by Forgy, M. N.
He glares, pulling his hand away from the bump forming on his forehead.
“Are you insane? My water could have broken sneaking up on me like that!” Instinctively, I place my palm on my belly. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”
Ignoring my questions, he walks back to the counter where the lettuce and bread were left out.
“My name is Mac, and I’m the fucking babysitter.” His eyes slowly rise to mine, a chiseled smile crossing his smug face as he lifts his chin with more confidence than I can handle looking directly at.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I sass.
“I’m here for that, not you.” He points to my pregnant belly, his silver chain-looking bracelet sliding around his wrist. I shift on my back foot, and sigh. Over the past few months, death has not scared me but losing my child has. For Gatz’s club to be here and help protect a fetus that might not even be their own. That stands for something.
“My name is Simone—”
“I know who you are. The chick that got pregnant by two men, from two different clubs.” The coldness in his voice drips like ice. “Are you a biker hopper?” His tone casual as if we’re discussing a movie we just saw.
“A what?” I snap, not familiar with the terminology.
“You know, like a mattress hopper, only you’re jumping from biker dick to biker dick.” He waves around a mayonnaise covered butter knife.
My jaw drops. “That’s not who I am—”
“Are you a prostitute or something then?” His tone serious. My face burns with anger, and the urge to hit him in the head with the ashtray again flares.
“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”
He smirks, and I can tell I’m in deep shit with this guy. This is not just any brooding biker, this is a man who plays with women’s heads before leaving you shredded and confused. The lipstick on his shirt a hint that he’s also a player.
He steps around the counter, his breath smelling of beer and weed. He towers over me a good foot, making me have to glare up at him.
“Easy, Pocahontas, I’ll treat you like a princess for a few minutes after I let you ride my cock. I won’t even judge you for liking it.” He waggles his brows, and I shove him.
“I’m not a biker hopper!” I purse my lips.
His eyes blaze of burnt green irises, and his shoulders rise. Skimming me up and down, a wolfish smile fits his smug face. He’s playing with me and enjoying the rise he’s getting.
“Cut the shit, I know what your kind is and I’m not a toy.”
“My kind?” His head tilts to the side with curiosity.
“Biker.” My lips curl with the word. “I’ve grown up working the field of outlaws, and I’ve seen how you guys live. If you think for one second you can play me like one of your club bitches… you’re wrong.”
Lifting his hand, he rubs his chin.
“Maybe I was wrong about you,” he says, his voice grave. I give a curt nod, proud of myself for taking charge of the situation. Seems I haven’t lost my touch after all. “You’re fucking stupid if you think for one second that I care about you, you’re wrong. I’ll cut that child from your fucking womb, and hand you over to the very people you’re running from, Pocahontas.”
My eyes widen, a lump forming in the back of my throat. I’ve never had anyone talk to me like this before.
“But you already knew that, right? Knowing my kind and all?”
Taking a step back, we stare into each other’s eyes, the room silent as we challenge one another.
An arrogant laugh vibrates his body, his back turned toward me, he heads to his room which is on the other side of the suite.
He shuts the door, and I pull at my hair in frustration.
Fucking Pocahontas, screw him.
Mac
Lying in bed, I pull my cigarettes out of my pocket and light one up. Blowing smoke into the room, I think about Simone. She’s feisty for being pregnant and at our mercy.
I take another drag.
I thought I’d come in here to an annoying chick down for some kink, I mean, she did fuck two guys and get knocked up.
She insulted my kind. What bullshit.
Sure, she wasn’t wrong. Bikers have been known to be ruthless and a little horny, but there’s another side to us too. Just very few get to see that.
I glance at the door, she may not see that side of anyone if she continues to keep her walls to her bitch fort up. Nobody has seen mine, and I intend on keeping it that way.
Grabbing my iPod from my bag, I shove the earbuds in my ears and listen to “Hail to The King” By Avenged Sevenfold. Closing my eyes, I fall asleep. It’s been a long fucking day.
* * *
Weight on my chest and a piercing sting to my neck wakes me from a deep sleep. My eyes snap open with Simone straddling my body, her swollen belly sitting on my chest, with a knife pressed to my neck
“Who is the stupid one now, sleeping with your back turned?” she criticizes, fire and pain dancing in her eyes. Fisting her hips, I throw her onto her back, my arm whipping out from under my pillow, I press my gun to her head.
“I stand by my statement, only a stupid bitch would come in here thinking I wouldn’t expect it.”
She doesn’t respond, her chest rising and falling. Opening her mouth, she closes it thinking better not to speak. Smart considering there’s a gun to her head.
“Say it,” I press on, wanting to hear what she has to say.
“I am not a whore. I was a virgin before I got pregnant!” Her voice cracks with emotion, her sad eyes tugging at the armor I wear from day to day.
Using the barrel of my gun, I push the hair from her round face wanting to see all of her sadness. She’s so beautiful. Her misplaced strength breathtaking, and the weight of her sins sewn into her shoulders like a pair of dark wings.
“You don’t have to fight anymore,” I whisper, my softness taking me aback. Her throat bobs as she swallows my words. Why I feel the need to say that, I don’t know. I can just tell this woman has been fighting fear with fear for far too long. Lifting my fist away from the mattress, allowing her to get up, I place the gun in my waistband.
Shifting off the bed, she stands. She’s wearing a t-shirt that tickles the tops of her thighs, her dark green panties contrasting amongst her dark skin. Even with a pregnant belly, she’s a fucking looker. The pressing of my dick in my pants agreeing.
Her eyes glance over her shoulder at me, and I see confusion and courage battling on what to think of me. She doesn’t know whether to like me or hate me.
“Simone.” I overstepped my boundaries telling her she was safe. “Simone!” She keeps walking, ignoring me. Jumping from the bed, I grab her by the shoulder, but she shakes me off.
“Goddamn it, stop for a second!” I demand. I need to clear the air, be mean to her or something.
“Why? We’re not friends, you made that clear. So… don’t be nice to me.” Her voice cracks with emotion, and I feel like an ass. I can’t force myself to be a dick to her. Why? Because she’s pregnant?
Giving me a once-over, she walks across the suite back to her room, slamming the door.
“Bitch!” I growl under my breath, slamming my own door. This is why I’d rather talk to computers than a woman. They’re fucking complicated!
11
Simone
A week goes by, and Mac and I haven’t said so much as a word to each other. Just silent stares, and glares from across the room. We take turns coming into the main room, and then retreating back to our bedrooms. I’m seven months pregnant today, I wish I knew if it was a boy or girl. On the dresser I tap the horns of the dragon Gatz gave me. I’m so ready to give it to the baby.
Heading into the main room, I sit on the couch and turn the TV on. There’s an ER program on, and someone pregnant is in distress. She’s crying and weeping for the baby’s care, and I can’t help but tear up. Fucking hormones.
The other day a woman dropped an egg on a cooking show and I
cried for her. She would have won that competition if she didn’t drop that egg.
Mac’s bedroom door opens, and he struts out wearing a low-slung pair of jeans, and nothing else. His strong chest displays the slightest bit of hair, and hard nipples. Stopping, he scratches his chest, eyeballing the TV.
“What the hell are you watching?” he asks with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
“It’s the miracle of life.” Gesturing my hand toward the TV, just as the woman’s water breaks all over her and two nurses.
Mac sits down on the edge of the couch, smoke swirling around me.
He glances at the TV, and then me.
“Are you crying?”
I wipe my cheeks, they’re wet. Fuck, I swear my crying has no bounds. “No,” I snap, snatching the cigarette from his lips and plopping it in an empty beer bottle on the coffee table.
His brows furrow inward, his jaw ticking.
“Second-hand smoke?” I point to my belly. “It’s very dangerous for the baby.”
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. Collapsing fully into the couch, he throws his arm on the back of it and looks at the TV focusing on the woman giving birth.
The woman screams, and they show a vaginal shot. I can’t help but wince, that’s just scary.
“That’s fucking terrifying! How does a chick come back from that?” He leans forward clutching the remote and turning the channel to Mad Max. I’ve seen it before, and like it but I was in the middle of that show!
“Hey!” I try and grab the remote, but he shoves it down his pants like a child.
“Come and get it, Pocahontas.” His hand slung across the back of the couch, a smug smile on his handsome face I don’t know whether to take him seriously or hit him in the head with the ashtray again. Games. It’s all games.
“Oh, don’t get all pissy with me, Pocahontas,” he laughs. Standing, I’m pissed he keeps calling me a fucking princess.
Grabbing the beer bottle from the coffee table, I tilt it slowly and spill it on his crotch. The smell of ash and stale beer filling the air. He jumps up, droplets of liquid staining the floor.
“Fucking hell!” He quickly brushes the stale beer off his jeans before furiously glaring at me.
I turn, trying my hardest to waddle to my room, but of course he’s faster than me. He grabs me by the wrist and halts me in my attempt to escape.
“If you wanted me to take my jeans off, you could have just asked, not fucking douse them in piss warm beer.”
“Would you prefer cold beer? Not that your dick could get any smaller.” I look down at the outline of his cock. It’s not lacking in size, but I’m not about to feed his ego.
He shakes his head, a smile hidden under his grimace. I almost think he likes to hate me.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Simone.”
“This is the only game I know how to play.” A sinister smile crosses my face. Leaning in, invading my space, I suck in a tight breath. I haven’t had a man this close to me in months.
“Then let’s play. I play John Smith, and you’re my Pocahontas.” His teeth nip my ear, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “Where I fuck the respect into you and the defiant little bitch out.”
“You have no idea how much bitch I have inside of me,” I fire back, my tone of voice huskier than I want to let on.
“Is that right?” Amusement thick in his voice.
“Let’s just say, I have your name on my list in bright red marker,” I threaten. He quiets, taking a step back. He flicks his chin with his thumb, his forest eyes burning with intrigued interest rather than anger.
“You know, I’d almost believe you were a bad ass if you didn’t have such sadness swimming in your eyes, Princess.” I swallow hard, his words hitting home.
“I’m- I’m not sad.” I shrug. Am I?
“You don’t sound so sure.” His hair falls into his face when he tilts his head to the side.
Opening my mouth to defend myself, nothing comes out. My empty chest feels cold and I suddenly feel sad. As if I’ve been suppressing how I really feel for a long time.
Looking at the floor, my hand twirls a piece of hair next to my face. I’ve been sad, I’ve mourned but I’ve never really moved forward from being forlorn.
He did it, Mac broke my exterior shell and I suddenly feel exposed. I roll my eyes, and turn my back, sauntering back to my room. This conversation is over.
12
Simone
Two days pass, and we say nothing to one another again. Back to silent glances and avoiding one another as I sit on the floor. I pull my toes up trying to paint them dark blue, but my belly is in the way.
I kick my leg sideways trying to reach and I knock the bottle over onto the rug.
“FUCK!” I grab the bottle, but it’s too late, polish soaks into the carpet. “Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.
“You say fuck a lot.” Mac startles me from the kitchen. His eyes judgmental, as if me being pregnant I can’t say the f-word.
I scowl in his direction. “I’m a drop the f-bomb kind of mom.”
He laughs and sits next to me on the floor. Crossing his legs, he grabs the fingernail polish.
“What are you doing?”
He grabs my foot, and the soft contact causes tingles to shoot up my legs. His hands are warm, and my feet are ticklish to the touch. His greedy stare drinks me in, and a shiver bumps its way up my spine.
“I can do that,” I insist, his touch unraveling me.
“No, you can’t,” he rebuttals calmly, focusing on my toe.
He swipes the paintbrush across my toenail perfectly before going to the next toe. Leaning back on my hands, I watch him paint every nail on my left foot. Cradling my foot, he blows gently across my toes, and goosebumps pepper along my skin. His hooded eyes set on mine, dark eyelashes framing his forest eyes. He’s so handsome and ruggedly good-looking at the same time. Every nerve ending I have is alive and thirsty for his touch.
“Is this your favorite color or something?” he questions.
“No, I love dark green. Like forest green.” His eyes meet mine and I hold my breath. Dark green like the flecks in his eyes, but I don’t say that.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
He ignores me, he does that a lot. Especially if I’m asking a question.
“You have to like a certain color,” I press.
“Black,” his tone dry. I like the color black for clothes, but that’s about it. It’s dark and bleak of any emotion. Then again, Mac is hard at showing what he’s feeling exactly too. So, it’s rather perfect I suppose.
Moving his hand to the next foot he caresses my ankle, and I melt into his hold. I don’t know if I want to be pissed at this man or ravish him. Damn hormones.
He paints each toenail and blows across them again. I’ve never understood people with foot fetishes, but Mac holding my foot, and blowing hot breaths across my sensitive skin… I’m starting to understand it now.
He knowingly smirks as he screws the lid on the nail polish. I look away, wetting my lips.
Standing up, he chuckles. He knows what he’s doing to me. “Better clean that mess up, Pocahontas.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the polish… or me.
* * *
Eating a bowl of soup, I watch Mac do push-ups in the living room. His arms bulge, his back is sweaty, and his hair sways in his face. We’ve been cordial with each other for the last few days, which is a step in a better direction.
“Enjoying your soup?” he asks between push-ups.
“Mmhmm.” I can’t take my eyes off him. If I look hard enough, I swear I can see his pack sweep across the floor when he thrusts upwards.
A knock on the hotel door catches my attention. Waddling across my room, I open the door and find a man with black shaggy hair standing in the doorway of the suite.
“Hey Simone!” he nods with his chin. He’s the president of the club, I saw him briefly before Kane swept me u
p here. He’s tall and makes me shrink where I stand. Him standing so close to me, I swear I can hear the cries of his victims crying in my ear. He’s dangerous. I’ve heard of this man from many clubs in the area but never had the pleasure to meet the Reaper himself.
“Mac, you got a second?” Stepping past me, one hand in his pocket, he heads to Mac.
Mac jumps to his feet, his chest puffed out and falling and rising with each breath. Man, he makes me feel like a woman.
Zeek talks to Mac in a hushed voice. Mac finally glances my way, his face ashen. I suck in a tight breath knowing what he’s going to tell me… I’m not going to like.
Zeek sighs and runs his hand on the back of his neck, before turning my way. Every passing second they hold their tongues, I deprive myself of air.
