in the nearest overflowing ashtray.
“Dutch told you I walked out on you?” She glanced around, spotted an open pack of Pall Malls, slid another one out of the pack and tucked it between her lips.
“He didn’t have to tell us. We watched it, remember? You had me carry the garbage bags out to your fuckin’ car.”
“Shouldn’t be cursin’.”
“A little too late to try parentin’, Bebe.”
She frowned as she tried to light the cigarette with a Bic. When she couldn’t, she shook the almost empty disposable lighter as if that would magically fill it. “Still your mother, still older than you. I can knock you into next week if I want.”
She could try. Randy doubted she’d succeed.
“Want the truth?” she asked. After a few more flicks of the Bic, a half-assed flame stayed lit long enough for her to light her smoke.
“What I came here for.”
“Thought you knew someone in the neighborhood.”
Randy planted his hands on his hips, dropped his head and shook it. No wonder Dutch was always yelling at him for doing stupid shit. He got his lack of smarts from his birth receptacle.
“Your father forced me to leave.”
Randy’s head snapped up. “No, he didn’t.”
“The fuck he didn’t.”
His thumping heart was so loud he had to yell over it to hear himself. “You asked if I wanted the truth. I want the fuckin’ truth!”
“That’s the truth, boy.”
He frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“Ain’t for you to get.”
“I’m your fuckin’ son. I should know why you left.”
“I left because he paid me to.”
Randy’s pounding heart seized and his ears began to ring. “You’re lyin’. Why would he do that?”
“’Cause we fuckin’ hated each other. ‘Cause he forced me to have you two rug rats. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna be tied down to you brats. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna suck his cheating dick anymore. That’s why.”
He thought she left because she’d had enough of the club after all the shit that went down. The fighting, the killing, the—
“And ‘cause I got knocked up by Tinny.”
She did what?
He knew they weren’t faithful to each other. From the moment he could remember and understand it. He saw them both doing shit with other people. At the warehouse, at the house, in the garage. In their bed.
Randy glanced around the living room again for some signs of a young kid. “I got another brother?”
Bebe shook her head and plugged the cigarette between her lips again. “Fuck no.”
“A sister?” When she turned away, he asked, “What d’you do with him?” Or her. His half-brother or sister. Did she keep the new one after dumping the old ones?
“Used some of the scratch Dutch gave me to suck that leech outta me soon’s I could.”
Randy blinked as he watched his mother pick up open beer cans around the room and shake them. It took her a few tries, but she finally found one that sloshed and she chugged the remainder down.
She kept her back to him when she admitted, “Woulda done that with you two if he woulda let me.”
Randy was having a hard time breathing. It wasn’t from the stink in the house or the heavy cloud of cigarette smoke, but the fact the woman standing in front of him was supposed to be his mother. She’d never been one. Not once that he could remember. So anything she said shouldn’t surprise him.
It still did.
He never should’ve come here.
She was a piece of shit Dutch scraped off his boot for good reason.
Dutch might not be perfect but at least he wanted his sons. He took care of them. Randy just wished he would’ve picked a better cum dumpster to grow his sperm in. Not the cunt on the hunt for another can with a backwash of beer.
“You want the truth? Here’s the hard truth, kid. He pays me to stay away.”
Pays? As in currently pays? No fucking way. “You’re lyin’.”
“Boy, I ain’t lyin’. Ask him. He’s stupid enough to think I’d want visitation or custody of you and... and the other one.” She laughed. “I never did but pretended to and every time I threaten to hire a lawyer, he sends me more fuckin’ dough.”
“You’re blackmailin’ him?”
Bebe shrugged. “I see it as compensation for giving the bastard the two boys he wanted. And ruining my tight pussy when your big heads stretched it. The other one ripped me damn near in half.”
“The sons you never wanted.”
“You know what kids are?”
“Blood,” Randy muttered. At least that was what they should be.
“Parasites who suck your blood. Suck the fuckin’ life right outta you. And after I gave him the sons he demanded, he still stuck his dick in our whore of a house mouse.”
“You fucked Tin Man!” he screamed, the heat from his fury burning his cheeks.
She most likely fucked a ton of other bikers. Whether from the Blood Fury MC or other clubs. She had no right to judge Dutch for fucking around when she had done the same damn thing.
“Now you know why I left.”
“You woulda stayed if he hadn’t paid you off?”
Bebe shrugged and flicked the growing ash of her Pall Mall near an ashtray but totally missed. “Why not? Had a roof over my head, food in my belly and plenty of dick to choose from.”
Not one of those things she listed included her own flesh and blood.
Randy pressed his lips together and nodded. More to himself than her. Yeah, she didn’t leave because she was scared of the shit going down with the Fury, she left because she was a greedy, selfish cunt. And the only way Dutch could get her to leave him was to pay her to do so.
She did that willingly and without a fight.
Bebe got what she wanted.
Dutch got what he wanted.
And two kids got confused. As well as lied to.
“You got any cash, boy? I’m outta beer.”
He lifted his head and stared at the woman who used to be his mother.
He dug into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled out a quarter and flipped it at her.
Bebe watched as it fell to the floor at her slippered feet. “Think that’s funny?”
“You hear me laughin’?”
Yeah, maybe it was good he came. Got the truth. He could now put the woman out of his head and never think about her again. Maybe tell Chris she was dead.
Because that was what she was. Dead to him. Dead to his younger brother.
“Better take that fuckin’ quarter, ‘cause that’s the last cent you’re gonna get from a Dietrich. Tellin’ Dutch to never give you a fuckin’ dime again. Gonna tell him your threats are empty. Also gonna tell him to shoot you right between the fuckin’ eyes if you ever show the fuck up in Manning Grove again. You hear me, you worthless slit?”
Her mouth got tight and her fingers curled into a fist like she was thinking about belting him one. “You don’t speak to your mother like that.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Wouldn’t, if I had one.”
He was done.
With this shit-hole.
With all of it.
He spun on his boot, jogged out the door, down the porch steps and didn’t stop moving until he was in the LeMans and headed north out of Maryland.
He didn’t stop until he was forced to.
By the red and blue flashing lights behind him.
He had no choice but to pull over since the Pontiac piece-of-shit would never outrun the souped-up Crown Vics the state pigs drove. Maybe he should’ve taken the back roads all the way home instead of the interstate.
Too late now.
He slammed his palm against the steering wheel and muttered a curse under his breath as the uniformed pig approached the back of the LeMans with one hand already resting on the butt of his gun.
Randy didn’t have to roll down the window since it was already open. The LeMans didn’t have air conditioning and, being late afternoon in the middle of August, it was ball-sweating hot outside.
“How you doing, sir?” the pig oinked.
Sir. Randy’s tight jaw shifted.
“Need your license, registration and insurance. Assuming you have all that even though the registration plate seems to be missing.”
Randy stared straight ahead, waiting. His fury from his used-to-be mother still bubbling like lava in his gut. Now he had to deal with a pig of a different kind.
“Must have lost the key, too, since I see you’ve made your own with a screwdriver. Do I even need to run the VIN to see if it’s stolen?”
“Do whatever gets you off.”
The pig leaned closer to the window, tilting his head just slightly. “Sorry, I think I missed that.”
Randy turned his head slowly and stared straight up at the pig who wore one of those stupid-ass hats on his head with the black strap across his double-chin. Dumb fucks didn’t even know how to wear a hat right.
This time Randy repeated it slowly, loudly and in very clear English. “Said do whatever the fuck gets you off.”
“Huh. Guess my ears don’t need cleaned. I heard you right the first time.”
“Yeah, you ain’t deaf, just dumb.”
The Trooper slid his sunglasses down his nose far enough to peer over them. “How old are you, kid?”
“Eighteen,” he lied.
“Must have a glandular problem, then.”
Randy grabbed his crotch. “Had no problem fuckin’ your mom’s hairy snatch. She even begged me for more.”
“Why don’t you step out of the car.”
“Are you askin’?”
“Did I make it sound like I was?”
“Did your sister tell you I throat-fucked her ‘til she gagged and swallowed my hot, salty cum?”
A hand reached into the driver’s side window so quickly, Randy didn’t have time to dodge it. Fingers snatched the collar of his T-shirt, while the pig’s other hand grabbed his neck, and he was yanked bodily through the window. He landed hard on the searing hot berm of the road.
After registering the pain, his first thought was that vehicles were driving at a high rate of speed not that many feet from his exposed melon.
As he tried to get up, a boot on his back shoved him back down.
“I was wrong. I do think I need my ears cleaned because I couldn’t have possibly heard what I did.”
Randy spit a little bit of blood out onto the blacktop in front of him. “Nah. You heard me right. Fucked your mom, fucked your sister, then I blew my load up your daughter’s tight ass. It was sloppy seconds, though, you musta gave her the first load.”
The boot on his back turned to a knee and the pig’s crushing weight made it hard to breathe.
Randy heard a clicking sound before feeling the press of a metal rod to the back of his neck. One of those expandable metal sticks that five-o carried. The one they loved to beat innocent people with. Fuckers.
“Good thing you’re eighteen. Otherwise, you’d end up in juvie for grand theft, instead. They’ll like fresh meat like you in prison. Tight hole. Sweet, young mouth. Just enough hair around your asshole so Bubba can pretend it’s a virgin pussy. Hope you like big, black dick.”
“Know your wife loves it,” were the last words he recalled saying.
He didn’t remember anything after that.
Not for a long time.
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