Unfinished Business: A Bastards of Boston Novel Read online

  Unfinished Business

  A Bastards of Boston Novel

  Carina Adams

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  What does THAT Mean?

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  UB Playlist

  Notes From Carrie

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Carina Adams

  Copyright © 2017 by Carina Adams

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locations or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Images ©Carina Adams

  Cover Art by Robin Harper of Wicked By Design

  Editing by Julia of Diamond in the Rough Editing

  For the Bastards in my life—

  and the women who love them.

  What does THAT Mean?

  Confused about something one of the Bastards said or thought? You’re not alone. Here’s a list of words and phrases that people have asked about.

  Found another? Email me and I’ll add it to the list.

  Bagged: Arrested

  Bahba: A barber

  Bang (ed, ing a right (left, or a U-ie): Turn right, lift, or pull a U-turn

  Bean Nighe: A Scottish fairy who is the omen of death. Similar to the Irish banshee.

  Bike: A motorcycle

  Bitch Bar: (Also known as Sissy Bar) Passenger backrest

  Blistering Drunk: intensely or extremely drunk

  Breakdown Lane: The shoulder on a highway

  Brother: Another member of your MC or someone who would drop everything for you.

  BU: Boston University

  Citizen: Normal people who aren’t members of any MC

  Colors: The MC patch on the back of the cut

  Court: Official Bastard MC meeting. Called Church in other clubs.

  Cut: Leather vest or jacket with club patch on the back, and other patches and pins on the front.

  DCF: Department of Children and Families

  Diddly: Nothing

  Dunkies: Dunkin Donuts – the world’s best Coffee

  Enforcer: A patched member whose job is to defend the club

  Fly Colors: Ride on bike, or walk around, wearing your cut

  Frappe: Milkshake

  Greybeard: A wise old member of the MC

  Hang Around: A man who has stated intention of becoming a prospect for the club but has not been presented to the board for a vote yet.

  Heat: The police

  LEO: Law Enforcement Officer

  MC: A motorcycle club. Not a gang.

  Nomad: Member of an MC, but not affiliated with any specific chapter

  Ol’ Lady: Wife or steady girlfriend of a club member

  Patch: The logo of the club that goes in the center on the back on the cut. There are also two more patches: The name of the club on top, the location of the club beneath.

  Pissah: Something that is good (as odd as that sounds)

  Prospect: A prospective member of the MC completing a probationary period.

  Rice Rocket: Derogatory term for Japanese motorcycle

  Ride Bitch: Passenger on a bike

  Rippah: A really large party

  Run: A club sanctioned ride

  Sissy Bar:The Back seat on a motorcycle

  Skeeze: Drug addict (also written as skeezah)

  Sketchy: Something out of place; strange

  Southie: South Boston

  Staties: Massachusetts State Troopers

  Supper: The last meal of the day. Dinner.

  The Cape: Cape Cod

  Watah: Water

  What’s doin’: What’s going on?

  Wicked: Very, extremely

  Prologue

  Rocker

  Three Months Ago

  The steady beeping slowly drove me insane. As the pale walls of the dimly lit room began to close in, they fucked with my mind and reminded me of days when I was imprisoned in a cell. My body ached, the nerves in my legs jumped and begged me to stand up and walk around. To get out while I could.

  I refused to budge. It didn’t matter how uncomfortable the tiny chair was, or how much I craved the freedom I’d find on the other side of the door. I’d vowed not to move from this spot until the woman in the bed next to me opened her eyes. I adjusted, stretched my legs out in front of me, desperate to offer them even a smidgen of relief, and leaned back; but, my hand never left hers.

  I wish I could say I didn’t know how life got so fucked; that I didn't know how I ended up sitting next to a hospital bed, eyes fixed in a glare at the monitor as it signaled each heartbeat, fingers clasped tight around a small lifeless hand in my own as if it was the only thing anchoring her here, and threatening God with every second that passed without her waking up. But that would be a lie.

  I could pinpoint the precise moment that I had made the decision to become what I was. I knew the exact event that had started me down the path I’d taken, the uneven and broken road that unfortunately dragged everyone I loved through shit.

  The monster I tried to bury deep.

  I could’ve sat there all day feeling like shit, blaming myself, and wishing I could turn back the clock, but there was no fucking point. Guilt wouldn't undo the mistakes I’d made. And it sure as shit wouldn't make Jessie wake up.

  I shifted my eyes away from the monitor, studying the man on the other side of her. Tank sat rigid in the uncomfortable plastic-cushioned recliner that was a twin to mine, every inch of his large body filled with tension, his features scrunched in misery as he watched over his baby sister. I might not let my conscience tear me apart, but from the looks of it, he'd given his free rein to terrorize him.

  "Hey." The word seemed loud in the quiet room, even though it had been nothing more than a whisper. Bloodshot eyes snapped to mine. "She's gonna be fine. You know that, right?"

  Tank lifted his chin in silent acknowledgement and turned back to Jess. I had been about to regurgitate some useless information the doctor had given us earlier when my friend released his sister’s hand and leaned back with a long, sad sigh, never taking his eyes off the woman between us.

  "Physically, yeah. She's gonna be just fuckin' fine eventually. The cuts will heal. But what about m
entally?” He swallowed, sad eyes turned back on me, pleading. "How is she gonna cope with all the shit? Pills? Booze? Next time it’ll be a gun to her temple, instead of a razor blade to her vein.”

  He shook his head. “Princess was right. She needed more help than we could give her. And now look at what happened." His hand swept over the bed. “I fuckin' broke her!"

  If the words had come from anyone else, I'd have rolled my eyes and made some comment about him being pathetic and dramatic. We'd been friends almost all our lives. I'd seen him at his best, I'd had a front row seat for his worst, and everything in between. I could count on one hand the number of times he'd overreacted.

  Tank was the selfless one. Loyal to a fault, yet ruthless and vicious; he was the brother you wanted on your side in a fight. He was also one of the kindest men I’d ever met, and had one hell of a soft spot for women and kids.

  As his friend, and even more so as his president, it was my job to fix this. It was my responsibility to ensure everyone was safe and bring peace of mind to my family. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t know if I could do it. There was nothing I could say or do that would change what happened. I couldn’t make this better.

  I looked over at the woman in the bed once more, my chest aching to see her lying there so lifeless. I wanted her to sit up and smile, to roll her eyes and tell me that it was all a misunderstanding. I needed a chance to apologize for not loving her the way she’d wanted.

  This wasn’t Tank’s fault. I’d never be able to rewind the clock, but I could take the blame, try to ease his pain.

  "You didn't break her, brother. This shit is on me."

  The Bastards MC, Boston, was a frequent target because of who we were and what we did. Unlike most one-percent clubs, we didn’t run drugs or sell sex. We were simply a group of men who’d dedicated our lives to helping those who couldn't help themselves. And to do that, lines had to be crossed and laws had to be broken.

  Life was not black or white. It wasn’t that simple, no matter what you’re told as a kid. Most people spend a fair amount of time in the gray area in between the two. Hell, I loved the gray. I was comfortable there, even though I tended to gravitate toward the darker side.

  The Bastards honored family above all else. Those ties were what kept us sane, the force that grounded us, the ones who reminded us that there was some good left in the world. There was nothing we wouldn’t do for our clan–the women we loved, the children we’d adopted, the men who’d become our brothers.

  That mentality gave us a weak spot other clubs didn’t have. We had something to lose.

  I'd sent more men to meet their maker than a captain on the front lines. I'd hurt abusers in ways that would make the worst horror movie seem like a child's cartoon. I'd done so many unimaginable things, and ordered my brothers to do the same, that I'd given up on saving my soul a long time ago. I'd happily forgo an eternity of peace if it meant I could rescue one more child from a fate too many suffered.

  While I could never change what I was or what I’d continue to be, I also wasn't above admitting that I'd fucked up and had made some life-altering mistakes. Hell, mistakes had plagued me almost my entire life.

  Jessie might not wear the cut or have a vote, but she was just as much a Bastard as the rest of us. Jess wasn’t just Tank’s little sister–she belonged to all of us. We all loved her.

  I glanced back to Tank. He’d barely left her side since hospital staff had allowed him in the room and was going on day three with no sleep. He’d rushed over straight from work, and when Cris brought him clean clothes, I’d had to practically force him into the adjoining bathroom to change out of the grease- and grime-stained rags he’d had on. The nursing staff had taken pity on him and offered toiletries so he was now at least clean.

  The wild look in his eyes worried me, his face lined in fear. His knee bobbed to a silent rhythm, from either nerves or too much caffeine, and I could tell my words hadn't done shit to make him feel better.

  “Did you hear me, kid?" My tone was harsh because I knew he wouldn't listen otherwise. "This is my fault, not yours."

  “Bullshit." Anger-filled eyes darted to mine. “She’s my baby sister, man! I was supposed to protect her. I was supposed to be better, to give her more than that prick of a father ever gave us. I thought I could handle it. When she started fallin’ apart, I made fucking excuses."

  He shook his head and forced a bitter, sad laugh. “I’m a goddamned idiot. She was so fucking miserable that she…” His voice broke as he shook his head, unable to say the words. She tried to end it all. “I will never look at her again without hating myself.”

  "You need to leave." I watched him closely, my eyes narrowed as I followed his every move. My words didn't penetrate through his self-loathing. "Tommy!" I snapped, almost yelling. "Get the fuck out."

  "What?" His face fell as he tried to understand my words through the fog that surrounded his brain.

  I leaned forward and braced my empty hand on a knee. "Get the fuck out of this room right now." I hadn't raised my voice again, but my tone left no room for argument. "You're fuckin' fallin' apart and that shit’s not good for Jess. She needs you to be strong, not a blubbering fuckin' mess." I sounded cold and uncaring, but nothing else would work. I tipped my head toward the door. "Go to the waiting room. Get coffee. Or get some goddamn sleep. I don't care what you do, but you'd better pull your shit together before you step another foot inside this room."

  His mouth had fallen open, forehead wrinkling in confusion, and for a minute, all his pain disappeared. Then he narrowed his eyes and my friend was back. He sat up straight and set his jaw the way he always did before he mouthed off. This was no place for one of our arguments and I shook my head as I pointed to the hallway.

  “Leave. Now. On your own," I growled. "Or I’ll make you."

  After gently placing his sister’s hand on the mattress, he pushed out of the chair and stalked out of the room, glaring at me the entire time. I didn't relax until the door shut behind him. I took a deep breath and turned back to her. I slid my chair closer to the bed, avoiding the IV as best as I could and I leaned in.

  "I'm sorry I had to kick him out," I told her in quiet tones, rubbing the back of my neck with my empty hand. "Jesus, babe. He's goin' out of his fuckin' mind worryin’. I know you're gonna be just fine and the doctors say you’ll wake up when you’re ready, but that brother of yours is fallin' apart. He's wicked scared.”

  I was fucking terrified. I’d come face-to-face with evil plenty of times before, kicked its ass, but I didn’t know how to fight this enemy. Looking at Jessie now, out cold in a hospital bed, made my chest hurt. "He misses you. I miss you,” I admitted quietly.

  "It's good that you're talking to her." A soft voice from behind me made me whip around in my chair. "She needs to know that you're here. It’ll help her heal."

  I nodded at the nurse, slightly embarrassed, and wondered how much she'd heard.

  She held up a handful of gauze in explanation of her presence. “Time to change her bandages. Do you want to stay or…?" She didn't have a chance to finish the sentence before I was out of the chair and headed for the door. "Okay. You're leaving."

  I heard the amusement in her voice but didn't care. The entire nursing staff found it hilarious that a man who looked like me was as squeamish as I was. They could laugh all they wanted; as long as they could handle the blood and pus and gore, and took good care of my friend, we wouldn't have a problem. I hesitated at the door, not wanting to leave Jessie alone, but knew I couldn’t handle seeing what she’d done to herself.

  The nurse looked at my face and chuckled softly as she turned back to the bed. "No need to torture yourself. She's in good hands, I promise. I'll come and get you as soon as I'm done."

  The sound of her laughter made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. My back went ramrod straight and I swallowed hard, forcing saliva down my suddenly dry and sore throat. My heart pounded erratically against my ribs.

 
; That laugh, still girlish and deceptive after all this time, had haunted my dreams for over twenty years. It couldn't be her. My sleep-deprived mind was fucking with me, creating things that weren't there.

  I closed the door quietly and turned back into the room. She was an average-sized woman, not tall and willowy like the girl I’d once known. I almost relaxed, positive that I was mistaken, until she glanced over her shoulder. An eyebrow arched in silent question, probably wondering why I hadn’t left, but I barely noticed it. Instead, I stared at her face.

  The air left my body and my heart forgot to beat.

  She wasn't as beautiful as she’d once been, but she was still the kind of pretty that would make most men do a double take. The years had been kind considering the life style she’d once led. Too fucking kind.

  I yanked Tank’s chair away from the bed and fell into it, my legs unable to hold me any longer. I sat, watching her instead of what she was doing. She met my stare, as if she didn’t have a thing to be ashamed about.

  "Decided I couldn't be trusted alone with her, huh?" The teasing note in her voice made my jaw clench in anger.

  I held her eyes, silently daring her to take a better look.

  I'd changed drastically over the last two decades, but there was no way someone who knew me as well as she once had shouldn’t recognize me. Sure, the self-conscious, short, and scrawny teenager with a major chip on his shoulder was long gone. Yet, if she looked beyond the height and bulk I carried now, under the layers of tattoos and the leather cut, she'd see that it was me. The boy she’d destroyed.

  When I didn't answer, she beamed at me, showing perfect, white teeth she must’ve paid thousands for, and started lining her supplies out on the tray, humming quietly to herself. A plain gold band caught in the light as she moved her hands.

  She was married. Probably happily, to a doctor, with two point three kids and a perfect life. The idea of her getting to live free and be happy made bile rise and burn my throat.

  God really was cruel, karma a fickle bitch.