Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) by JC Emery

for her baby.
    Speaking of people getting over their shit . . .
    It's been over a month since Jim was patched in as VP. He's always been an asshole, but lately it's like he's competing in the asshole Olympics. The first couple of weeks, he'd probably have won bronze. But after yesterday? That motherfucker is a damn gold medalist. He makes my head spin with his mood swings. One minute he's smiling and flirting with me and the next he's shutting down and acting cold as ice. I can't make sense of it, and I'm done trying to. We spent months volleying between snapping at one another and flirting. Then we kissed, and it was romantic and all this stuff that I never thought I'd get. But because my life's a bitch, I never really got it. We kissed, and Jim finished his fight with Grady--he won--and then he got absolutely shit-faced with the boys. And I had to leave to take care of our kids. I don't know what I expected, but I expected a hell of a lot more than I got. That night just confirmed what I already knew but stupidly let myself forget. Anything I might be feeling for Jim is just that--a feeling--and it can't be anything more.
    "Do what you want," Layla says with a coolness that's only there to mask her anger. Biting my tongue, I ignore her and walk away. Dumb bitch is pregnant but won't put the drugs away long enough to make sure her kid is born with half a brain. To say I hate her might be an understatement.
    I start with the pleasure palace--because it's my least favorite room--and work my way back toward the main room. I skip over Jim's room long enough to finish the rest of them before I finally buck up enough to take care of it. The pleasure palace is my least favorite because of the sheer volume of gross going on in there, but Jim's room is the most difficult. It doesn't look any different from the other rooms when I first walk into it, and it's no bigger than any other room, either. He's not messier than his brothers, and it's not like it gets cleaned so seldomly that I find moldy food or dead rodents under the bed. It's just . . . the room smells like him. And when I open the door, it's the first thing I'm hit with. His scent. This intoxicating mix of leather and tobacco just subtle enough that the smell of his soap overrides it. There are only two rooms in the clubhouse that have their own bathrooms, and Jim's is one of them. He's been using this small room and attached bath as his home for a few weeks now. I don't even know when it started, but he's just kind of stopped going to his house. And I've had Ryan with me and Ian.
    Sylvia knows, and she's offered to take Ryan on her good days. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't let her because I want him with me, not because I'm worried about how much she can handle right now. It doesn't really matter, though, because I think she knows. Ian is my son, and I love him in ways I don't have words for. My loving Ryan doesn't take away from that love--it only adds to it. When Ryan's around, I see my little boy, not the shell he was before we moved here, and for that alone I love that boy. But I also love his smile and his laugh. I love his heart and the way he seeks me out. I love the way he makes me feel needed and wanted and important. Ian's the only other person who's ever made me feel like this. So even though I'm tired and I want Jim to step up and be a damn parent, I also don't want to lose my boy. I don't relish the day I have to face the fact that Ryan isn't mine, and no amount of playing mommy is going to make up for that fact.
    Before I know it, Jim's bathroom is clean. None of the typical signs of life were on the floor or in his wastebasket. Signs of life being condom wrappers and random pieces of underwear. Jim chases me for months, acts like he's my friend, and then lets me clean up his fucking condom wrappers. When he first told me he can't remember Ryan's mother, I was surprised. Not that I remember a whole hell of a lot about Ian's father, but that's on