OUR SECRET BABY: War Riders MC

by Paula Cox

  I wipe my mouth and lean against the wall, catching my breath. I can still feel the way his shadowy beard tickled my cheek. I can still feel the phantom of his hand on my belly. I can still feel his lips against mine and the pressure of his teeth. I close my eyes and regain my composure, and then look up at him. All at once, I want to kiss him again. He just walks around to his desk, leans back, and chews on his toothpick.

  I go to the desk and sit opposite him, on the smaller, non-President’s chair. “You’re as quiet as me, sometimes,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Sometimes quiet is best.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry—”

  “No need,” he says coolly.

  “I just—” I let out a sigh. He might say there’s no need, but for some reason I feel I owe him an explanation. Or maybe I owe myself an explanation, because I wanted that kiss to go further. I mutter: “That was nice of you, doing that in front of them.”

  “If you’re mine, they won’t bother you. They’ll want to, but they won’t.”

  His? His? Like I am an item. No, worse than that, like I am some girl with a thorny flower in her hair locked in a one-windowed room being taped and ordered around for his pleasure, like I am somebody without a say-so in my own life, like I have no kind of will. That is what scares me the most, I think. That this situation is not all that different from the situation I almost found myself in: than the situation with the Movement. All my life, men have tried to trap me, cut off my wings and keep me in one place, doing one thing, their place and their thing. They have tried to make me theirs for their own reasons and it terrifies me that this might be the same. Oh, it feels different, but just because something feels different at first, it doesn’t mean it is different.

  It’s only when I stop, panting, that I realize I’ve said all that out loud.

  Dante sits up, watching me with dark eyes.

  “Oh,” I say, leaning back, wishing the chair would swallow me. It’s far more than I’ve said since I got here.

  “The Movement?” Dante says, eyebrow raised. “What’s that? Some kind of cult?”

  “Don’t ask me about that,” I say quickly. “Just—don’t.”

  He watches, chews, and then drops his toothpick onto the table. “Alright. But I think I get where you’re coming from, Kayla. Look, I’m not saying I wouldn’t like a piece of that, but I get where you’re coming from. But I’m moving you in here with me.” He nods to the bedroom behind me. “If we want the club girls to stop bothering you, we’ve got to make it look like you’re mine. Even if you do have all this shit going on up here.” He taps the side of his head, and then takes a new toothpick from his front pocket.

  “Uh—” I think about it. What will make my life easier? What will make hiding, being inconspicuous, easier? Running away, for sure. But except for running away, the safest thing to do would be to remain a cleaning lady, a burger-flipper, let the others think that I really am stupid. But that stopped being an option when Dante kissed me.

  “When do I move in?” I say, but it’s more like I hear myself say it.

  “Tonight,” Dante says. “Gives me a chance to order in some fresh sheets, get the room cleaned.” He smiles with a hint of embarrassment, but only a hint. “A single man don’t live in such a clean way, you know?”

  “Okay.” I nod. My throat is hoarse from speaking so much. “Do I still clean and cook?”

  “I’m moving you to cooking duty, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You won’t need to go into the dormitory wing.”

  “Okay. I should go and get ready for lunch, then.”

  He rises to his feet and walks with me to the door. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

  I place my hand on the door before he opens it. “But this doesn’t mean I’m your whore,” I say. “This doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with you. I don’t want to be . . . to be trapped.”

  “I know. You made that clear.”

  “Then why?” I nod at the bedroom: why would a man like Dante want a woman who won’t even sleep with him?

  He stares at me for a few moments, seems about to say something, but then just murmurs: “’Cause I want it.”

  Then he opens the door and I walk back across the bar, toward the dormitory wing, reeling. Reeling from the kiss and reeling from the conversation afterward, reeling that I shared so much with him without properly realizing it, without questioning it, reeling from the heat which emanated from his body and set mine burning, reeling from the way his moans provoked mine. I cannot remember moaning with a man, ever. I have always been too conscious of myself. But with Dante, briefly, I was able to let go long enough to moan. It’s strange.

  I’ve taken no more than two steps into the dormitory wing when Ogre, the huge man I’ve avoided since I arrived here, steps into my path. He really is massive. Standing in front of him is like standing in front of an industrial-sized vending machine. I have to crane my neck to look up at him, and even then I’m mostly staring at his mouth and his neck. To get a proper look at him, I would have to crane my back, too. He steps into my path and I jump back, letting out a reflexive yelp.

  “Do you like this?” he says, tugging at his jacket with a meaty hand. I back away to the wall and he follows, looming over me. “He who steals must steal no longer. But rather he must labor, performing with his own hands what is good, so that he will have something to share with one who has need.” With each word, he takes another step, until I am laid flat against the wall.

  I am too scared to speak. My mouth, suddenly so alive in Dante’s office, is unmoving except for my trembling lips. Sweat slides down my body. I am so frightened that I wish Angelica and the club girls would return to the hallway. I would rather have them insulting me than this man looming over me. I swallow; my throat aches.

  “That means that it is better to make your own jacket than to steal mine,” he says. “If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. That means that you should cut off your hand because you used that sinful hand to pull my jacket around your shoulders. I do not think that was a very nice thing to do and let me tell you something else you small bird—yes, a bird and I can snap birds very easily, in half, right in half—let me tell you that if you ever tell Boss about me talking to you now, here, I will snap you just like you really was a little bird. Please nod if you understand.”

  I nod so vehemently my chin touches my chest.

  “I want you to tell me you are sorry for stealing my jacket. That was not a very nice thing to do. Please tell me now before I forget where I am and cause you pain.”

  Talking is difficult, but I manage to whisper: “I am sorry for stealing your jacket.”

  “Good. That is very good. Thank you for apologizing.”

  He paces away from me without saying anything else. I keel over, squeezing my belly, panting, terror moving through me as fiercely as lust did moments ago.

  Chapter Nine

  Dante

  I spend the rest of the day doing the boring shit a President has to do to keep his club going, the logistical paperwork shit they never show in the movies. As I work, I think of Kayla. I think about how she’s been trying to hide from me these past couple of weeks, trying to make herself small, and yet how big she’s become in my mind. I think about how hard I’ve found it to keep my eyes off her whenever we’re in the same room together. That dancer’s body, that mussy tawny hair, those massive saucer-like eyes.

  The first night she got here, I told all of the guys to stay away from her, every single one, which is why none of them have bothered her. I won’t let any of them try it on with her. I knew, since the moment I picked her up and carried her out of the burning building, that she was mine. And yet—maybe she was right, stopping the kiss when she did. The fact is, a man like me can’t afford to feel anything about a woman. You can be with plenty of women, of course. That’s what escorts and club girls are for. But when it comes to feeling something, that’s where you’ve got to draw the line.

  There’s something else, too, another reason that
makes me think Kayla is right; we shouldn’t get involved. She’s twenty two, a decade younger than me, and she was almost sold into sexual slavery, just like me. Looking at her, I can’t help but be reminded of what almost happened to me, and when I think about what almost happened to me, I don’t think straight. I need to blot that shit out. Whoever said burying your feelings was a bad idea obviously never ran a motorcycle club. No, you stamp on your feelings until they can’t get in the way. That’s the only way you can make sure they don’t strangle you.

  I go over and over this all day, as I get through my work, and then for some reason I find myself thinking of my mother, Sandra. Sandra died of lung cancer when I was six years old, leaving me to fend for myself in an orphanage, and then eventually as an outlaw. I was young when she died and I don’t remember a massive amount about her except that she used to smile and smoke and smoke and smile all day long, just sitting on the couch in our tiny trailer, smoking and smiling and talking about how my father ran out on her before I was born. I remember she would sometimes ruffle my hair. I remember she would often sit me on her lap and we’d watch The Incredible Hulk on TV and Sandra would laugh and tell me that she needed a man like that. I would ask her if she meant a strong man, and she would cough out a laugh, and tell me no, she meant a green man.

  I smile at the memory—and then I push it down. See, I reason with myself, this is what having Kayla close by is doing to me. It’s making me think of shit I shouldn’t be thinking of. I should be thinking of Silvertongue—or the man who killed Silvertongue—the man who owes me a debt. You kill a man who owes me money, making it so that man can’t pay me, you owe me now. I’ve sent my boys out, but so far, nobody can tell me how that fire started. The only thing the bribed officials can tell us is that it was started half an hour before it really got going, some slow-burning method, but they have no clue who it was, either.

  I lean back in my chair and rub my temples. Paperwork is damn boring. I’m glad when somebody knocks on my door around five o’clock, but that gladness doesn’t last long when Ogre walks in.

  I haven’t talked with Ogre much these past couple of weeks except to send him on assignments. The only reason I haven’t disciplined him further after killing that guard is that he completes every task I assign him efficiently, first time every time. He’s one of my best men, without a doubt. Even if he is a fuckin’ weirdo.

  He closes the door behind him quietly, and then creeps across the room. That’s another strange thing about Ogre: he can move quiet when he wants. Freaks me the hell out, not that I’d let that show on my face. Bryce Augustus Picard, the man’s name is, but I can never look at him and connect Bryce or Augustus or Picard with that squashed face and those dead eyes. It’s too damn hard. He’s just Ogre.

  He sits down, the only noise the creaking of the chair struggling to hold his weight, and then scratches his shiny bald dome.

  “Boss,” he says.

  “Ogre,” I reply, watching him.

  You’ve got to let big men like this know you’re in charge, hence the kidney shot back at the warehouse. Hence the way I stare at him now, not flinching from him one bit, ready to go to war if it came to that.

  But Ogre just leans back and says: “I have some news, Boss.”

  “About Silvertongue?”

  He shakes his head, a slow gesture. “No, about the girl. Kayla.”

  I swallow. The fuck is he doing talking about Kayla? But I don’t let my anger, or my surprise, show on my face.

  “What about her?” I ask.

  He stares at me with eyes that hint at nothing, absolutely nothing. I find myself wishing I could stab those eyes out and get to the emotions underneath. Every man feels, no matter how cold, no matter how big. Every man has something driving him. But with Ogre it’s like looking into a completely calm well of water, not a single ripple.

  Then he says: “I saw Kayla take something from the kitchen. At first I thought to myself: No, you have made a mistake, Kayla is a very respectful lady and a very bright lady and she would not take anything. But then I looked again and, Boss, I don’t wanna talk bad about her, but I saw her take something again. I know now. She’s stealing from us.”

  Oh, that. I make sure to stay composed, but I really couldn’t give a fuck. Let her steal a few five dollar notes and some cutlery and a mug or two. She’s got squirrel eyes; let her squirrel away supplies for the winter. It makes no difference to me. But Ogre knowing isn’t a good thing. Ogre knowing means others might know. And if others know, they might start asking why Boss is giving this one piece of skirt so much privilege.

  “I’m guessing you haven’t told anyone.”

  “No, Boss.”

  “Good, and don’t. Let me handle it. I’ll put her in her place.”

  I’ll tell her to stop stealing shit where people can see her doing it, I mean.

  Ogre doesn’t stand up. Instead, he grips the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles turn white and flashes a sideways smile. “Yessir!” he cries, in a weirdly feminine voice. “Yessir! Yessir!”

  “Ogre, I’m not in the mood for your shit,” I say. “Are we done?”

  He drops the smile, and then nods, but still doesn’t stand. “I have told you everything I meant to tell you,” he says. And yet he remains sitting. “But I would also like to make an offer, Boss, and I know, Boss, that you said you’d deal with it, Boss. But I think you should listen, Boss.”

  This is something Ogre has done before. He’ll skirt the edges of disrespect, of outright disobedience, without actually crossing the line. Killing that guard back at the warehouse, that was disobedience, which is why I could take his leather and humiliate him in front of the men. But this—repeatedly saying Boss over and over—is on the edges. Maybe he means something by it, or maybe he is just being Ogre, weird, speaking in a way only Ogre understands.

  “Listen to what?” I say, not bothering to hide the tiredness in my voice. This is bad; Ogre has a problem with Kayla. If it came to Ogre vs. Kayla, I would be required by the club to pick Ogre, and yet I know that I would not want to. I would want to pick Kayla. I would want kick Ogre to the dirt and hold Kayla close. Strange, since I don’t really know this girl, have only spoken to her a handful of times. But—dammit. Ogre is talking.

  “. . . for whatever one sows, that will he also reap.”

  “What are you saying, Ogre?” I ask, really tired now of the biblical shit.

  “I am saying, Boss, that you should let me teach Kayla a lesson. I could teach her a very good lesson, a lesson she will not forget. I am good at teaching lessons. I have strong hands which create strong memories of people’s flesh.” He grins, his eyes staying dead. “I could teach her a lesson she will not forget, ever, never ever, never—”

  “No,” I say, voice firm, the idea of Ogre touching Kayla making me want to slam the man’s head into the table. “No, I will handle her. I’ve given you my decision.”

  Ogre somehow growls without moving his lips, the sound emanating from his massive chest. “I think you should let me handle it—”

  I place my hands on the table and stand up, looking down at him.

  “Are we going to have a fuckin’ problem?”

  Ogre shifts, glances at the ground. He looks like an oversized kid being told off by a teacher, trying to find somewhere to look, anywhere but in my face.

  “We haven’t got a problem. It’s just that . . . the club, Boss, the club is the thing, and without the club, we are nothing. I feel like you are picking the club over me.” He pouts, and then quickly says. “Not me! The club!”

  “I have given you my decision,” I say. “You will leave Kayla alone, or we’re going to have a problem. Am I clear?”

  For a second, I think he might make something of it, but then he nods, rises to his feet, and flees the office.

  Chapter Ten

  Dante

  I have to tell Kayla to leave.

  I say this over and over to myself as she moves her things into my bedroom, as s
he turns and glances at me and then down at the ground, as I go to the door and lock it, go to my desk and lay out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. I have to tell her to leave. It’s bad enough having a thief here, but having a thief here who Ogre wants to torture—who Ogre might reveal to the rest of the club—could ruin everything. The entire club could crumble. Cogs could stop turning, warehouses and protection rackets and arms deals could collapse; the entire organization could disintegrate. And all because of one large-eyed mussy-haired girl.

  I sit in my chair and she comes and sits opposite, walking quickly, glancing around skittishly. Pale setting sunlight glows through the drawn blinds, and my desk lamp throws up bright yellow beams from the corner of my desk, off to our right. Kayla takes her glass of whisky, which I have already poured, and brings it to her lips. She sips so quickly and such a small amount that I wonder if she’s actually sipped at all.