Dom's Baby

by Nicole Fox

  “Oh, Erica, you’re so stupid,” I sobbed, shivering naked in the early morning light. “Why on earth would a guy like that be interested in anything you have to offer except sex? Ha! You were lucky even for that!”

  I could imagine him now, returning to his biker’s gang to report his latest conquest. “He’s probably even getting my name wrong. Calling me ‘Stella’ or something.” And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst thing, by far, was the feeling of loneliness I had upon awakening in an empty bed.

  “You were so close, Erica,” I whimpered. “So close. The husband. The job. The white-picket fence. Everything I ever wanted....”

  “At least,” I realized, “everything I’d ever been told to want.”

  That thought made me pause. I remembered being five years old, and dressing up as a bride for the amusement of my parents. In the weeks leading up to prom, my mother told me that handsomeness and charm would end up being a good indication of the man I would one day marry. “If you go with a loser, Erica-Bella,” she’d said. “You’ll end up marrying one, too. And God forbid you not find a date at all!”

  In the end, my prom date had been sweet and charming and a joy for my mother to behold. They, at least, did not have to see him puking behind to gymnasium after one too many swigs of Jack Daniels.

  I remembered Brian. He, too, had been the epitome of my parent’s wants. I had never found him exhilarating, of course, but he was a safe, sensible choice. He would make sure I got my house, and my clothes, and my children.

  Out of spite, I imagined Dominic being a father. “Ha,” I thought. “The kid would probably be dead by six months.” This disdainful laughter hurt the bruise on my hip, and I grimaced.

  Still, as angry as I was at Brian, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how right my parents and my friends were. In the five years I had been with Brian, the most dangerous thing we had experienced together was buying marijuana from some college kid at a concert we’d gone to, and smoking it giddily in the fields. For weeks afterward, that memory had filled me with rebellious euphoria. It was my pride and joy––an exciting thing for me and Brian.

  Now, after the night I’d just had, this adventure suddenly seemed laughable. But wasn’t that the point? Brian had hurt me, of course. He’d fucked up big time. But in all the time we’d spent together, wasn’t only having one fuck up a good thing? Exceptional, even? Wasn’t he perfect, in every other way?

  As I thought this, I dried the tears from my eyes, rose to my feet, and stiffly marched my way back to my bedroom, where my cell phone was waiting on the nightstand. Absent-mindedly, almost without any conscious thought, I clicked it on, and scrolled down to Brian’s number.

  “You should call him,” I told myself. “Think of how shitty you feel now. You’re going to feel this shitty every day for the rest of your life if you don’t get back with him.”

  I imagined it: waking up in a cold and lonely bed, perhaps winning an hour or two of fucking amid endless solitude, until at last I became an old spinster, dried-up up-top and dried-up below. That’s what Brian was, really: a safety, a vaccination against a life of loneliness.

  My finger hovered over the call button, about to descend, and...

  “Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz!”

  It suddenly burst to life in my hand, vibrating violently as it received a call. I did not stop to think. Instead, I pressed to answer and swept it to my ear.

  “Dominic?” I spurted stupidly.

  “Dominic?” The loud, ugly voice growled back at me. “What, are you drunk again, Erica my sweet?”

  I scowled, and held the phone as far away from my ear as the volume would allow. It was Mr. Blade, my boss.

  “No, sir,” I responded wearily. I had in fact never been drunk at work, despite his numerous offers to pour whiskey into my coffee. I made very sure not to leave my drinks open around him. The incident he was specifically referring to occurred at the end of a seventy-hour work week, when I had been too tired even to string my words together.

  “Well, if you’re not drunk,” he continued, “where the bloody hell are you? It’s almost ten, you lazy cow!”

  I winced, hating when he called me ‘cow’. It made me think of an open-mouthed, stupid creature, staring blankly at the wall. Which is how I spent most of my time at work, actually—it was that or erupt at him in anger, –which I was never brave enough to do.

  Lazy cow. I guess I deserved it.

  “No, it isn’t,” I said, “It’s...” I glanced at my watch and was stunned to see that he was correct. “Sorry, sir! Sorry!” I cried, dashing frantically to my wardrobe to fling together an outfit. “I’ll be there soon!” Click. I hung up before he had time to respond, to question me about where I was last night to make myself so late. After finding an acceptable outfit, I ran a comb through my hair––wrinkling my nose when I realized I would not have time to shower. My colleagues were just going to have to live with dirty Erica for a day.

  My outfit assembled, I wrestled on a pair of pumps and rushed to the door, grabbing a granola bar for breakfast as I went. It was not until later––after I had started my car and pulled out of the driveway––that I realized how strange it was that I was not hungrier. One would think, after all the activity of last night, I would be starving––but no. I was full.

  I guess that’s what great sex does to you.

  As I accelerated down the road, speeding to work as quickly as I could, I realized that however much I wanted to bash Dominic for being who he was, great sex is exactly what I experienced last night. I remembered what he had asked me when we’d finished: “Was it worth it?”

  I let my mind flow over my body. My sore breasts and pussy. My bruised ankles and hips. My messy hair, which I knew would draw looks from my coworkers. And yet, I realized: Yes. Definitely worth it –

  “Ahhh!” I slammed on my breaks, narrowly avoiding running a red light. A group of bikers, clad entirely in leather and black helmets, rode by on the perpendicular road. I wondered if they were part of the group that shot at us last night––the Crooked Jaws or something. I hoped not. Instead, I wished them to be Dominic’s group, and that Dominic was among them. It would be impossible to tell, for they were going too fast and most of their faces were hidden, but I thought that I could still recognize him if given the chance.

  Though I did not want to, I was still thinking about him. I wondered, half-ashamedly, if he was still thinking about me.

  Chapter Ten

  Dominic

  The rampant sex with Erica had exhausted me until I was able to sleep. But then, in the small, desolate hours of the morning, the pain gripped me until I awoke. Erica was still sleeping. Her hair was fanned out behind her head, and her hand was thrown over her face, like a woman who’s just received terrible news. It made me smile, to see her looking like this, so I gave her nipple an affectionate squeeze before weaving to the bathroom.

  Her bandage had already filled with blood. If I was going to heal quickly, I would need to do more. Fortunately, the Broken Spires had a medic––a veterinarian in his old life––who could patch me easily. I washed it the best I could, covered it again with fresh gauze, dressed, then tiptoed as quietly as I could from Erica’s room.

  I decided not to wake her. Surely, after last night, she would want nothing to do with me. She’d had her fill, being fucked silly by a biker. Now, she was free to return to her happy, normal life.

  I gathered up my belongings, and I left.

  Twenty minutes later, Thunder was at the curb, his car idle as he waited for me to bend into the passenger seat. He was one of the few Broken Spires who actually had a car, for I knew from long experience, there were situations in which one can come in handy.

  Like this for instance.

  I loved my bike, but the smooth, easy ride of his Lexus was much preferable to the roaring jaunt that it would offer.

  “Jesus Christ, Dom, what happened?” He asked, as I gingerly buckled the seatbelt around my waist. I smiled. Thund
er never missed a thing. As briefly as I could, I relayed to him the events of last night.

  “Damn it, man,” he sighed, slipping swiftly and surely through traffic. “You’re lucky you didn’t get killed, and luckier that dame you were with wasn’t killed, either. Did you find out anything useful?”

  I told him my suspicions regarding an alternate leader of the heist, besides La Gancho, of course. Surprisingly, that pronouncement made him grimmer than my brush with death.

  “Yes, I suspect that also,” he said. “But be careful in how you bring it up in the meeting. You know how determined those guys are.”

  I nodded in agreement. Managing a biker’s club was a lot like transporting explosives. There is power, yes, but so much unpredictability.

  Fortunately for me, most bikers are a nocturnal bunch, so Thunder was able to take me to the Vet to stitch me up before the meeting. He was a wise man, who had entered the biking profession too old to ever be a grunt, but that did not mean that the Broken Spires did not value his skills highly. Without asking any questions other than what he absolutely needed to know––what caused the wound, for example––he fixed me right up. Of course, not being a licensed doctor, he did not have any access to pain medication. But a shot of whiskey and a deep breath is all any respectable Broken Spire needed.

  I spent the day recuperating, smoking cigarettes in silence with Thunder. He was the Vice President of the Club––the position directly under me––and I appreciated that, in other clubs, this would have been a source of suspicion. Hell, La Gancho maintained power over the Crooked Jaws only by having anyone he viewed as a rival conveniently “eliminated” before things could progress too far. But I trusted Thunder. Not only was he a loyal VP, but a life-long friend as well.

  Difference numero uno between the Broken Spires and the Crooked Jaws.

  At last, it was time for us to leave. We took Thunder’s car; the stitches were in, but my side was still sore. After a quiet drive with smooth jazz, to get me into the bargaining mood, we pulled up to the Broken Spires clubhouse.

  On the surface level, it appeared just to be another biker’s bar––less seedy than most, but still with that familiar aroma of cigarettes and cheap beer. What one wouldn’t see, however, was the level beneath; in the old days, the bar owners used it to conduct illegal gambling games. The Broken Spires, however, offered them a much more lucrative and reliable business.

  Thunder and I parked and waited. It was important for the high-ranking members of the Broken Spires not to be seen entering the bar all at once. It would make far too tempting a target for our enemies. As we watched, I saw the sergeant-at-arms and the road captain slink in, casting cautious looks over their shoulders as they did so. I supposed that, despite the Vet’s discretion, news of my injury had somehow gotten out. At last, with a nod from me, Thunder and I exited the car and marched––proudly, and without a hint at the wound punishing my side––into the bar.

  The secret entrance was through a utility closet, by the men’s bathrooms. It was perhaps less-than-glamorous, but as I had learned a long time ago: a gaudy biker is a dead biker. Thunder and I knocked, paused in order to give the men downstairs time to arrange themselves, and entered.

  They saw me, and immediately they were silenced.

  “Hello, everyone,” I said, and nodded to the inner-circle of the Broken Spires. Though we sometimes disagreed, I respected every single one of them: Thunder, the VP and my closest friend. Dorian, the sergeant-at-arms. Fernando, the road captain. Tristan, the Secretary. These were men who could be trusted, who deserved to know the truth.

  “Last night,” I told them, “I was attacked. The Crooked Jaws are growing bolder. My instincts tell me that someone is working alongside or even above Marco Herrera––”

  “Ridiculous!” Fernando interrupted. “La Gancho would never permit anyone to rival him in power. You should know that better than anyone, Dominic.”

  Another President may have come down on him for speaking out of turn, or even for the veiled insult he had just sounded. But I valued Fernando for his forwardness and his bravado. It was what made him a great road captain.

  “I would agree with you, Fernando,” I responded politely, “except there is more. I don’t think that this new force is what we would call a ‘typical’ biker. Because of that, La Gancho may feel less threatened.”

  I told them about the Crooked Jaw’s complaints, overheard at the biker’s bar. Then, I gave them a minute or so to mull it over.

  “So the question is, then,” Thunder offered at last, “how, if at all, does this affect our plans. Dorian?”

  Dorian, the sergeant-at-arms, sighed deeply and then began his recitation. “Well,” he said, “we do know that the Crooked Jaws have been involved in some major money laundering scams, much beyond their usual practices.”

  “He’s right,” supplied Tristan. “Usually, they just stick to dealing, but we have evidence that they have become involved not only in that, but in prostitution and child slavery, too.”

  I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Drugs were one thing. People chose to do drugs. Slavery, though? That was a whole different matter in my book.

  “Our plan,” Dorian continued, “was to strike this enormous cash flow at a vulnerable point, before it could be distributed––”

  “Yeah, bankrupt them for good!” Fernando roared, interrupting again. “Make the Broken Spires the top dogs, once and for all!”

  “Fernando,” I cut in, and with only his name silenced him. I stood, careful not to wince as my side unbent. “It is a good plan,” I said, nodded to the men in the room, the masterminds behind the heist. “But we still don’t know how they are organizing all this. As we’ve said, it’s not Herrera’s style. Perhaps, we should delay until we find out more. We don’t want to walk into a situation too dangerous for us.”

  I, of course, did not believe this. Nothing was too challenging for my Broken Spires. But it was important to at least sound the word of caution.

  “Bullshit!” Cried Fernando. “We continue as planned! No skulking coward hiding in the shadows is going to keep me from this heist!”

  “That’s one for,” I said. “Thunder, what do you think?”

  He looked at me sadly.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, boss,” he sighed, “But last night you were almost killed. I know you’re looking to retire soon, and you want to go out with a bang...but, I’m afraid that desire will make you more likely to go out with a bullet.”

  Fernando snorted at these words, obviously thinking Thunder a coward, but I knew better. I trusted his instincts, and he obviously sensed something was up.

  “Tristan, what do you think?”

  He chuckled. “Hell, you know what I’ll say. We need more funds. We want the money.”

  I nodded. That was to be expected. “Dorian?”

  “Hey, it’s up to you, boss,” he said, raising his hands. “We’ve trusted you this far. You’ve never lead us astray.”

  I gazed around at my men. One against. Two for. One abstaining.

  It was, indeed, up to me.

  “Alright, men,” I declared. “We are going to do this. There are still a few more details that need working out, though. Dorian? Thunder? You good on that?”

  “You got it, boss,” they replied. Thunder might have wanted to call the thing off, but now that we had decided, I knew he would follow me to the end.

  I just hoped that “the end” involved me lying on a beach, soaking up some rays and perhaps getting my cock sucked. Not, you know, the sort of end that involved any one of us six feet under.

  “Very good,” I replied. Then, I nodded to each of my men in turn, and left. Dorian could handle the details of the rest of the meeting.

  Thunder followed silently behind me. It was not until we were past the secret entrance, out through the bar, and getting into his car that he voiced his concern.

  “Are you sure about this, boss?” He murmured. “No one will look down on you if y
ou change your mind.”

  I thought about the group of men––eager, violent, and energetic––working out the details of the heist down below. Then, strangely, I found myself thinking of Erica. Of how my actions had put her in danger and how, despite my best efforts, I ended up helpless––my life had relied entirely on hers.

  For the president of the Broken Spires, that simply would not do.

  “Yes, Thunder,” I responded. “I am sure.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dominic

  I had several days before my next mission in the heist, and I knew, therefore, that the most important thing for me to do right now was to recover. And yet, part of me was stubborn: I insisted Thunder take me to where I had hidden my bike before scoping out the Crooked Jaw bar, so I could ride it home.

  It hurt, yes. By the time I got to my place the stitches had torn at my skin, staining yet another white t-shirt with blood. But I did not care. I needed to ride. I needed that freedom. I could not lay my finger precisely on what it was, but something was bothering me.

  At last, I made it to my place: a penthouse apartment on the top floor of a ritzy apartment building. Honestly, I would have preferred a more humble house––on the coast, maybe––but this place was an important seat for operations. From here, I could easily access anywhere in the city, and, because of the natural security of the building, it would be much harder for the average Crooked Jaw to stage an attack.

  I parked in my private garage, locked my bike up securely, and ascended in the elevator to my floor.

  It was a true bachelor pad. Black, gleaming wallpaper. An enormous TV. Bed sheets of Egyptian cotton, and a Jacuzzi tub I often enjoyed with a number of ladies I brought home.

  Strangely, the place felt cold.

  Shrugging off my clothes, I tossed them into the hamper, and, mindful of the plastic webbing over my stitches, I stepped into the shower. It had a double head so that my companion and I could each enjoy a warm, steady flow.