by Sophia Gray
The smile faded from his face. Their carefree days down the Oregon coast still haunted him, feeling like a fantasy more than his past. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so free and open with someone. And maybe it was because he had never met the right someone before.
Come on, Peach. Call me. I just want to hear your voice.
The thought replayed in his head like a mantra all the way to the border, or maybe more like a desperate plea. He wanted to tell her where he was going, that he was about to make money to support them, that she didn’t have to worry about being a single mom. He would reassure her as much as she needed; remind her that he wasn’t going anywhere. And then he’d confess all the things he’d been imagining about the two of them, the fantasies ranging from sweet to lurid, from the back of his bike to against the wall of her dressing room after a gig.
Bastard cleared his throat, his cock pressed against the fly of his jeans. He knew better than to let his mind wander when it came to Kit. And jacking off while heading to the border crossing didn’t seem like a particularly smart way to celebrate his crossing into Mexico.
Besides, there was something deep inside that liked the idea of waiting for her. Only for her. It might drive him crazy, it might even kick off a dry spell…but if he was in, he was going all in. Their night at the clubhouse was perfect jackoff material. Feeling her silky pussy come crashing down around him was like coming home in a way he hadn’t known was possible. He only wanted her; wanted that. His hand could only satisfy him for so long. But he didn’t want anyone else either.
Just his Peach.
The border station was more backed up than he’d expected. He crept through the line at a glacial pace, and by the time he made it up to the agent he was all but waved through. On the other side of the border, the air hit him dryer and freer, the late morning imbued with a sense of triumph that he couldn’t entirely explain. As his pace slowed nearing Tijuana, the vowels of Spanish began to reach him, the smell of corn tortillas, the hustle and bustle of a foreign country that was so close yet so different.
The Calicos had their headquarters on the outskirts of Tijuana, another place he could navigate to in his sleep if he had to. Once he made it through the city center and waved off enough panhandlers trying to sell him magazines and gum, he finally crested the familiar dirt road and gunned it, enjoying the flare of dust behind him.
When he pulled up to the heavily fenced compound, two armed guards approached him wielding AK 47’s.
“Para quien vienes?” Their steely eyes and overloaded guns didn’t scare him. They had to treat every visitor this way.
“Miguel Amaya del los Lobos.” His Spanish wasn’t great, but he knew enough to handle basic conversation and questioning. And in any sticky situation, dropping the code name of the Calico boss would grant him easy access.
The guards shared a glance and then nodded. The wrought iron gate protecting the entry road swung backwards slowly. Bastard inched forward as a guard signaled to someone else down the road. Usually they would point him in the right direction. After all, when half a million dollars were on the line, they knew where to send him.
He drove town the winding asphalt road cutting across dusty, burnt land dappled with cacti and bushes. Guards waved him onward, around corners, until finally he reached a small cement block warehouse, something comically contrary to the other more grandiose buildings on the property. Bastard parked by an open garage door and pushed out, groaning as he stretched his legs.
Miguel sauntered out of the warehouse a moment later, sweat shining on his forehead. It had to be close to a hundred degrees already at noon.
“You’ve arrived.” Miguel smiled broadly, a gold tooth glinting in the sun.
“Mick’s Plumbing at your service,” Bastard cracked. “For all those toilet problems you’ve been having.”
Miguel laughed, gesturing him inside. “Please. You must look at these pipes. They are absolutely broken.”
Bastard pulled the duffel bags out of the back of the van before following him into the warehouse.
Inside it was only slightly cooler, with enormous fans whirring at each corner of the warehouse roof. Most of the contents warehouse was obscured behind makeshift walls, so Bastard couldn’t see what, exactly, went on in here. But judging by the wall of armed guards standing nearby, it probably had to do with cocaine.
“Come. Let’s sit. So we can talk about the plumbing.” Miguel sent him a mischievous look, waving him toward a long table flanked with chairs. As they sat near the end of the table, Miguel waved toward one of the guards, sending a curt whistle.
Bastard set the three duffel bags on the table. Miguel’s eyes glazed over immediately. They both knew this song and dance well. Hell, Bastard had been here enough to be invited to dinner once. Had the best tamales of his life with Miguel and his family of employees and blood relatives.
“This has been our biggest order yet.” Bastard unzipped each duffel bag in turn, slowly revealing the crisp stacks of bills, stacked by the hundreds. “You know that the Damned Devils only do business with you. You’re the only guy we trust.”
“And we are forever grateful,” Miguel murmured, nodding slowly as Bastard peeled the last bag open. Bastard tapped his finger against the table. It was a little painful to leave so much money behind…but the MC would only turn it into so much more profit down the road. As long as they kept their heads down and their contacts vetted.
“Count it. Please.” This was another part of the familiar shuffle. Miguel would count one bag, and leave the rest to their friendship, a sign of good faith. Bastard sat back in the folding chair while Miguel brought out every stack from the duffel bag, arranging them meticulously in front of him. His white wife beater stuck to his chest in spots, sweat making his caramel skin look glossy. Bastard crossed an ankle over his knee, smiling as Miguel made his way through the stacks.
“Very good.” Miguel nodded, replacing all the stacks inside the duffel bag. “This one has two hundred thousand. I assume the other two are equal.” The zipper hissed as he closed the bag. “No need to count, since I trust our friendship so much.”
Bastard leaned forward, offering a hand. The Damned Devils would forever support the Calicos; it was one of the few stable alliances in the MC world. “It’s a joy to work with you, Miguel. You know, you have to let us know if you come to L.A. Some of the other brothers want to meet you. You’re famous, you know.”
Miguel’s crooked smile glinted. He whistled to the guards, who shuffled off. “You know I don’t make trips north.”
“Yeah, but someday. If you ever change your mind.”
Miguel sighed, resting his palms behind his hand. “That reminds me. I’ve been thinking about our…arrangement.”
Bastard cracked a knuckle. “Oh yeah?”
“We want you down here more often. Is there any way we could rent you out from your president?” Miguel’s smile widened just as the guards returned with a large crate. The product. Miguel pried it open, one of the walls falling away. Inside, neat plastic packages were stacked.
Bastard laughed, assessing the goods. “I’m not sure I’m up for rent.”
Miguel’s smile fell. “But would you consider working more with us down here?”
Bastard blinked, letting the request sink in. “What do you need done?”
“We’re a growing operation,” Miguel said. “We need more hands, but more importantly, more trusted hands. I feel like you are one of the family, Bastardo. There would be runs, deliveries. But you could help us reach out to other gringos like yourself. You could be the perfect link.”
Bastard rolled his knuckles against the tabletop. When he didn’t agree, Miguel added, “We would pay you. Handsomely.”
Bastard sighed, deflating slightly. If this were even two months ago, he would have agreed outright. This was the benefit of being a nomad: he could get into MC favorable business on his own behalf, take up residency between Tijuana and LA.
But now? The offer reeked of trouble down
the road. Not because of the Calicos…but because of Bastard. If he took this gig and it went south, it wasn’t just his life on the line. There was so much more at stake now.
“I don’t know, Miguel.” Bastard squinted up at him. “I have a family now. Or I will…soon. I just don’t think my girl would like it much if I’m gone more.”
Miguel’s jaw flexed as he watched him for a moment. And he nodded, chair scraping against the cement floor as he leaned forward. “You are a family man now. That is admirable.”
“We just found out she’s pregnant,” Bastard said in a low voice, offering a small smile. “I can’t fuck this up. I need to be there for her.”
Miguel reached out, squeezing his shoulder. “Understood. I know what it is to worry endlessly about kids. I have three of them, and they give me heart attacks.” He laughed. “But remember…if you ever change your mind…”
Bastard nodded. “Right. Trust me, if this was earlier, I would have agreed on the spot.”
Miguel looked a little disappointed, sniffing as he pushed to standing. “So, does the box look good or what, amigo?”
“Looks like the high-grade rock we’ve come to expect.” Bastard stood as well, offering his hand again. Miguel clasped it firmly, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Be careful going back,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve cleared the way for you as much as I can, as always.”
“Of course.”
“And here…take this.” Miguel reached into the back pocket of his jeans, whipping out a wad of money. He thumbed through the bills. A tip was standard procedure, but today Miguel had pure hundreds. And it looked like he was counting out a far higher number than usual.
“A tip. For your family.” Miguel pressed a wad into his hands. “Be safe, sell the product, and we’ll see you again soon amigo.”
Bastard gaped down at the money in his hand. It had to be a grand, at least, just at first glance. But maybe much more. “Wh…thank you.”
“It is nothing.” Miguel waved him off, heading toward the recesses of the warehouse. “I see you next month.”
Bastard waved, scooping up the crate before heading for the van. With the sun beating down his back, he flipped through the bills. Twelve hundred dollars. He stuffed it hastily into his front pocket, heart racing. Normally he got four hundred as a tip, if he was lucky. Tip money was always his, not discussed or shared with the brothers, which meant he had another payout from Rock waiting for him once he got back.
Between the tip and the payout, Bastard already had half of Kit’s pregnancy paid for.
I told you Peach. I’m gonna take care of you.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kit sighed into her palm, swinging her legs on the bar stool. Her set was over but she didn’t want to go home, yet if she stayed here any longer with these drunk idiots she’d be liable to hurt someone. She’d turned down countless drinks, and when one man in particular got insistent with her, she finally snapped, “I’m pregnant, asshole.”
She hated that she wished Bastard would show up again. He hadn’t been around that night, or the night before. She’d sorta come to hope his attendance would be a regular thing. And now with two nights off, she worried he might never come back.
Maybe that’s all his window had been: a couple nights of trying, and now he’d moved along, disappeared.
If that was the case, it was as good as not trying at all.
Part of her hoped he’d show up beside her, a drink in hand, that cool smile on his face. Give her some smooth line about the show or how pretty she was while he sank down onto the stool beside her.
But he didn’t show up. And the only guys filling these bar stools were guys eyeing her like she was a piece of meat.
Think about the positives. Things that aren’t Bastard. This was her mantra lately. Count her blessings and continue plowing forward. Now that she was facing life as a single mom, she’d begun to seriously look at her career and her future. How long could she continue to sing? Where might she want to have the baby? What about after the baby was born?
The sheer amount of questions to consider felt like a thick hand at her throat, daring her to scream.
But the positives were, as she forced herself to recognize, varied. Now she had a bigger impetus than ever to succeed as a singer. And her numbers were growing—had been ever since coming out to LA. If she was making it now, then she could count on upward growth by continuing what she was doing but also adding innovation to the mix. Her support network in LA, although small, was solid. Andi would be by her side every step of the way.
She didn’t need Bastard.
But she wanted him.
Someone brushed up against her forcefully, like elbowing his way into order a drink. Kit recoiled, scowling. The same dark-haired guy that had pushed her to take a drink with him twenty minutes ago leered at her, leaning against the bar.
“Hey there.”
“Dude. Watch yourself.” She straightened her back, the air around her tightening. This guy was familiar somehow.
“I’m watching you.” He sent her a creepy smile and leaned closer. “Now how about that drink?”
“I already told you, I’m not drinking.” She made sure to enunciate each word. Apparently this guy just didn’t get it. Or he’d drank himself into oblivion already. “How many times do I have to say it?”
His lips curved downward. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”
“I’m not being a bitch,” she spat. “I’m telling you that I don’t drink, and I don’t want you to keep pushing me about it.” Her heart raced as she spoke. She’d never had a guy be so forceful before, especially in the midst of so many other people.
“You can’t even just, I don’t know, humor me?” His eyes blazed with something, an intensity that she could barely look at. His nose angle downward, steep and hawklike, and his whole face had an element of unpleasantness to it that resonated with her. I know this guy. But from where? She saw so many faces, constantly, it was hard to pinpoint exactly where she’d seen this man before tonight.
“That’s not really my job,” Kit said, sliding off her stool. If he wouldn’t leave her alone, then she’d have to be the one to go.
“Hey. Wait.” He grabbed her arm, his fingertips digging into her bicep. “Where you going?”
She frowned, trying to yank her arm away from him. “Let go of me.”
“Come on. Don’t be like that.” A sardonic smile crossed his face and he stood with her. She felt her control slipping away, her balance tipping toward him. Anger flashed inside her and she yanked at her arm harder, leaning toward the bar.
“Gary!” The manager was at the other end, serving a drink. She had to shout his name a second time before he noticed her.
“Don’t go tattling,” the man whispered hotly into her ear. Her skin crawled and she yanked her arm again, but couldn’t free herself from his grip. The other thing on her mind was the baby: she didn’t want to struggle and have him accidentally elbow her in the gut. Could he hurt the growing baby? All the websites said it was unlikely, but unlikely wasn’t the same as impossible.
“I’m not tattling, I’m ridding myself of a nuisance,” she spat. Relief swarmed her as Gary approached, his face wrought with concern.
“What’s going on here?”
“This guy won’t leave me alone.” She jerked her chin toward the guy. His grip finally loosened somewhat and she was able to move away from him. Her skin still smarted from where he’d grabbed her.
“We were just talking,” he said.
Gary murmured something into his walkie talkie, nodding discreetly at Kit. That was their sign—he’d called security. The guy swung back to look at her, leering again.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned.
He held his palms up at his sides exaggeratedly, and said in a mocking tone, “I’m not. Sheesh. You’d think you’d be a little more appreciative of someone who just wants to get to know you.”
“You think I’m that hard up
for attention? Like I should grovel at your feet just because you wanna talk to me?” She scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.”
His eyes darkened and he stepped forward again. “Watch what you say to me.”
She gulped, her gaze darting over his shoulder as she saw the two burly guards from outside come up behind the guy. She bit back a smile as they clamped their hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from Kit.
“Hey! What the fuck is this?” He twisted around to look at who had touched him. His brow furrowed to a thick line.
“Come with us.” Hardy, the burlier of the two guards, basically snarled when he spoke. His bald head and beady eyes sent a clear message. Off duty he was a sweet guy, but he knew how to play the unimpressed security guard role well. “And you won’t be coming back in.”
