The Scars That Define Us (The Devil's Dust #2)(74)

I slide off my bar stool and toss my bottle in the trash. I’m curious as to what has Old Guy in such a state. Bull comes out of his room, buckling his belt.

“This better be good, goddamn it,” Bull mutters as he makes his way toward the front door.

Before we make it to the door, Old Guy comes in carrying a woman. She’s curled up against his chest making it hard to see whether I know her or not. She has blonde hair, stained with blood in some spots, and clothes that look like they haven’t been washed in days.

“What the f*ck?” Shadow whispers, with disbelief. My eyes widen, shocked at the state the woman is in.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“Not sure. She pulled up in a nice car and kept asking to talk to whoever was in charge about wanting to make a deal before collapsing to the ground,” Old Guy informs.

“A deal?” Bull asks. He walks up to the woman and brushes the hair from her face. “Someone did a number on her.”

“There’s more,” Old Guy says. He shifts his feet, and looks downward. Movement catches my eyes, I look down at his legs to find a child clinging to Old Guy’s legs.

“Fuck me,” escapes from my mouth in shock. A little kid with long, blonde hair and red cheeks hugs onto Old Guy’s legs. I notice her pink dress, and kneel down to the little girl’s height. She has blonde hair like the woman who I’m assuming is her mother.

“Hi there, sweetie, is this your momma?” I ask, in a soft voice. I notice her left cheek is a little redder than her left, making me wonder if she fell down, or ran into something. Her face is stained from tears, and she has snot running down to her lips. She blinks her eyes a couple of times, as her bottom lip pouts. She looks at her mother and begins to wail.

“I don’t think she can talk yet,” Old Guy says, shifting the unconscious woman in his arms. I shrug, I know nothing about kids.

“What do you want me to do, Prez?” Old Guy asks.

Bull nervously runs his hands through his black hair. “Shit, just take her to one of the rooms.” Old Guy heads down the hall with the little girl clinging to his legs, crying.

“What are you thinking, Prez, taking in a stray?” Shadow asks, shaking his head.

“That woman obviously has nobody else. I’m not about to throw a child, with a passed out mother, out on the street,” Bull says, his voice sharp and angry.

Shadow nods, knowing he overstepped his boundaries.

“What the f*ck, man?” I ask Shadow. I know he has issues, but I’m surprised he has no compassion for the woman and child.

Shadow glares at me with those evil-as-shit blue eyes.

“I’ll clean her up and take care of the child,” Babs says, skipping off down the hall.

I follow her down the hall into one of the empty rooms. Babs starts applying a wet cloth to the woman’s face. I get a better look at her as she’s lying on the unmade bed. She has a round face, with pouty lips, long, blonde hair, and a thicker figure than most girls around here. Her rack is nice, too. Her white top has blood and dirt smeared over it, and her jeans are just as bad. The woman’s eyes flutter open, catching my attention. They’re blue and bloodshot.

Instantly, the little girl clings to her mother, the contact making them both cry.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” I ask the woman, as I sit on the bed.

Her eyes shoot to mine, her long lashes sticking together from crying.

“My name’s Jessica, are you in charge?” she asks, her voice cracking. Her eyebrows crease and she waits for my answer.

“No. No, I’m not,” I say, with a kind smile.

“This is Bobby. I’m Bull, I’d be the one in charge,” Bull says, stepping up from behind me. “Who did that number on your face Darlin’?” Bull gestures toward her split eye.

“I need protection.” Jessica looks over at her daughter. “We need protection.”

“From who?” I ask.

She looks up from her daughter who is straddling her lap and her eyebrows furrow. Her lips part as tears begin to cascade from her blue eyes, like what she’s about to say is the hardest thing she’s ever done.

“From my husband,” she says softly.





M.N. Forgy was raised in Missouri where she still lives with her family. She’s a soccer mom by day and a saucy writer by night. M.N. Forgy started writing at a young age but never took it seriously until years later, as a stay-at-home mom, she opened her laptop and started writing again. As a role model for her children, she felt she couldn’t live with the “what if” anymore and finally took a chance on her character’s story. So, with her glass of wine in hand and a stray Barbie sharing her seat, she continues to create and please her fans.