Poppy
My new baby is huge.
Comparatively speaking, if you know what I mean.
My phone buzzes, and I pat Baby gently as I step back. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for this as I answer Gator’s call.
“You almost here?” he asks.
“It’s time already?”
“Yeah,” he says. “So get your cute ass over here to the clubhouse.”
Gator sounds relaxed. In the two months since he pledged his undying love for me, he’s been as good as his word and then some. He still hasn’t kicked his habit of barking out orders, but I’m working on him. I figure he might actually be housebroken in another fifty years or so. Fortunately, I love him, rough edges and all, and since he really seems to get off on hearing it, I make a point of telling him daily.
“Love you,” I say, inching back toward Baby, who hasn’t gotten any smaller or more familiar in the last few seconds. But I’m doing this. I’m absolutely, one hundred percent doing this. “I’ll see you in about ten minutes. Maybe twenty.”
“I’ll be waiting. Promise to make it worth your while,” he growls in that rough, low voice that makes my panties melt. He seems to feel I need constant incentivizing to stay happy and stay with him—and since those incentives start with kissing and lead to the nearest bed, wall, bathroom, or woodsy spot, I shouldn’t complain. I have a fuckhot biker of my very own who thinks I’m the sexiest thing ever.
Except… I love my fuckhot biker, and he still thinks he’s not enough.
“You’re missing the point,” I tell him.
“That so?”
“I don’t need incentives,” I whisper. “All I need is you. You’re enough, Gator. This is about us and how we feel about each other, not about earning a spot in each other’s hearts. You’re my everything now.”
There’s a long pause. I wish I could see his face, hold him tight, and show him how much I mean those words because they’re so true. He is my everything, and I’d never, ever change that—even if we’re making room for Bean.
“Poppy…”
“I love you. Not what you do for me. Although I do enjoy that stuff too,” I admit. You know—in the spirit of being honest and not keeping secrets.
“I love you, too,” he growls. “Please come over here so I can tell you that while I’m holding you, okay? Might be part show, part tell, but it’s all yours. I’m all yours.”
Holy. Wow.
Gator hangs up before I can say anything else, and then it’s just me and Baby.
“We can do this,” I tell him. Baby just sits there, completely unbothered by my nerves.
Baby seemed like an awesome idea at the time, but now I’m not so sure. He’s terra incognita, and a little terrifying. Not that I’m saying that out loud. He might get his feelings hurt.
I mentally dredge up everything I’ve learned from the books I downloaded onto my e-reader. I’ve got this, and it’s not that far. If I run into trouble, Gator will be with me in a flash. He’s got my back, so it seems only fair that I have his.
I give Baby one last, reassuring pat and sling my leg over his seat. He’s a gorgeous bike, all shiny chrome and slick black paint except for the pink curlicue letters that spell out Gator’s Old Lady—I still kind of wish Baby came with training wheels. The dealer swore Baby was the perfect beginner bike, and that new beginning was what I was looking for. Gator and I are starting a relationship, a family, a whole new life together—and since riding is part of who he is, I want us to ride together. My bike-riding days are clearly going to be limited for the next five months or so because no way a pregnant belly and a Harley seem wise. I want to bubble-wrap this baby already, make sure nothing bad ever happens to him. And if Bean’s anything like his daddy or his mommy, that won’t fly with him. He’ll want to stand on his own two feet, make his own mistakes, live his own life. I’ll always be there to catch him, though. To say I love you and wave the family pom-poms to cheer him on.
I had the dealer deliver the bike, so this is my first attempt at being a badass biker. I turn the Harley on and inch out of the parking lot by the dock. Ride is probably a generous description of what I’m doing (it’s more like coast or drive like a grandma), but I’m doing it. I actually make it all the way to the clubhouse on my new bike.
Gator gives me a long look when I coast to a stop in front of him. I think he’s trying to choose his words carefully, which is cute. He finally settles on something. “You know how to ride that thing?”
My riding the Harley is kind of illegal. Okay, a whole lot illegal. My driver’s license only covers cars, but I’ve been banking on not getting busted in the few miles between the dock and the clubhouse, and so far I’ve done fine. I’ll be ready for the highway soon—possibly by the time Bean is headed off to college. Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to get it right or perfect or even close—I just have to keep trying.
“I love you.” I figure out how to turn the bike off, and Gator lifts me off. He presses a kiss against the small baby bump I’m sporting.
“You looking after your mama?” He pauses, as if Bean’s actually talking back to him. I frown. Which I don’t think is a shifter thing, but I should probably check. It’s not like they make a Werewolf Babies for Dummies book, although they totally should. “You think she’s crazy for putting her pretty little ass on a bike she doesn’t know how to control? Yeah. Me, too.”
“I made it here,” I argue. “And you can teach me later, okay?
Gator gives me a grumpy look, but he pulls me up against his side and steers us toward the clubhouse.
“In about eighteen fucking years,” he mutters. “You got a problem riding on the back of my bike? Because I’ve got to admit, I like having you there.”
“We could take turns,” I point out. “Sometimes you could ride behind me.”
He thinks that over while he shoves the clubhouse door open. A big palm squeezes my butt gently. “Could be fun.”
Yeah. I know exactly what he’s thinking. I’m thinking it, too.
Now’s not the time, though, because the clubhouse is crowded with old ladies, girlfriends, and any biker who couldn’t come up with an ironclad excuse to get out of today’s baby shower. The first thing I notice is that Keelie Sue looks like she’s about to pop, although she’s only about seven months along. If most pregnant women look like they’ve swallowed a watermelon in that last trimester, Keelie Sue looks like she’s eaten the entire fruit stand and come back for seconds. She’s downright enormous, and it’s clear Jace is worried. The big, burly biker hovers by her side like he’d be happy to walk and breathe for her. Part of me finds his concern sweet. The other part of me wonders if we should drag her to a doctor.
Except I’m certain that Jace had already done that. They’ve been dancing around the whole shifter thing, and I know he has concerns about the actual delivery—enough so that Keelie Sue is planning on a home birth. Jace wraps a massive arm around her shoulders, urging her to lean on him when she sags sitting up. I’m learning firsthand that pregnancy can suck the energy out of you one minute, and then send you speed-cleaning through the house the next, but I’m glad Keelie Sue has Jace by her side.
“Is she okay?” I nudge my own wolf man in the side.
Gator grunts something, but his eyes narrow. He doesn’t miss much, and he frowns as he takes in Keelie Sue’s pale face. It’s not that she doesn’t look happy—she does. It’s just that she seems to have cranked the exhaustion factor up to twenty and she’d give Casper the Ghost a run for his money in the colorless department.
“I’ll check in with Jace,” he mutters. He looks slightly appalled by the pink explosion happening inside the clubhouse.
We still don’t know if we’re having a boy or a girl, but Keelie Sue knows for certain that she and Jace are expecting a daughter. The club’s old ladies got together and decorated earlier today, and we’ve pretty much bought out every pink balloon and streamer in Baton Rouge. The piece de resistance is the three-tier, pink-and-white cake surrounded by teeny-tiny mountains of pink-and-white macaroons, cupcakes, and profiteroles. Just in case anyone hasn’t figured it out, delicate signs spell out B A B Y. Gator winces as he takes it all in.
I almost feel bad for dragging him along, but most of the pack is here. And while not all of them have mates or even girlfriends, everyone wants to come out and support their Alpha and welcome the new arrival. The next hour is a whirl of tulle and ribbon as Keelie Sue squeals and opens enough baby items to clothe triplets or possibly quintuplets. The guys are good sports, and I’m starting to wonder if there are any baby clothes left for sale in the greater Baton Rouge area, when the clubhouse door bangs open and Fang strides in.
I’m a little surprised that he’s so late because Fang loves a good party, and he tends to stick close to his pack. For all that he’s loud, filter-less, and off-the-charts crass, he’s also a good guy. If you look really deep down inside and cut him slack on the shit he pulls. But he’s really been there for Keelie Sue, and I’ve caught him looking out for me more than once in the last couple of weeks. It’s just that he’s used to solving problems with his fists, and that doesn’t help Keelie Sue at all right now. Plus, if there’s anything that needs punching, she’s already got Jace.
Fang doesn’t date. He’s more of a serial fucker, working his way through the club hang-arounds and anyone else with two legs, two boobs, and a vagina. Now that I think about it, he’s a total manwhore. He’s the kind of man who should have Watch out! Or Stay away! tattooed on his forehead, and probably on his dick for good measure. Because no matter how much fun he is or how hard he makes you laugh with his ridiculous antics, he doesn’t stick. He’s in, out, and gone, and if the rumors about the in time are spectacular, so is the fall out. He drives women crazy in the best and worst of ways.
So I can’t decide if these personality flaws explain why Fang has a woman draped over his shoulder. She’s twisting something fierce, and although I can’t quite make out the words over the roar of the baby shower, her displeasure is quite clear. If Fang has banged her, they’ve moved on to the non-orgasmic kind of drive her crazy. As heads turn and the volume in the room drops precipitously, he smacks her on the butt. By the time the door closes behind him, it’s dead quiet and more than one mouth is hanging open.
Fang doesn’t take his eyes off Keelie Sue. Gator told me they were almost an item once, but I didn’t think Fang still had feelings for her. Maybe I’m wrong because his eyes burn as he examines her.
“You look like shit, baby girl,” he announces.
Jace growls something and surges to his feet. Behind me, Gator mutters a curse of his own.
“So I brought you a baby present,” Fang continues, as if they’re the only two people in the room and he doesn’t have an audience consisting of most of a wolf pack and a handful of humans like me.
He crosses the room in a handful of strides, swings his companion off his shoulder, and holds her out for Keelie Sue to inspect. Naturally, we all stare at her. She’s pretty, that’s for certain. Her blonde, sun-streaked hair is bundled up in a ponytail and she’s got about a million freckles all over her nose and cheeks. They play connect-the-dots to the start of what’s either little laugh or sun lines by her eyes. Frankly, she’s both too wholesome—and dressed—to be with Fang. She also tries to knee him in the nose, which leads to him setting her rather abruptly on her feet.
I don’t think she wants to be her.
And in case her attempt to rearrange Fang’s face isn’t clue enough. Her hands are tied together with yards of hot pink, silk ribbon. More of that ribbon is wrapped around her torso in a gigantic bow and a gag made out of the same fills her mouth. Either Fang’s got a previously undisclosed Shibari fetish, or he’s in even more trouble than usual.
“Fang?” Keelie Sue blinks, looking confused.
“I brought you a present,” Fang repeats, nudging his girl closer. “I brought you a doula. She’s gonna help you with the birth, and everything’s gonna be a-fucking-okay.”