My father set me up in pretty freaking nice digs, I can't deny. Even for an MC. And, soon after arriving, I realized that, while most MCs are a lot alike, not all are created equal. Especially in the financial department. I haven’t yet assessed if it’s because my father’s just better off than Jacques and his club or if maybe it’s because of the longer history Renee King O’Malley’s MC has that Jacques Cain’s doesn’t. My father’s father traveled from Cali to New Orleans. He went nomad because of family reasons. Anyway, he’d only been here two weeks when he met and married the daughter of one of DDDs highest-ranking patch holders. This all happened back in the ’50s. Back then, being a member of the Hellena's Angels wasn’t a big deal. Mainly because no one had really heard of the California bikers’ club.
After I’d Googled them because the name was a bit familiar to me and gathered some more information, I quickly realized the popularity of said MC. It’s grown over the last sixty years. Substantially, too. Hellena's Angels is one the largest MCs in the United States. And it’s the most popular.
So, not only am I the product of one of the biggest MCs in the South, aside from Texas, but I also have Hellena’s Angels members’ blood running through my veins. And that’s a pretty damn big pill to swallow, even for a twenty-six-year-old. Thanks, Ma.
“Hey. Saw your boy earlier today. What is that all you do? Read?” Dreads stops midstride in front of my chair before flipping the book in my lap over and scanning the cover. “This Man? And these motherfucking nuts…” he singsongs before chuckling and heading towards the little side bar in the brick courtyard outside.
“Ahh...I don’t see anything else to do around here besides read smut, do you? The only type of people around are freaking bikers. Haven’t my mother and Eden fucked up enough of our lives by associating with bikers? I’m not planning on meeting any new friends and repeating their mistakes.” The smartass words just keep coming. Fuck it—call it hormones. For real, this time. Pregnancy ones at that. “And he’s not my freaking boy. Don’t say that shit, Dreads. One damn emotion at a time, okay? I’m not fucking there yet.” I glare at him.
“Okay. Touché.” He raises his hands in false surrender. “But do me a favor. I need you to stick to the club. He needs you to stick to the club. He asked me to ask you. There’s some shit going on that you don’t know about and—”
I’m not certain if you’ve ever come to that place during a conversation with another human being—another irritating AS FUCK human being—and you are left with two options. One, you find a chair and slam that bitch into the person’s face or, two, you walk away. You just stand up and walk the hell away.
Since my chair is the only one present besides the huge, overstuffed wicker couch and the loveseat and there is no way in hell I can lift those, I do the latter.
I walk the hell from the room, bitching the entire time. “Whatever, Dreads. I’m not listening unless I get some answers. And I'm not doing a damn thing he says. Nor am I doing as he demands. If he wants me to do anything, he can start explaining and he can tell me himself or have my father tell me. That’s as far as I’m willing to bend. He didn’t even give me answers. He left a note in my fucking bag. Which is petty. And childish.” One of my hands land on my little pooch of a belly and my other hand, on its own volition, grasps the charm on a necklace that never leaves my neck. Never.
Then I pick up my pace and make my way towards the lobby.
When I feel Dreads coming up behind me, I growl at him before glaring over my shoulder.
“Can’t a girl get something to fucking eat around here?! Or a milkshake?!”
As soon as he chuckles, I swear I think I’m going to lose it. All of it.
“Yes, you can, Vagabond. There’s no need to starve. I’ll take you to go get something to eat. Sheesh. Why are you being so dramatic?”
Dramatic? Dramatic. He thinks I’m being dramatic? I laugh, and it almost sounds maniacal. No, it does. It’s creepy as hell, even to my own ears.
“Dramatic. Yeah, that’s what I’m being. Drugged. Kidnapped. Drugged. Impregnated. Then kidnapped again without knowledge of previous information or the health care needed. But who’s being dramatic?” Before I even realize what I’m doing, as I step into the foyer of the lobby, I spin on Dreads, my newest, nearest confidant, and stab him in the middle of his chest with my pointer finger before coming up onto my tiptoes and getting as much into his face as I can.
He’s tall. As hell. Not as tall as Jacques, but still a lot taller than I am.
“You self-righteous bastard. Don’t patronize me. I won’t stand for it! Do you know where I was last year this time? Do you have any idea how calm and UN-dramatic my life was? I WAS AT HOME! I went to work, I got home, I reported to Ty. I washed, rinsed, and repeated. That was fucking it! And NOW! NOW?!”
I’ve been warning you. As I’ve been warning them…
There’s only so much a woman can take before she just can’t take any more. And I’m there, at that point. Dreads may not know it. Beau, the extremely attractive acting treasurer member of my father’s MC, who just so happened to be exiting the elevator as I began my rant, may not know it. Hell, every other male in this building housing upward of two hundred motorcycle club members may not know it. But I just hit my limit. And I can’t—no, I won’t—be held responsible for my reactions to the shit these men dragged my life into.
“I’m going home! Fuck it, I’m going home! I’m not doing this. I’m not staying here. I can’t do this anymore—” I hiccup before the tears threaten, and then it’s just... Well, then it’s embarrassing.
I can’t control my bladder. I can’t control my anger. I can’t control my emotions. I can’t even control the freaking food I swallow! How?! How does just knowing you're suddenly six months pregnant trigger EVERY damn pregnancy symptom known to mankind?! Should I expect the pregnancy mask next too?
I stumble as I head to the elevator. After stabbing the button for the 10th floor, where my room is, I cross my arms over my chest and glare through my tears at Dreads when he winks.
“You know I’ve gotta come with you. What are you doing, Eve? Why are you so pissed? You wanna talk about it?”
“No,” I simply state as he steps onto the elevator.
He tries to scoot over to my side of the small space, and I duck under his arm when he goes in for a sideways hug.
“Stop, Dreads. Just stop. I don’t want to talk about anything. There’s nothing to say. I’m ready to start my life, okay? What’s so hard to understand about that? I need money. I need my house. I need a job. Then I need to get a freaking crib.” I point to my belly. “Soon, in case you haven’t noticed. And I can’t do that shit here. In lockdown. I won’t. I have my license to do hair now. Did you know that? I passed the classes. And the fucking test. I can take care of myself. If y’all would just let me.”
The elevator dings just before the red doors slide open, and he ushers me out with his hand at the small of my back. After quickly stepping forward, I move to the side and try his “you go ahead” maneuver because his door is the first one to the left and mine is the second.
When Dreads gets to his hotel room, he looks over his shoulder as we both go to swipe our keycards. “As soon as I step into my room, I’m opening the door to our adjoining rooms. You think I don’t know about your history? As soon as Jacques found out Ilsa had two kid daughters at that party that night he took an underage kid’s virginity, he did his homework. You think he didn’t put two and two together? Before he lost his memory, he remembered you from the bus station. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together.” He nods before sadly smiling. Then he steps through the door.
“Before he lost his memory, he remembered you from the bus station.”
Damn straight he remembered me. And he did his homework? So? What’s that supposed to mean?
I huff out a sigh as I enter my cool room. Then I close the door behind me, lock the deadbolt, and slide the latch. You can’t be too safe, and I’ve heard my father’s men whisper. I know there’s a target on my back.
I’m at the point where my sanity won’t allow me to care. I can’t take living in this damn fishbowl anymore!
I start the bath water and hook my iPhone up to the Bose speakers. Once I find my favorite playlist, I push play and “Be Still” by The Killers spills out into the bathroom.
Finally, my mind begins to clear as I hum the lyrics.
After the tub is full, I knock on Dreads’ door. I don’t want him to barge in, but I also want a damn bath. I’m tired. My back hurts, and my ankles are swollen. Don’t ask. Apparently, that’s another pregnancy symptom. And, as you can already tell, I’m chock-full of them lately.
“Dreads, I’d like to take a bath. You said this door would be opening as soon as you stepped into your room, and it’s not opening... Is it cool for me to bathe before we start this chat?”
I’m no happier than I was a few minutes ago; my patience is no sturdier, either. I’m trying like hell to keep a grasp on the few threads of sanity I have remaining. And acting like a whiny, crying bitch won’t help my situation anymore. But it could hurt it. I’m smart enough to know now’s not the time to show my cards. Ty and I talked. Before I left New York, we talked—and we have a plan B. Besides, New Orleans is nowhere near as far away as New York is to Daytona. All a bitch has to do from here is get across two states. Not ten. Okay, seven.
I try the door, but it’s locked, so I knock again. “Dreads? Open the damn door. I’m not pissed anymore. I’ll stop screaming at you, okay? Sorry. Hey!” I bang on the door again. “You know I’ve been through fucking hell and back. You can’t really blame me for getting grumpy. Shit, Jacques stays Mr. Grumpy face and no one ever says anything. Everybody just laughs it off—”
The door flies open and my hair swishes back with the force of it.
“Whoa,” I mutter, looking up into Dreads’ dead-serious eyes.
A split second later, his hand crushes the bones of my wrist as his grip encircles it and he rips me into his room. Once I’m over the threshold, the door slams behind us and he lets my wrist go before locking the door and stalking towards the bed, where he begins shoving a bunch of shit into a few small leather bags.
I’m in the midst of unconsciously rubbing my wrist when I glance around Dreads’ room, noting the major differences. “Are all of Pops”—I stop my words and look back at Dreads—“my father’s hotel rooms different in theme?”
“Yep. Floors are based on different themes too. This one is nursery rhymes or fairy tales or something.” He shoves the drawer he’s emptied closed and shuffles the socks and the T-shirts to the bed.
“No, it’s bedtime stories. I saw some of the other rooms as I passed by Maria in the hall cleaning a few. Cinderella, my room. Rapunzel. Jack and the Beanstalk.”
“Your pops is a clever man. I personally like the BDSM floor. Although he calls it the circus floor. I don’t recall any of the shit from those rooms at the circus when I was a kid, but hey. I’m not from NOLA. You people are different down here.” He chuckles.
I furrow my brow. “These aren’t my people,” I inform him. “I’ve never been here until three days ago. So you can stop with all that ‘you people’ shit. Why are you packing? Where are you going now?” I approach his bed and cross my arms over my chest, nodding towards the bags.
“Sorry, Pipsqueak. Jacques just called and talked to King. They just got another bike in. Found it in the French Quarter last night. Not NYC. With another note—”
“A note saying what, Dreads? Threatening me and my baby? Again? Does King know about it yet? I’m not standing aside anymore and allowing these men to determine my future. I can’t afford to. MY CHILD can’t afford me to.”
“He knows, and he decided too that it was a better idea for you to go back to NYC. We thought you’d be safe here, but...unfortunately, you’re not. The letter wasn’t pretty, either. And yes, it was along those lines. Threats. But that’s it. Our MC has your back, sweetheart. We’re not gonna let anything else happen to you. Between DDDs and SOSs, I can promise you you are safe. Do you understand me, Eve?”
I just nod. I swallow around the lump and, as vomit rises in my throat, I quickly blink and then nod again, seemingly a bit more convinced.
“Good girl.” Dreads stops shoving bags full and zipping them closed. Then he stands in front of me before settling his hands on my shoulders. “Hey... He asked about you.”
Still. Be still, my rampaging heart.
The stupid tears flood my eyes again, and I glance up at Dreads. “He…” Did? But I don’t allow the last word be spoken. I swallow it down instead. “He can ask all he wants. I’m none of his business. He said so himself, Dreads. You read his letter.” The tears are so hard to blink away. So hard.
A moment later Dreads envelops me in a huge bear hug, “You’re not just his business, Pipsqueak. You’re his Jacqueline. And, when he remembers that...there’s not gonna be any stopping him from getting to you. He’s gonna come for you, and that’ll be it for you. I hope you’re betting on an ending with you being Jacques Cain’s old lady, Eve O’Malley, because it’s happening. Now, go shower, okay? Or bathe or whatever. Take ya some clothes in there and close the bathroom door behind you. I’ll be in your room, packing your shit. We’re leaving in one hour. No questions. Jacques is on the phone with King right now, getting all the details ironed out. I’ll plug you in on the deets on the drive back home. We gotta truck, little lady. And it’s gonna be a long, fun, chatty ride.”
No. Not no, but hell no. I try to remember where I left my damn cell phone. I need to text Ty. If there were ever a night for plan B, it’d be tonight. Ty knows the drill; he knows the safe word. And all I have to do is find my fucking cell phone and sneak a text to him without Dreads seeing me.
Come hell or high water, I’m not going back to Jacques’ MC. There’s no way. Not without any answers from him. Not when I’m this emotionally unstable. And not after that damn letter… If he wants to talk, if he wants to reconcile, that’s fine. We’ll talk then. If he remembers his old life or his new life—or...what the fuck ever!—and he decides he does want to know his son or daughter, fine. We’ll talk about it then. But, until that happens, I’m not having shit to do with him. ’Cause I have a life to build around people who do remember me. And who know me and love me.
I may settle down in Daytona. I may head to Orlando—though probably not ’cause the same reason I’d move there is the same reason I would probably have to move away: my mother. And I’m not completely against settling down in New York. My career opportunities are definitely better in NYC. Lauryn and Zach and baby Abi live there. And I kept in touch with a few other friends from high school, so it wouldn’t be like I wouldn’t know anyone. Or I could settle anywhere. Any place I damn well please.
I have options. Okay? This woman, though she may be small, unwed, unemployed and almost seven freaking months pregnant... This woman has options. And I have been through hell and back, and I can AND will also get through this.
And I’ll do so without Jacques fucking Cain.
“Sounds fun,” I quietly mutter to Dreads as the dismal reality of my current situation settles around me.
I’m shuffling behind him when we step through the adjoining door and into my room. I spot the big, orange pumpkin and the little mice running around it painted next to a horse falling down on the wall. Half of the horse’s body is turning into a rat’s midair, and I wonder, in the middle of all of this shit that’s happening, why my father would have had this room painted like this. And then decide to place me in it.
It’s odd. But I’m finding that my father is odd, if he’s nothing else. Kind. Gentle. And so very caring under all of that hard, brown skin and his cold-as-ice glare. His exterior is straight business unless he’s on his bike and dressed in his leathers. Then he just looks like a scary badass. But, if you look at the laugh lines around his eyes and the creases in his cheeks, you can tell he’s had a happy life. A life full of laughs. The more I’ve come to know my father over the last few days, the more I’ve learned and the more I’ve realized how much I really like him. He’s a good father to have, if one were to have a father, and I just coincidentally recently acquired one.
“It will be fun. Now, go.” Dreads’ voice pulls me from my thoughts, snapping me back into my shitty reality. Then the asshole shoos me towards the bathroom.
I quickly scan my room for my phone.
Shit, I gotta find it. Where the hell did I leave it?!
I’m pushed the rest of the way into the bathroom, but I stop in my tracks only to be shoved forward again by Dreads with a pile of clothes at my back.
“Here’s some clothes, Pipsqueak. Oh, shit. The Killers—that’s my shit. Good choice, little sister. You have ten minutes. Then I’m coming back in here. Be dressed.”
I notice the music in the background and immediately feel myself go calm. Whew. I left my phone hooked up to the speakers in the bathroom. Shit. I mean, thank you, God.
I quickly kiss my crucifix before spinning around and taking the clothes from Dreads. “Yes, sir. Will do. Ten minutes. I’ll be ready. But you gotta take me to get something to eat or at least let me cook us something in the kitchen downstairs. Let’s get our bellies full. Then I want to talk to my pops,” I let the familiar, unfamiliar word roll from my tongue and internally smile. “I want to hear from him what he wants me to do.” My eyebrows rise as I dare him to counter my requests.
In reality, I pray to God that my bluff doesn’t get called. I need time. First, I needed my phone so I can text my best friend, but right now, I really need time. ’Cause I’m not fucking leaving Louisiana with Dreads Burgh. There’s no way in hell. I’ll leave by myself or I’ll leave with Ty. But that’s about it.
“Why are you being so agreeable all of a sudden?” His eyebrows also rise.
Shit. Shit. Shit. No, don’t look around!
“What?” I scoff.
He glances across the small space, but he looks right past the little speakers on the bathroom counter. Thank you, God.
“Dreads, I’m sorry I was bitchy earlier. I’m freaking pregnant. With Jacques Cain’s kid, and you know it. And you know, if I’m housing something even remotely his—much less his offspring—it’s bound to cause me to act a bit grumpy. He is Mr. Grumpy Face. We all know it.”
After he nods, he glances around the room one more time and sighs. “Okay. He is the hottest-coldest, bipolar-est son of a bitch I know, and you are carrying his kid, but try and keep a lid on it. He’s my prez, sweetheart—you’re not. I don’t have to deal with that shit from you. I’m only doing it out of the kindness of my heart. Keep that shit in mind. Ten minutes.” He looks down at his wrist, where there’s no watch. “Not a second more or I’m coming in.”
I salute him. “Aye, aye, captain. And we’ll talk to my pops?”
“Yes,” he chuckles and nods. “We’ll talk to your pops. Damn, woman, you are come here, stay. Hot and cold. What the hell?” His chuckle turns to laughter.
I cut my eyes at him. Then promptly slam the door in his face. “I know. You can go fuck yourself now, Dreads.” I talk shit to the mahogany wood door. Then I remember my phone and book it to the counter. Once I’ve locked the bathroom door I hurry and text Ty.
Me: Ty... This is no bullshit. Snowballs. Do you understand me? SNOWBALLS!
I start draining my bath water and start the shower, thankful for Pops’ never-ending hot water. When my phone lights up, I step back and read Ty’s response.
Ty: Snowballs? Right now? When? You can’t just fucking text Snowballs. I’m calling.
I almost drop my phone onto the marble counter while hurrying to text him back. I can’t let him call. If he calls, the music will stop. If the music stops, Dreads will wonder why. HE CAN’T CALL!
Me: NOOOOO!!!!!
I press send and then quickly text a follow-up.
Me: They want me to go back to NY. Ty, I can’t do that right now. There’s no way I can see him again. I’ll fall the fuck apart, Ty. Please! SNOWBALLS!
I added the hysterically crying emoji. You know, for good measure.
Ty: *Sighs* Okay, okay. What’s the plan? Am I coming to you? Or vice versa? Can you get on a plane?
Me: No. I’m on lockdown. I need you to come to me. Now. I’ll procrastinate as long as I can. Hurry, Ty. Please! Snowfuckingballs!
Ty: I’m coming. I’m leaving right now. Give me a few. I’ll text you when I hit the Florida state line. Shoot me the addy, baby girl. *kisses*