DRIFTER
by Janine Infante Bosco
Nomad Series #1
Publication Date: November 8, 2016
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Erotic, MC, Romantic Suspense
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Synopsis: “Stryker”
I’m a drifter.
A man born to ride through this world alone.
There used to be a time when I thought I was the rescuing type. I enlisted in the Marines and made it my duty—I was going to save lives.
I was going to be a true American hero.
But God had another plan.
Or maybe Satan did.
For everything I touch finds mortality.
I’m no hero.
I’m nothing.
I’m a veteran biker, a former nomad who survived war only to live in hell.
Now I ride with the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn and I’m drifting into a different kind of chaos.
The kind that revolves around a pretty girl with intoxicating green eyes.
A girl who has the power to turn me inside out.
A girl who doesn’t need anyone to rescue her because she’s her own savior.
Until she’s not.
But a man plagued by war and the devil inside him can never be her hero.
Gina Spinelli
Strong. Independent. Fierce.
They are the three things I strived to be.
But sometimes being successful can be lonely.
Sometimes a girl just wants to be a girl and have someone take care of her.
Maybe even love her.
Sometimes the strong become vulnerable.
Or worse, the victor becomes the victim.
Sometimes we lose control or in my case it’s stripped from you.
Defeated. Broken. Haunted.
They are the three things I have become.
In my darkest hour I admit defeat.
In my darkest hour I need one person.
I need him.
Stryker.
Janine Infante Bosco lives in New York City, she has always loved reading and writing. When she was thirteen, she began to write her own stories and her passion for writing took off as the years went on. At eighteen, she even wrote a full screenplay with dreams of one day becoming a member of the Screen Actors Guild.
Janine writes emotionally charged novels with an emphasis on family bonds, strong willed female characters, and alpha male men who will do anything for the women they love. She loves to interact with fans and fellow avid romance readers like herself.
She is proud of her success as an author and the friendships she’s made in the book community but her greatest accomplishment to date would be her two sons Joseph and Paul.
***NOTE: Contains explicit sexual situations, violence, sensitive subjects, offensive language, and mature topics. Recommended for age 18 years and up. ***
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EXCERPT
Silence.
It engulfs me, provides me with a false
sense of security the moment I close my eyes and drags my subconscious into the
depths of sleep. But, it’s quickly ripped from me by the sound of plagued
screams. A woman shouts with a foreign tongue and though I don’t understand the
Afghani language I know beyond a shadow of a doubt she’s yelling for her
innocent child to run, to seek shelter and for the man with the laser pointed
at the child’s head not to shoot.
I am the man with the sniper rifle.
I am the man perched on a roof, with my
finger firmly wrapped around the trigger.
And that bitch just sent her fucking
child to play in the sand with a bomb strapped to his back.
For a moment, I want to believe she’s
not playing me—that her kid isn’t a ploy in some sick terrorist plot. I ignore
the sounds of my men commanding me to take my shot, insisting that time is of
the essence and if I don’t do it, I’m betraying my country. I loosen my finger
around the trigger and open both my eyes and watch the boy lift a handful of
sand through the scope attached to my rifle. He opens his palm and spreads his
fingers wide letting the grains of sand fall through them before he looks back
at his mother.
She shouts more of that foreign bullshit
and I wish I could get my hands on her and slice her tongue from her mouth.
It’s the final thought that crosses my
mind before I pull the trigger and watch the boy fall back into the sand as my
bullet pierces him between his eyes--innocent eyes that were once wide with
wonder now are dull and lifeless.
Sweat beads along my brow and I can feel
the bile rise up my throat as I wait. Everything around me fades as I stare at
the boy in the sand. I lose myself and question my purpose, my mission, my
platoon—everything. The bomb doesn’t go off and I swallow the lump lodged in my
throat. I frantically peer into the scope, moving it to the right in search for
the mother. I picture the Virgin Mary cradling her lifeless son that was pulled
from the cross and wait for the woman dressed in black garb to do the same but
she’s nowhere in sight.
Before I can divert my eyes back to the
boy the blast erupts robbing me the opportunity to look into his eyes one final
time because his head has been blown off his body and the fragments of him are
now one with the sand he was playing with.
This is war.
And this is hell.
All that’s left is the sound of my own
screams vibrating through my body, deafening as it pounds my eardrums and
invades my head.
It’s those very screams that pull me
from my sleep night after night and why I’ve given up on getting a full night’s
rest, using my bed only to fuck and even that didn’t happen too often.
Until her.
I used to pound my dick into any willing
pussy, never bringing them into my bed, believing I didn’t need that false
sense of hope that I’m normal when I’ve got a woman wrapped around me, begging
to spend the night in my arms after I’ve thoroughly fucked her—only for her to
realize I’m fucked in the head when I wake her up screaming like a little
bitch.
Yeah, I didn’t need that shit.
Hell, I didn’t want it.
Until her.
But I’ve learned my lesson and I’ve learned it
the hard way. It’s the reason I’m sitting in a chair in the corner of a fucking
filthy motel—waiting for the sun to rise as I stare at the battered and bruised
woman in my bed, when all I want to do is climb in next to her and pull her
into my arms—take away her pain and forget mine. I clench my fists and keep
them pinned against the arms of the chair as I take in the dried up blood on
her naturally pouty lips—lips that skimmed every inch of my body and I crave
every night since.
I tear my eyes from her mouth and zero
in on her closed eyes—eyes I know are pale green. Eyes once vibrant with life
and mischief are now going to be full of torment and fear—when the swelling
goes down and she can fucking open them again.
Her long brown hair is splayed across my
pillow, matted with blood and knots from being fisted and pulled, leaving her
scalp sore and just as bruised as the rest of her. I let my eyes travel the
length of her, knowing the body she’s hiding behind her clothes matches her
face in color and shame.
A knock sounds on my door and I tear my
eyes away from the restless beauty, squirming between my sheets—wishing its
pleasure that has her twisting and not torment.
Torment can’t be erased, it can’t be
silenced—that shit sticks with you.
It lives inside you and destroys you,
fractures your soul and rips your life to shreds.
I may have rescued her tonight but the
woman in my bed is as good as dead. Her soul has been taken, chewed up and spit
out by the men who attacked her—when she wakes up all she’ll know is grief.
She’ll mourn the life she had and wish
the one she’s left with ends.
#THENOMADSERIES
Come Meet Author Janine Infante Bosco & Model Matthew Hosea at "Authors In The City" 3.11.17 in Raleigh, NC!
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Just for fun after you've read Drifter and you have found the beautiful in their story take a selfie and tag me! Use hashtag #FindTheBeautiful. -Author Janine Infante Bosco
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