Home > Rough and Raw (Notorious Devils MC #2)

Rough and Raw (Notorious Devils MC #2)
Author: Hayley Faiman



Five Years Earlier


I make sure the bathroom door is locked. Not that a lock would stop Scotty from breaking the thing down. He’d done it before. For a man who is slim and works behind a desk all day long, he has some serious strength.

I sit down on the closed toilet seat, pressing my hands to my face. It happened again. I have lost count of how many times Scotty has slapped me, punched me, kicked me, or raped me.

My entire relationship is a farce.

I hate him, but I married him because my parents encouraged it. They love that I married a man with a fantastic career. I hate myself for being weak.

My father scowls when he sees the yellowing bruises on my face, but he never says a word. My mother pretends to be oblivious to the hell that I live in.

I let my mind drift back in time, not for the first time, to the one and only man that I have ever loved.

Bates Lukin.

I fell for Bates when I was just fourteen years old. He was the older bad-boy, and I loved everything about him—the thrill and the danger that surrounded him.

I pursued him, relentlessly, and eventually he took notice. We spent one year together before he went away to Marine boot camp. One beautiful year where I gave him everything. My love and my virginity.

“I won’t ask you to wait for me, Brent. I know you’re still enjoying high school, and you deserve to have fun,” Bates murmurs as he cups his hand around my cheek. I wrap my fingers around his wrist holding onto him.

“But I love you,” I say, my voice trembling with emotion.

“I don’t doubt that, Brent. I love you, too; but I’m not coming back here. I have no clue where they’ll send me, but I don’t want to be anywhere near my father. You need to have fun in high school. Sitting around on Friday nights alone isn’t your style. I wouldn’t ask you to do that for me,” he says, his dark eyes roaming over my face, taking me in, memorizing me for quite possibly the last time—ever.

“I can stay faithful; do you think you won’t be able to?” I ask challengingly, angrily.

“For you, I could do anything, Brent. For you, I would do anything. But you’re young and I can’t hold you back like that.” He sighs pressing his forehead to mine.

“You’re breaking my heart, Bates,” I whisper, unable to hold the tears at bay.

“I know. At least you have a heart. I gave mine to you,” he murmurs, running his nose along mine before pressing a closed mouth kiss against my lips.

“You can’t have it back. I’ll be waiting for you,” I cry.

My fifteen-year-old heart was shattered the day Bates left for boot camp.

I would have waited for him.

I would have waited a lifetime.

Months went by without news from him.

He abandoned me.

I would beg his sister, Mary-Anne, for any information she had. At first, she obliged, sharing letters he sent to her. Then suddenly, she stopped. I knew he had told her to let me move on. He was forcing me to move on.

In my anger toward Bates, I turned into someone I didn’t recognize. I began drinking and became promiscuous. That lasted for about three years, until my best friend’s brother came back from college— law school.

He saw me as a woman, and he wanted me.

Scotty and I were engaged mere months after we started dating, and our marriage was rushed. I was nineteen and he was just beginning his career. We were going to be the perfect couple. Even if I didn’t love him, I thought I could learn to, eventually.

Our perfect couple status lasted until our honeymoon. The truth crashed through my little bubble with a vengeance. It was the first night he hit me. I had embarrassed him because I drank too much at our reception. I was a stupid whore, a slut, and I was lucky he took pity on me and married me.

I felt stupid at the time.

I felt stupid for falling for all of his shit—for not listening to my sister, Kentlee, when she tried to advise me to steer clear of the man. He didn’t need to point out that I had been slutty. I owned that slut inside of me, but I wasn’t that girl anymore. I was a wife, completely ready to devote my life to my new husband.

I resigned myself to the hell I had bought into, that I had allowed.

That was, until I saw Kentlee with her new man in the grocery store. I was eight months pregnant and had just survived another brutal attack by my adoring husband. I didn’t lie to myself; I didn’t believe anything he said when he apologized to me profusely every time he beat the shit out of me, but I was scared.

Kentlee looked happy and her man, a monster, looked scary; yet when his eyes landed on my sister, I watched them soften before my own.

“Get your no good, whore ass out here,” my husband bellows from the other side of the bathroom door.

I suck in a breath and grasp the handle of the door, opening it to face my hell, my nightmare—my husband.





I lie in the dark alone.

I hate sleeping alone.

The nightmares always return.

Nightmares about the months I spent in the scorching, dry desert while I was in the Marines, followed by my self-created nightmares about leaving the only girl I have ever loved—Brentlee Johnson.

Fifteen was too young for me to tie her down. She deserved to experience life. By the time I found my way back to her, it was too late. She was engaged. I watched her from a distance, angry at the way her demeanor changed after her marriage, knowing exactly why it had changed, too.

My father abused my mother my entire life. She refused to leave him and I watched as he hurt her, hurt me, and hurt my sister—repeatedly.

I kick the sheets off and find my pants, pulling them up my legs, not bothering to button them. I won’t be wearing them long. Living in the clubhouse has its perks. Pussy available twenty-four-seven.

I need something to exhaust me for a few hours. I won’t fool myself into thinking I’ll get a full night’s sleep, but a couple hours would be nice.

I walk into the room where the clubwhores hang out and sleep, noticing it’s pretty empty, except for a sweet young thing that showed up a few weeks ago. I don’t pretend to know her name. I’ll never use it, and I’ll never need it. She has long brown hair and brown eyes. Her body is thin, but curvy. She could look like Brentlee — if I squinted, were drunk, and high.

I lift my chin toward her and hold out my hand. She quickly comes my way, wearing a bra and a pair of short shorts with platform flip flops. She’s more covered up than most of the girls here, who choose to lounge in just thong panties.

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