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

him, not me. Asshole didn't even wait until the stick turned blue to cut bait. Maybe it was less about surprise that a man could have a kid with somebody he can't remember--not that it matters since she's dead--but more that Jim, my friend, a guy I thought was a decent person, couldn't remember a woman who'd supposedly told him she was having his baby.
    "Men. Fucking pigs--the whole lot of 'em," I walk back into the bedroom, muttering to myself, with the garbage bag in hand and contemplate whether or not to toss the pile of dirty clothes from the floor into the bag. My grandpa had a rule about that shit growing up--you put your clothes away. They end up on his floor and he'd chuck 'em. Didn't matter what they were. It's tempting, but I have enough shit to work out with Jim to add that infraction to the list.
    "What's wrong, momma?" Jim's deep voice sounds curious, not worried. But I'm screaming from the shock of it. I thought I was alone. My right hand grips the half-full trash bag as I swing it out in front of me. My left just flies around maniacally. Only when I come to the realization that I'm screaming like a banshee do I come to my damn senses and shut myself up. Comfortably stretched out on the bed is Jim. His jet-black hair is tucked behind his ears, and his gray eyes dance as he smiles up at me.
    "I hope you're better at defense when you're home with our boys."
    Our boys?
    I don't put a voice to the words that fly through my head, but I know damn well that my face is saying it for me. He has got to be fucking kidding me. I struggle every single day to be a decent mother to my own kid, and because Jim can't step up and be a fucking father, I've got Ryan, too. And he has the nerve to suggest I can't take care of those boys on my own? Hell no, and fuck that and fuck him, too.
    And because this man makes me lose my marbles and doesn't even have the courtesy to patronize me a little, I let out another scream and throw the bag of trash at him. I don't run, which is really what I should be doing right now. MC's are all the same. The club is about brotherhood, and the brotherhood is about pride and respect. Even though the guys try to turn the bullshit off with their women in private, they never fully do. Those patches and that ink becomes who they are, whether they like it or not. If I run, Jim would find me quickly, but at least I'd have a head start before I had to deal with the consequences of my actions. Because there are always consequences.
    Always.
    But I don't run, because I promised myself I'm going to do different, better even, than before. I told Ian that we're home now, and I meant it. So I dig my heels in, chest heaving, eyes narrowed, and I dare Jim to say a word to me.
    And because he's fucking stupid, he does.
    Roaring up off the bed, he's in my face in a matter of moments. With our height difference, he bends at his knees to meet my eyes. His stubbled jaw is locked in place. And we stand like this, each about ready to clock the other, in total silence. I'm pretty sure if I speak right now, it'll be to tell him to go fuck himself, and he'd probably be saying much the same thing to me.
    The last few weeks Jim's been even more distant, and the soft and flirty thing he does has been fewer and further between. I should be grateful that this is my biggest issue in life. My boy and I have a home, he even has a regular pediatrician, and he's fucking killing it in summer school. We read every night and work on our math and vocab words every afternoon. Ryan's doing good, too, but he's such a pain in the ass about doing his homework. At this point, I'm just glad I've managed to find ways to get him to do it. It was touch and go for a couple of weeks there, but once I figured out his vulnerabilities, I've been able to exploit them. Which is another thing--my kid has friends. As in plural, as in holy shit, my poor, sweet little boy plays with other kids, and he smiles and he fucking laughs. Jim doesn't get why that hits