Read Cotton: Satan's Fury MC Online
Authors: L. Wilder
Cotton: Satan's Fury MC (19 page)
Satan’s Fury MC
Copyright 2015 L Wilder
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication or any part of this series may be reproduced without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Some of the places named in the book are actual places. The names, characters, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and owners of various products and locations referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Warning: This book is intended for readers 18 years or older due to bad language, violence, and explicit sex scenes.
Editor: Marci Ponce
Cover Model: Levi Stocke
https://www.facebook.com/levi.stocke
Photographer: Mariusz Jeglinski
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring,” my grandmother sang. Her voice was low and soft, and I finally started to calm down after another one of my nightmares. They started shortly after I moved in with my grandparents. I was eight years old when my parents were killed in a car crash, forcing my sister, Emerson, and me to move from the only home we’d ever known to live with my father’s parents. We barely knew them, but they were the only relatives we had. I never knew how good we really had it until it was all ripped away. It had almost been a year, but I was still having a hard time adjusting to the change. That night, I’d made the mistake of accidentally wetting the bed. My grandmother held me close, trying to comfort me, while she continued to sing. I knew her words were a lie, that my mother was dead and gone, but listening to her soothed me. “If that diamond ring turns brass, Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.”
Pound.
Pound.
Pound.
His fist slammed against the wall as he walked toward my room. Horror washed over me as I listened to his footsteps coming down the hall. The floorboards creaked under the weight of his body, my dread intensifying with every step he took.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
My head was pressed against my grandmother’s chest, listening to her heart thump rapidly while he started to shout, “Don’t coddle that boy, Louise. Stop lying to him! His mama's dead. She can't buy him a damn thing! He’s no fucking baby. We’re not raising him to be a goddamn pussy!” he barked as he stood in the doorway with a scowl on his face.
“George,” she started, but he quickly cut her off, raising his palm up in the air, silently ordering her to shut up. She always tried to get him to stop, but it never worked. Once he got it in his head, there was no changing his mind.
“Don’t,” she pleaded as I curled deeper into her lap when he started stalking toward me. With his finger pointed directly in my face, he growled, “You wet that damn bed again, boy?” Rage vibrated off of him as he spoke, and I knew what was coming. He was furious, and only one thing happened when he got that worked up.
The barn.
My grandfather was a military man, born and bred. He still looked the part too, sporting his buzz cut and the same athletic build he had in all of his army pictures. Every minute of every day was controlled by his orders. He ran a tight ship with impossible expectations. The old man was a force to be reckoned with, and he hated any sign of weakness. Which meant he detested me. He hated that I was so weak, that my parents’ deaths still tormented me. He was determined to make a man out of me, even if that meant killing me in the process. There was a time, when the beatings first started, when he was careful, not wanting to leave any evidence of the abuse. But as I grew older, he made sure to leave the marks. He got some kind of sick satisfaction, seeing the whelps on my back, smiling whenever he saw me looking at them. He wanted me to see them, to feel the raised scars on my flesh, so I would always remember. He grabbed my hand, yanking me from my grandmother’s lap, and snarled, “Get your ass to the barn. I’ll teach you not to wet the fucking bed, boy.” I could smell the mix of old spice and bourbon swirl around me as my body collided against his side.
“George, it’s late,” Grandmother Louise pleaded.
Ignoring her, he pulled me out of the room and down the hall. As I stumbled behind him, I caught a glimpse of Emerson sitting up in her bed, tears streaming down her chubby little cheeks. She was only four years old, but she knew what happened out in the barn. Even though it sucked I was his main target, I was thankful he’d never taken her out there. The old man had a soft spot for her, and she could do no wrong. I wasn’t resentful. I felt the same way about her.
My bare feet dragged along in the dirt and grass as he pulled me into the barn; the large, wooden doors slammed behind us, leaving us in the dark. The smell of straw and livestock whirled around me as he jerked me further into the dark. There was a time when I would try to pull away from him, but I quickly learned there was no use fighting him. I was trapped, unable to break free from his grasp. After binding my hands over my head, he reached for his favorite leather strap.
“If your father were still alive, he’d be disgusted with you. Such a fucking disappointment. You’re just like your damn mother. Worthless,” he grumbled as the strap whipped across my back. A searing pain shot through me, like hot coals burning through my thin t-shirt. I forced myself to hold back my cries as he continued to thrash the leather against my back, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. Unfortunately, that only made him angrier, causing him to hit even harder. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for me to pass out from the pain, my body falling limp against the restraints.
There were many more nights like that, more than I could even begin to count. At least some were quick, not like the times he’d make me wait for it. I hated those nights the most. I’d spend the whole day tending to the animals and the grounds, praying the entire time he might forget about punishment he’d promised. He always remembered though. With a wicked smile on his face, he would pull me inside the barn, laughing whenever I pleaded with him to give me another chance. I would beg, promising to try harder… be better, more obedient, but he was completely unaffected. I soon learned it was pointless. He relished in the pain he inflicted on me; I could see it in the way his eyes would glaze over. It seemed my pleas were just a pre-game warm-up filling him with anticipation for the main event. He was one sick son-of-a-bitch.
Over time, I got stronger. I learned to take myself out of the moment, dreaming of the day I might be able to get away—the day I would be free from him. I was almost fifteen before that time finally came. That was the night he almost killed me. The night he decided to trade in his leather strap for a strand of barbed wire. As the metal spikes gouged into my back, he’d yank them free, ripping away my flesh. When he was done, he left me to bleed to death in one of the horse stalls. I had no idea how long I’d been lying there when Emerson managed to sneak out to help me. She tended to the wounds on my back and shoulders, crying the entire time. She pleaded with me to run away, to get away while I still could. I knew she was right. I didn’t have a choice. I took the clothes and food she'd thrown in my backpack and left. I hated I had to leave Emerson behind. I wanted to take her with me, keep her close. But I knew Grandmother Louise would look after her and keep her safe, something my grandfather would never allow her to do for me.
I thought living on the streets would be better. I thought I’d be able to free myself from all the abuse, fear, and suffering my grandfather inflicted on me, but l was wrong. So fucking wrong. I'd only traded one hell for another. What my grandfather failed to teach me, I learned the hard way while living out on the streets. I was scared all the time, and starving most of the time. There was no one that I could trust; it seemed like everyone was out to get me. I had to be smarter and meaner than any of the filth that surrounded me. I stole. I fought. I even killed a guy—stabbed the son-of-a-bitch right in the throat when he tried to force himself on me.
The hunger, the fear, and the emptiness almost broke me. When I’d finally had enough, I decided to take the advice of a man who ran a halfway house down on the eastside. He was more decent than most and seemed to really care about the kids who came to him over and over. He told me that since I had managed to stay out of jail, there was a good chance I could join the military.
Despite how much I loathed my grandfather, I decided it was something I needed to do. Maybe it was to prove the old man wrong, show him I could face adversity and thrive. It was probably the same reason my father joined all those years ago, just to prove that bastard wrong. Regardless of the reason, I needed the stability the military could give me. I craved it, and being in the service was one of the best things I’d ever done. My troop became my family. We trained together… fought together. We became stronger, more disciplined together. It was the first time I had someone watching my back, caring whether I lived or died, and I was actually happy there. I figured I’d spend my life serving my country, but just when things were going well, everything fell apart. My platoon was transporting supplies to one of the neighboring villages when the lead carrier ran over a land mine. Soon after, the second carrier was ambushed, leaving most of my troop either dead or dismembered. It was a sight that will be forever burned into my memory. Seeing my brothers either dead or missing limbs broke something inside of me. The old hardness and coldness returned. Whatever weakness or compassion was left in me was wiped out that day. When I left the service, I was capable of doing unthinkable things, and I could do them without a touch of remorse.
They say your past defines you. I’d say they are right.
“Five more minutes, and then it’s time to finish up your homework and have dinner,” I warned Wyatt. He looked so content, sitting at the end of the sofa with his little legs tucked underneath him. His fingers were rapidly tapping the screen as he worked diligently to create a new world on his video game. The things he could create on that little device always amazed me.
“But I’m just about to slay the dragon,” he whined, never looking up from his game. His little nose crinkled into a pout at the thought of having to stop.
“Don’t even start, mister. You know the rule.” He’d been playing since we got home from school, and he’d keep playing all night if I let him.
“Okay. Five more minutes,” he answered in defeat. His shaggy, brown hair dangled in front of his eyes, making me wonder how he could even see to play his game.
“Dude. I think it’s time for a haircut.”
He quickly ran his fingers through his bangs, brushing them to the side, and said, “No way! This is how it’s supposed to look.” He gave me a quick glare, his dark eyebrows furrowed in frustration before he looked back down at his game. Seeing him sitting there, I couldn’t help but smile. He looked like your average eight-year-old boy with his wrinkled t-shirt and jeans, but to me, he was anything but average. I could see that Wyatt was an exceptional child, always marveling at all the wonders of the world. Every day, he’d share something new he had learned, eagerly telling me every single detail of what he’d discovered. I loved hearing the excitement in his voice when he spoke, flicking his wrists at his sides as he focused on what he was saying. I had no problem admitting that my entire world was wrapped up in that little boy and there was nothing better than seeing him happy.
“How about fish sticks for dinner?” I offered.
“Nah. I want chicken nuggets.”
“Wyatt, you had those last night. You’re going to turn into a chicken nugget one of these days,” I laughed.
“That’s physically impossible, Mom. Chickens are birds. People can’t turn into birds,” he fussed, shaking his head.
My child, always so literal. I smiled and said, “I know, buddy. I was just teasing. Are you set on chicken nuggets?”
“Yeah. I won’t get them tomorrow night. Dad never has them at his house,” he grumbled as he turned off his game. His brown hair fell into his face, hiding his look of disappointment. I cringed at the thought of him going to his dad’s. He’d been going to his dad’s every other Thursday for months, but it was still hard for him to transition from one house to the other. It also didn’t help that I was terrified every time he had to go stay with his dad. I tried my best to hide my concerns from him, but I could tell he sensed something was wrong.
I started dating his father, Michael, when we were still in high school, and I absolutely adored him. I loved his strength and protectiveness, not to mention he was devastatingly handsome. He came from a good home and was extremely close to his parents, which I loved…at the time. I felt safe wrapped up in his arms, thinking that our love for each other would be enough to see us through anything. Back then, I really thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together. Unfortunately, the thing I loved the most about him ended up being the very thing that scared me the most about him. Over time, he became controlling and jealous to the point that I felt suffocated by him. I was nearly paralyzed by my inability to make a move without his approval. If I didn’t do things the way he expected me to, he’d get angry, so very angry. His temper was a force to be reckoned with. When he snapped, I didn't know how to protect myself from his wrath. I'd tried everything, from talking him down with reason to silently enduring it. Nothing worked. I’d known about the fights he’d had at bars and various other places when his temper got out of hand, but I never thought he’d be like that with me. The first time I saw the flash of rage that crossed his face directed at me, I was stunned. I wasn’t expecting him to be thrilled I had gotten pregnant so early in our marriage, but his intense anger caught me completely off-guard. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when he reared back his closed fist and slammed it into the side of my head. It was like he wasn’t even the same person. That beating was so bad the doctor was surprised I didn’t miscarry.
Michael cried for days afterwards, pleading with me to forgive him. He promised—he swore to me—that it would never happen again. Michael said he would do whatever it took to make our baby happy. I hadn’t even finished college yet. If I left him, I would end up moving in with my parents and raising my child without a father. Truthfully, I loved my husband, and I wanted—no, I needed—to believe him. I had to trust him when he said he would take care of us and give us the life he’d promised. Even though I was only a few months pregnant, my child had already become the most important thing in the world to me. It’s one of the reasons I named my son Wyatt, my little warrior. At the time, I had no idea how much the meaning of that name truly suited him.
In reflection, I should’ve left Michael that night and never looked back. But I honestly thought the incident would be a one-time thing. I told myself the shock and stress from the news of my unexpected pregnancy had just completely overwhelmed him and caused him to totally flip out. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The attacks were sporadic but effective. I never knew what was going to set him off, and over time, I became a different person. I hated that I didn’t stand up for myself more, demand that he treated me better, but the fear was just so all-consuming. I eventually learned to do whatever I could to make him happy, always trying my best to keep the peace. I was finally learning to deal with Michael and his temper, but when we found out about Wyatt, things got worse.
As Wyatt got a little older, I became worried he wasn’t talking like most of the children his age. When I finally took him to be tested, they informed us that he had Asperger’s Syndrome, a form of autism that causes some children to have trouble with social interactions, and they often exhibit a restricted range of interests and repetitive behaviors. It was a heartbreaking discovery, but I still managed to remain hopeful. Wyatt was a wonderful little boy, and I loved him just the way he was. Unfortunately, Michael hated that his son was different. Image was everything to Michael. He was fixated on us appearing as the perfect all-American family, especially to his parents, and he blamed me for Wyatt’s delays. Ultimately, I ended up in the hospital for five days with three cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and slight head trauma, all due to his frustration with our son. That night changed everything. I was done trying to make things work with an abusive husband. I gathered up all the courage I could muster and pressed charges against him. It’s one of the reasons he now has supervised visitation with Wyatt and had to attend anger management classes for a year. The classes seemed to be helping him, but they didn’t make me feel any better about sending Wyatt over there. I just don’t trust Michael, but in the end, the courts left me no choice.
When Wyatt caught me staring at him, he asked, “So, are you going to make nuggets?”
“Yeah, I’ll make chicken nuggets, but you’re going to have to eat some vegetables, too,” I told him as I headed toward the kitchen.
Wyatt reached for his backpack and followed me, tossing his things on the floor by the table. “Okay, but no broccoli. I hate broccoli. And I got a one hundred on my math test today,” he told me, pulling his books out and placing them on the kitchen table.
“That’s great, buddy, but I’m not surprised. You always do well in math.”
“It’s my favorite,” he confessed.
“I know. It was always mine too. Since you did so well, you can have a few extra minutes on your game after dinner.”
As usual, I got no response. He knew he earned extra time on his game when he made good grades, so after dinner, he curled up in his favorite spot and finished creating his new world. When he was done, he headed for the shower without being told. I searched through his drawers, looking for his favorite pajamas, and laid them on his dresser. I sat down on the edge of his bed and waited for him to finish up in the bathroom. The shower turned off and seconds later, I heard Wyatt’s wet, little feet slap against the hardwood floor as he headed down the hall. He stopped at the doorway and stared at me with one towel wrapped around his waist and another around his head.
“What’s up, Buddy?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he answered as he walked over to me and wrapped his little, wet arms around my neck. When I wrapped my arms around him, a mix of fruity shampoo and my favorite body wash surrounded me. I held him tight against my chest, kissing him lightly on the side of his head. I cherished those moments. Wyatt isn’t one to give affection often, but when he does, there’s no better feeling in the entire world. There was a time when he wouldn’t even talk to me, much less touch me, so I held him close, enjoying the moment while it lasted.
“Time for bed, Momma,” he told me, pulling free from my embrace. He reached for his clothes and started to get dressed, letting me know he didn’t need my help.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you,” I told him as I got up and started to leave. “Love you, Buddy.”
“You too,” he replied while he crawled into the bed. I went back to check on him fifteen minutes later, and he was already sound asleep.
The next morning, Wyatt was already up and getting dressed by the time I had gotten out of the shower. When he finished getting ready, he stood at my bedroom door, sporting his favorite pair of red tennis shoes.
“Ready,” he told me with a wide smile.
“Breakfast?” I asked.
“I got a granola bar.”
“You know that's really just a snack, but I'll let it slide today," I said, playfully rolling my eyes at him "Want some juice or something?”
He shook his head no and headed out the front door toward the car. Overall, it was a great morning, and things continued to go well until I got to my last class of the day. I’d always wanted a career in family counseling and after my divorce, my parents encouraged me to go back to college to get my degree. They helped pay for my classes until my financial aid kicked in, and Mom helped with Wyatt when I was in class. I couldn’t have done it without them, and things were going really well until I started my Counseling Theories class.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Rachel whined. “He has to be the most boring man on the planet.”
“I feel ya, girl. I’m on my second cup of coffee, and I’m still having a hard time staying awake,” I grumbled. I was just a few classes away from graduating, but first, I had to survive Professor Halliburton. Thankfully, I had Rachel there to keep things interesting. I’d met her last semester in my Crisis Management and Prevention class when she asked to borrow my notes, and we’d been friends ever since.
“It’s his voice. Seriously, every time he opens his mouth, it’s like nails on a chalkboard,” she said, drawing out her words as she spoke.
Several heads turned and looked in our direction when we both started laughing. “You’re a nut, Rach.”
“Hey, you want to catch a movie after the gym tonight?”
“I wish I could, but I can’t. Wyatt will be with his dad after school, so I’m going to try to run some errands.” I wasn’t exactly lying; I really did have lots to do. My laundry was piling up, and I had to get some studying done, but those weren’t the reasons I didn’t want to go. I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself knowing Wyatt was with Michael.
“Wren, we both know why you don’t want to go, but I get it. I know it’s hard sending him over there.”
“I’m sorry. I just get so anxious when he has to go over there. It’s like I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I explained.
“I can only imagine. It has to be just as hard for Wyatt,” Rachel told me.
“It is, but at least he has Mrs. Daniels. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s really good with him.”
During our divorce, Michael fought hard for joint custody of Wyatt. Sadly, it had nothing to do with being with Wyatt. No, it was just another way for him to try to hurt me, to exert his control over me. He thought he was being so clever, but I knew exactly what he was doing. His random calls to check in on his son were never about Wyatt. It was just Michael’s chance to interrogate Wyatt on what I was doing or where I’d been. Pushing for joint custody was just his vindictive way to get my child support reduced, knowing full well that less money would make it difficult for me to make it on my own. It was all just a ploy to make me miserable, and it was working. I didn’t feel like I was making any progress, until I found Mrs. Daniels. The judge suggested her independent service company for Michael’s supervised visitation, knowing they had experience working with children with special needs. With Mrs. Daniels’ background, she knew what to expect with Wyatt’s Asperger’s. He was high functioning, but dealing with all of his little quirks could still be difficult.