Avenging Devil Part 1: Satan’s Devils MC - San Diego Chapter #3

by Mellett, Manda

  Even after I got free, I lived daily on the edge, always looking behind and worried Duke might somehow find me. The fear hasn’t dissipated even after three months. I never rest easy.

  While the Freedom Trail had been amazing, I was anxious as hell, worried something would go wrong. Even with new papers, a new identity, accommodations and a job, I’d been terrified every minute on my journey, and live with the legacy of terror every day.

  My life hasn’t been easy, but it’s not me who’s suffering the consequences, it’s my reason to get up and keep breathing each morning. It’s my baby.

  I’m not strong enough to bear the news I’ve just heard.

  Hell, who is? What woman could cope with this under normal circumstances, let alone those I find myself in? I’m alone. I’ve no one to support me, no one to share the burden or the loss of my dream.

  I cry and cry, totally unembarrassed or caring what these people think of me. Nothing matters now. If I could stop breathing, I’d welcome the release. When I think my tears will never stop, I must run out of energy, as my wails turn into sobs, and I become conscious of what’s happening around me.

  I hear Mary asking her companion to get me a drink. When he comes back with just water, I have to suppress the scream that I’d prefer coffee, or whisky would be even better. To drink myself into oblivion sounds good right now. What further harm could it do? But I don’t make the request. There remains that innate urge to protect the baby inside me.

  He, who I now register Mary had called Niran, is too big and scary, too reminiscent of the men who liked to torture me. If I were in a different frame of mind, having him in my space would terrify me. As it is, when he hands me the glass and stares at me intently, I don’t feel I’ve any option but to sip it to please him. If I didn’t, would he raise his hands to me? Duke has me programmed to suspect all men are like him. As he continues to focus on me, my fingers tremble as I raise the glass to my lips a second time.

  As I drink, I hear Mary and he have a quiet conversation.

  “What did Grumbler say?”

  I hear a soft snort, then, “He told me to tell you to get your ass back home. He’s about half an hour away and wants you there before him.”

  Mary softly snorts. “Presumably with his dinner on the table ready and waiting.”

  “Hey, I’m only the messenger.” Having glanced up in shock, I see Niran grinning at her.

  Fuck no. Not her as well. I open my mouth to tell her she shouldn’t stay in an abusive relationship, and that hers is one is what I’m hearing.

  But she replies before I can open my mouth, “Grumbler’s a pussy, Niran. I can handle him.”

  Niran grunts. “I know you can. I’m more worried about what he’s going to do to me, woman. I should have taken you home.”

  Mary’s peal of laughter is so at odds with my circumstances, it makes me sob, unwittingly regaining their attention.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She looks at me in concern, and I know I look a mess—fresh and drying tears on my face, my eyes red and swollen. Heat burns my cheeks from my distress. She notices everything, making the suggestion now my crying has eased, “Why don’t you go and wash your face?”

  It’s a sensible suggestion, but I immediately baulk at it. Why do I care how I look, or how I feel? Nothing could be an improvement.

  Seriously, though, I do need the bathroom. That the baby is using my bladder as a trampoline hasn’t changed. So, I give her a small nod, and Niran offers his hand to pull me to my feet. Avoiding him, I stand, pause to get my strength, then walk off on my own.

  As I sit to do my business, I can’t stop my hand running over my swollen belly. While I appreciate the strangers’ concern, I don’t want to talk to them, don’t want to give voice to the words that echo around my head. Putting what’s happened into words will make it real. If I don’t admit the problem, I can still run from it, bury my head and continue as usual. I can get up in the morning, go to work—if they haven’t sacked me for not turning up—and pretend everything’s normal. That’s a good plan, isn’t it? Blot it out, forget it, concentrate on growing my baby.

  Even if I wanted to talk to someone, it wouldn’t be the kind and caring Mary. She’s pregnant, maybe not as far along as me, and from her lack of distress, presumably the clinic told her that her baby is healthy. She’d never understand my situation, nor the choice I’m being asked to make. It’s my problem, my decision, and I don’t want to be influenced by anyone else.

  Niran? He’s a man. I wouldn’t dream of involving him. He wouldn’t want to hear about feminine weakness. I shudder. He scares me.

  My best course of action is to get rid of them. For years I’ve been handling my problems alone. There’s never been anyone there to offer advice, a shoulder to cry on, or just hear me out. I’m used to this. I can do this on my own. I prefer to.

  Resolving to ask them to leave, I flush, then go to the sink to splash cold water on my burning eyes, wincing in the cracked glass at the image reflected at me. I’m a mess. Even my blonde wig has come awry, showing my naturally dark hair underneath. Automatically, I go to straighten it, while acknowledging I look like a stray dog uncared for and unfed. No wonder complete strangers were concerned about me.

  Not all, I correct, recalling the happy couple that had just walked past as though my being distraught would taint them. Not everyone would have stopped to help, nor seen me home safely. Now I grimace, knowing full well where I live, and that they have walked into a shady apartment block that’s surely beneath their station.

  Get rid of them. Then I can grieve. I pull my shoulders back, determined to utter the words as soon as I go back out.

  But when I do, it’s to see Niran looking ridiculous, seated on my already sagging armchair obtained from Goodwill, and Mary sitting on the worn couch, staring at me entering the room with genuine concern in her eyes. Something breaks inside me, and all my good intentions about keeping my woes to myself come blurting out of my mouth without me meaning them to. “I have to decide whether to have an abortion.” My voice starts strong, then cracks.

  “Oh, honey.” Mary manages to extract herself from the sofa and comes over to me. “I thought it was something like that. No one should have to make that decision on their own. I’m here for you.”

  Taking me by the hand, she encourages me to take the seat she just vacated and sits beside me. I’m already regretting telling them at all. The last thing I want is for anyone to try to influence me, whether they be ‘all human life is precious and deserves to be born’ or not. Despite what she’s said, this is a decision I need to make for myself, as only I will have to live with it.

  As though I’ve zipped my lips, I stay quiet.

  Mary glances at Niran, then fills the silence. “I’m forty-eight,” she begins. She’s shocked me. I thought her younger than that. “My husband’s ten years older. Both my eggs and his sperm have seen better days. I got pregnant by accident, certainly didn’t expect to.” She pauses, and again looks Niran’s way. The Black man raises his chin as if to encourage her. I’m surprised there’s no look of disinterest on his face. “We had the options explained when I first found out. My choices were, abortion, or continue, knowing there was a big risk that I might miscarry, or the baby wouldn’t reach term, or that his development wouldn’t proceed normally.” She’s got my attention, and I find myself staring her in the face. “We decided to leave it to fate and hope for the best.”

  Heavens. She’s been living with this since the day she conceived. She already knows she might not give birth to a healthy baby. “He’s okay now?” Her behaviour doesn’t suggest she heard bad news today.

  Mary grimaces before nodding. “I’m six months, and yes, all looks good now. But there’s still a chance things could go wrong, which is why my man wraps me in bubble wrap.”

  She’s someone who might understand. “If something did… if you find out he has severe developmental problems, would you terminate the pregnancy?”

  Nira
n starts as though he wants to stop this conversation, but Mary waves him down. “It depends. If he couldn’t survive, or if he was never going to live a normal life—by which I mean, not just a bit, but drastically, like he’d never talk, walk or think on his own—then yes, I think I would. Grumbler and I have discussed it. Of course, I’m not in that position, so I can’t really say what I’d feel if I were.” She pauses. “Yes, so far the pregnancy’s going normally, but I still might not be able to carry him to term. I live with that thought daily.”

  At that point, my phone rings. In no mood to talk to anyone, I ignore it. So few people know my number, I can guess who it is, but I haven’t got it in me to care. When the tone blares again, Niran gestures toward my purse.

  “You want me to get the phone?” he asks in his deep, gruff voice.

  I must nod, I’m not really aware, but he goes to my bag, extracts the device then shows me the screen. Yes, it’s the store where I work and the caller’s my boss who must be wondering why I haven’t yet turned up.

  “It’s work,” I respond, dismissively.

  “Want me to deal with it?”

  Again, I must indicate yes, as he slides his thumb across the screen and puts the phone to his ear.

  “I’m sorry, but she’s unwell… She won’t be able to come in today… Yeah, it came on suddenly… She’s seen a doctor and has been told to rest… Tomorrow?” He glances at me, and I nod my head. “Yeah, she’ll try and get in… I’ll tell her… Yeah.” Putting the phone down on the side table, he now addresses me. “She sounds nice, your boss. Said she hopes you feel better soon, and just let her know if you can’t go in.”

  It suddenly makes me realise how I’m surrounded by good people even if I think I’m alone. My boss, always friendly, didn’t fire me on the spot. Mary’s just shared her personal story with me, and Niran, who took charge, carrying me when I couldn’t walk despite his disability. Guiltily, I register he’s been rubbing just below his left knee the entire time he’s been seated in the chair. A seat, I watch him now retake, sighing with relief as he takes the weight off his leg. Simply dressed in jeans and a clean t-shirt, he’s just like any other man I might pass on the street. He’s not a biker. He’s normal. Perhaps I can trust him, despite his threatening size and those muscles of his.

  These people aren’t friends as such, but definitely friendly. And people who’ve done more for me in one afternoon than anyone else in the last five years. It’s that that makes me give a little more to them. Not my complete story, of course. I’m too ashamed for a start and sharing too much would be dangerous.

  “I haven’t been to checkups before,” I start, trying to telepathically transmit to them that I’d prefer not to tell them why. It must work, as there’s no censure in their eyes, and no questions. “I’m twenty-three weeks pregnant, and I thought it was time to get myself and the baby checked out. So, I made an appointment.”

  “That was today? The first time you’ve seen a doctor?”

  Checking carefully, I notice Mary’s face carries no accusation at all, so I press my lips together, remembering the weekend I’d just been through. “No, last week was the first time.” I have to swallow a couple of times. Mary passes me back the now topped-off water, and I guzzle it gratefully. “I thought everything was normal.” But what do I know? I’ve not reached this stage before. I lost my previous baby much earlier in the pregnancy. I don’t admit the truth that I was scared to show my face publicly, worried my new identity wouldn’t stack up and terrified any official record might trigger something to enable Duke to find me.

  “Go on,” Mary gently encourages me.

  As another rush of sadness floods through me, I cry out, “Last week they told me something was wrong with the baby, but they wanted to run more tests.” I gulp, remembering how I’d spent the last few days unable to believe there was anything serious, despite the looks of sympathy the doctor had given to me. I sob, then take a fortifying breath, and tell them the rest. “The baby, my son, has anencephaly.” They’d told me the sex at the same time as they’d identified the problem, making it a hundred times worse, as I started to think of him as a person.

  Mary looks horrified, but I suspect with her history, she’s been researching all that can go wrong. Niran looks puzzled, so it’s for his benefit I tell him the dreadful facts, my voice breaking before I’m halfway through. “His brain isn’t developing properly, a large proportion is outside his skull, rather than inside it.”

  “Oh, honey.” Mary tries to hug me, but I pull away, wrapping my arms around myself. I don’t deserve comfort or sympathy. My fault. All my fault. Doesn’t matter that things happened when I never even knew, but hell, on who else does the blame fall?

  “Is there treatment?” Niran asks, his voice probably sharper than he meant to sound.

  After a moment to compose myself, I tell them, with a quiver in my voice, “None. If he’s born alive, he won’t have any functions. He won’t be able to breathe on his own, eat, digest food, defecate or anything.” That’s all I can get out before I howl. Literally howl. Falling forward, my arms still hug my middle as if protecting my poor baby. While I bear most of the guilt inside, I also blame Duke. He’d kicked me so hard, it had to have caused damage. Or maybe it’s down to the drugs he forced on me? Forced? I took them willingly, but who wouldn’t, given my state?

  I wish it were me bearing the consequences, but it’s not. It’s my poor baby, my child, who I already love more than my life.

  Niran stands, crosses the couple of steps needed, then crouches at my feet and hovers his hands over my knees. “Look at me,” he demands, so commandingly I have no option but to obey. When his hands lower, I realise he’s touching me. For some reason, I don’t protest. “Fuck, darlin’, that’s some hard shit for you to handle.”

  There’s something in his eyes, sympathy as I’d have expected, but something more. A respect for the momentous decision that’s been thrust on me. No censure, but then he doesn’t know it’s my fault. Despite my self-recriminations, my hands seem to move by themselves, uncurling from their position and reaching for him as if I deserve to take comfort. When he takes them in his, I squeeze tight, as though needing to hold on to something. He might be a man, but there’s a protective vibe about him that doesn’t scream I need to take caution. He’s looking into my eyes, not my breasts, and not showing any signs of disrespect.

  “The baby will suffer if he’s born?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.

  “Could he be suffering now?”

  The thought makes me suck in a sharp breath, but again I tell him the truth, “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone can tell.” The deformities described to me might mean he’d never feel anything at all—pleasure, pain, or anything in between.

  Softly stroking the fingers he’s holding, Niran gentles his voice. “What do you want to do, darlin’? What does your heart tell you?”

  It was my stupid darn heart that got me into this mess in the first place. It may be the organ that keeps me alive, but it’s the one I can’t trust anymore, not after it let me fall for Duke. “That I should continue and hope they’re wrong.” I try to sound firm, but my voice trembles, and my body shakes.

  Silence descends, neither of them telling me that’s unlikely. Unlikely? Impossible. I’ve seen the scans for myself, and today the doctor had patiently explained them, along with the blood test results.

  Niran moves again, but in a way that’s completely non-threatening. He stands, pulls me up, then sinks down where I was sitting, pulling me onto his lap and letting his arms surround me. I should feel trapped, but I don’t. When I start crying again, he smooths my hair, and just murmurs incomprehensible words to me. His hand lightly covers the back of my head, letting me sob into his shirt, uncaring of the mess I’m making.

  I should be scared. I never wanted to get close to another man, knowing my sixth sense about them has led me so terribly wrong, but his touch is soothing, his concern genuine, an
d nothing about this is remotely sexual. Neither on my part nor his, as I can’t feel any masculine stirring under my butt.

  I hear Mary speaking quietly. “She shouldn’t be alone, Niran. Not tonight.”

  “I know, I’ll stay with her.” I both feel and hear his words.

  I’m surprised at how his pronouncement gives me strength. Instead of protesting I’m fine by myself, I realise I don’t want to be alone. The mental pain is worse than anything physical Duke ever put me through, and I’ve no idea how I’ll cope.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t recognised how alone I was, and how much I was dreading how to action any decision I make. If I take the sensible course and return to the hospital to voluntarily lose my baby, I’ll be driving myself. Now I start wondering whether this angel in disguise might be able to take me.

  I wouldn’t ask much, just a continuation of the support he’s shown so far, the assurance that there was one person, however remote and unconnected to me, who cares. In his arms, my brain starts to still, and begins to put the decision that’s too hard to make on the shelf, if just for a little while.

  “She can’t stay here,” Mary notes, primly.

  Snapping my eyes open, I see her looking around with disdain. Sure, my place isn’t one I’d have chosen, but beggars can’t be choosers. San Diego isn’t cheap, and this was all I could afford. So what if the paint’s peeling off the walls, the stove looks like it should be condemned, and the furniture is worn? I’ve scrubbed the place from top to bottom. At least it’s clean, and it’s mine.

  “I agree.” Niran flinches as something heavy is dropped on the floor above. He shifts slightly, sitting me up and turning me to face him. “Why don’t you come with us? We can take you somewhere more comfortable.”

  Oh no. I might have relaxed my guard with him, but I’m not stupid enough to go with anyone when I don’t know them. Visions of my body lying dead in a ditch—which, actually under the circumstances might not be a bad result—or worse, returned to Duke, fill my head. I’ve only just met them. I’d be a fool to so easily give up my trust.