by Jacie Lennon
“Nah, I got somewhere I need to be. Take Bodhi’s,” I say and watch as Bodhi digs in his pocket and then tosses Corbin the keys.
“Yeah, I’ll catch a ride with Dad,” Bodhi says.
“What are you doing?” Corbin asks me.
Both his and Bodhi’s eyes are laser-focused on me, and I don’t know what to tell them right now. Anything I say would lead to so many questions. Questions that I don’t even know the answers to myself.
“I’ll tell you soon,” I say, and their gazes slip from mine to each other’s and back.
As soon as I know myself.
We argue for a moment longer, and finally, I escape, jumping into my SUV and peeling out.
I don’t have time to waste.
I make it to Portland Street in forty-seven minutes—three minutes before my hour is up. I see an apartment complex on one side and a run-down park on the other. This is Loredo territory, so I pull into a small parking lot one street over and get out, not wanting to park right on Portland Street.
I make my way over, trying to keep a low profile, but I tucked a pistol from my console into the waistband of my pants. It doesn’t pay to be stupid. My eyes snag on a movement at the playground. One of the swings screeches, and I follow the chain down to see someone sitting in it, staring at me. I thought the shadows hid me well, but I was wrong. I watch as the figure gets up and walks toward me, wearing a hood and dark clothing.
I wrap my hand around the handle of the pistol until the person gets closer and pushes the hood back a fraction. I instantly sigh in relief. Before tensing again.
Peyton.
“Peyton? What the fuck is this?”
“Not here. Where is your car?”
“This way.” I jerk my head toward where I left the car, and she follows me to the empty parking lot.
An abandoned convenience store sits back a little ways, and so once we climb in, I drive behind it, hiding my vehicle from the road.
I look over at Peyton, her hood completely down now, and note the dark circles under her eyes.
“You look like hell,” I say, leaning back against my door and crossing my arms.
“Thanks,” she replies dryly and draws her legs up into the seat, wrapping her arms around them.
“So? Why the fuck did you make me drive out here? And what’s with the cryptic messages?”
“I didn’t think you’d come if you knew it was me.”
“You thought right,” I say gruffly, but inside, I’m not sure that’s the truth.
Ever since that night at the Loredo warehouse party, Peyton has occupied some part of my brain. One that usually comes to light when I’m lying in bed at night. As much as I don’t want to think about her, it seems I can’t shut it off.
“Exactly. But I need to talk to you.”
“I’m here. Talk.” I rub at my chin with my thumb while pinning her with a look that I hope conveys don’t fuck with me.
I watch her as she reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. I don’t know her that well. For someone I’ve been inside, you would think that I would have taken the time to get to know her, but I didn’t. I haven’t with anyone I’ve ever slept with. That might make me a dick, but I wasn’t the only one using.
Everyone else uses me for their gain. That’s what this world consists of—users. Those who only want what’s best for themselves. She and I are no different. We knew what our agreement was, going in. She got what she wanted—to piss off Drake, I guess. I haven’t heard anything since. And I got a night of fuckin’ hot sex. Win-win.
“There’s a hit out on you,” she says, and I tense.
Making the switch from thinking about sex to death has my brain whirling.
“A hit?” I laugh, and she turns to face me more fully.
“Yes, a hit. This isn’t a joke.”
“Sounds like one. Why would someone take a hit out on me? They are more likely to kidnap me and hold me for ransom.” I give a slight shrug, trying to look unaffected by what she said. “Which would be a fuckin’ stupid thing to do,” I add when she only nibbles on her bottom lip instead of saying anything else.
She lays her head back a little on the seat, staring at the ceiling of the car as she blows out a long breath.
“Well? Fucking talk, woman. I don’t have all night.”
“The Loredo Lions are looking for you.”
“The motorcycle club?” I say as I give in to a smile. “What the hell do the Loredo Lions MC want with little ol’ me?” I almost snort with laughter. This is a joke. Has to be. “Did Bodhi put you up to this?”
“Do I fucking look like Bodhi put me up to this?” she yells, and I sit back. She flinches for a moment, a grimace crossing her face as she reaches up again, tucking an errant hair behind her ear. “Sorry. I, uh … I thought you would take this more seriously. God.”
“Why should I take this seriously? You send me a cryptic message to meet you—in Loredo, I should add—to tell me that a fuckin’ MC has a hit out on me. Why didn’t you come to me? Isn’t me meeting you here putting me in danger?”
“I don’t have a car. And I didn’t want to spend money on bus fare.”
“Why not ask for it?”
“I’m not a charity case.”
“You sure about that?” I ask, leaning forward a bit and turning the overhead light on. “What’s all of this to you anyway? Why are you trying to help me?”
“I don’t know. You helped me.”
“That’s not it, and you know it. Why stick your fuckin’ neck out for me? You want something else?”
Her face drains of color, and for a moment, I think she’s going to faint. Instead, she flings the car door open and jumps out, slamming it behind her. I have my door open a second later, thinking she’s running. I’m about to chase her down, but she doesn’t leave. Instead, she bends over, emptying her stomach. The sound makes me want to hurl, too, so I shut my door to muffle it. I study her as she stands up, wiping her mouth and then reaching over to steady herself on the side of my car. After a few moments, she opens the door, climbing back in. I hand her a napkin, and she grabs it, not looking me in the eyes.
“What’s wrong with you? Detoxing?”
“I’m not a druggie.”
“Hell, you aren’t giving me much to go on. Damn it, Peyton.”
“Drake’s dad is part of the Loredo Lions,” Peyton says, still not looking at me.
“And? Drake’s dad put a hit out on me?”
“Yeah,” she says and then leans over to grab the water bottle in my cupholder.
“Please, help yourself.”
She shoots me a look, and I scowl.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Is this about the night of the party?”
“Kind of. I told Drake what happened, and he was pissed.”
“So, he went crying to daddy to take care of it? Not my problem.”
“Not exactly.”
“Get to the fuckin’ point.” I’m tired of asking all these questions, and she’s giving me nothing to go on.
“I am,” she yells, her cheeks flushed, and damn me if it doesn’t give me a little chub to see the fire. I watch her rub her hands on her pants—a nervous tic, it looks like. After a long exhale, she turns to me. “I’m pregnant.”
Time stops. I cease to breathe. Peyton stares, and I think I stare right back. I’m not sure.
There’s no possible way. I wore a condom. She told me she was on the pill. Right? I asked, I think. I scramble, trying to remember everything we talked about that night, but I still can’t be sure.
“What?” comes out of my mouth, but I’m not sure I consciously thought it. My brain spoke for me.
“You heard me,” she says quietly. Almost like she can’t bring herself to say it again.
“You are telling me because?” I pray she says it’s because she thought I’d like to know, as a friend, to congratulate her or some shit.
“It might be yours.” She takes another sip of water, her hand shaking as
she tries to put the cap back on.
Hold up. Rewind. Might?
“What do you mean, it might be mine?” I all but growl at her, and she flinches at my tone. “There’s a possibility it isn’t?” I want to do a happy dance.
“Yes, there’s a possibility it’s not yours. But there’s a possibility it is,” she says, squaring her shoulders and finally looking me in the damn eyes.
I reach up, running my hand through my hair and then smoothing it down as I study her. The glasses she has perched on her nose have small smudges, like she constantly fiddles with them. Her wide brown eyes blink at me behind them.
“So, what’s your plan? Get a paternity test from all the guys—”
“Two.”
“Two what?”
“There are only two of you.”
“I don’t care. I want to know what you are planning on doing.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t even been to the doctor. I’ve got an appointment scheduled for tomorrow.”
I rake a hand down my face and groan.
How could I have been so stupid? I mean, there’s only a fifty percent chance, but still, any chance that I could become a dad is a bad chance. I’m fuckin’ seventeen years old. I’m not ready.
“Okay. So, say I believe you and your bullshit story, how does this tie in with the MC?”
I sit back again, crossing my arms over my chest, and level her with a stare. She takes a deep breath, like she wants to argue with me and then thinks better of it.
“I told Drake—”
“Drake is possible daddy number two?” I stop her, incredulous. “What the hell? I thought the whole reason we fucked was to get you away from him.”
“It was. But he and I were together three days before that.”
“Okay. So, when did you break up?”
“The day of the party.”
Not that I care to screw someone’s girlfriend, but this does seem kind of suspect timing.
“Perfect. So, I was the rebound guy.” I wave my hand, urging her on.
“You knew that,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Yes, I just didn’t know exactly how fresh it was.”
“You should have asked.”
“Jeez,” I say, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry that I didn’t have my handy-dandy you might be a rebound guy, so here are some questions to ask list ready.”
“Does it matter when we broke up?”
“No, not in the long run. It seems like putting a hit on someone could stem from a lot of anger, and that’s a reason for it. A guy moving in on your girl the day of the breakup? It’s pretty shitty to not tell me that.”
“I’m not his girl.”
“Probably still were in his mind.”
“That’s his problem,” she fires back.
I stare at her. Hard. She’s got me in the middle of this now, and I’m pissed.
“Fine. What’s your plan now? Get as much money out of me as possible?”
“I don’t want your money, and I don’t have a plan. I was hoping to talk it over with you.”
I open my mouth to reply when a sound catches my attention. The hum of motorcycle engines growing louder and drawing closer has me looking over my shoulder, and I reach to start the vehicle when the first one comes into sight, right in front of us.
“Shit,” I mutter, and Peyton groans beside me.
After throwing the car in reverse, I put one hand on the headrest and start to back up when motorcycles close in on that side.
Fuck.
4
Peyton
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This isn’t good. I don’t know how they found us, but seeing as they have us blocked in on three sides, we only have one option. Run.
“Run,” I hiss, and he jerks his startled gaze to mine.
“What?”
“Open your door and bail to the left. I’ll follow. Go through the shrubs.”
“Are you insane? Of course you are. This entire meeting has been insane. Fuckin’ Scholarship got knocked up and now doesn’t know how to get herself out of her problems,” Brock sneers, and I flinch at the use of the name everyone called me at Almadale.
“Suit yourself. But I’m crawling over you if you are going to sit there.” I position myself to crawl over him and hope the blacked-out windows hide my actions.
“Shit. Okay, okay,” Brock says when my knee hits his lap. He flinches away, his hands coming down to cover his dick. “Get off me,” he grunts, and I do.
Perched on the console, I reach up to flick my hood back up.
“Peyton,” the loud voice booms outside the car, making me cringe, “we know you are in there.”
“Go, go, go,” I urge Brock, and finally, he reaches for the handle.
He ducks and rolls out of his seat. He turns in time to put his hands out and breaks my fall as I launch myself on top of him.
Oof.
He’s on his feet, still hunkered down, and then he grabs my arm before darting through the shrubs, like I said to. The sticks and branches scrape at my clothes, and I’m thankful for the long sleeves and pants I wore. Otherwise, I’d be scratched to pieces. I stumble behind Brock, who is still dragging me, his hand clenched around my arm.
“Left,” I hiss, and he turns abruptly. “Fuck,” I say, going down on my knees after skidding in a wet patch of grass.
He’s beside me in a second, hands under my armpits, wrestling me to stand. “You good?” His eyes search my face, and once I nod, he’s off again.
I glance over my shoulder before following. We run down a side street. Behind us, I can hear the roar of the motorcycles; the Lions are casing the streets, no doubt searching for us.
“Hey,” I say, stopping Brock, who is a few yards in front of me. I jerk my head to the side, and he jogs back to me. “In here.” I open a side door and step inside, the interior dark but familiar.
The steps that lead down are ones I’ve walked many times, and this time is only a little different. I’ve never run down them, scared for my or anyone else’s life.
Brock’s presence at my back serves to settle and unhinge me at the same time. He follows my steps down after quietly shutting the door. Once we are standing on solid ground, I grope around the walls. Finding the light switch, I flick it on.
We are standing in a back office. The desk is messy, papers covering the top of it in unorganized piles.
“Did you lock the door?” I ask.
“Yeah. Where are we?” he asks, glancing around.
“The office of Mooney’s Bar,” I say, walking silently to the interior door, opening it a crack and then shutting it again when I don’t see anyone.
“The bar?”
“Yeah, my uncle owns it. I spend a lot of time here,” I say.
Then, we stare at each other. This night hasn’t gone at all like I thought it would, and I’m at a loss on how to recover it.
“He leaves his back door open?” Brock frowns, and I roll my eyes.
“No, I left it open earlier.”
He backs up, leaning his ass against the desk and crossing his arms across his chest. I have a flashback to licking a trail up that very torso, through the valleys his abs make and in between his pecs, before his body warmed mine, and I can feel my cheeks flush.
“Why don’t we finish what you started back there?”
I move my gaze from his muscles to his eyes and try to gauge what he’s thinking. I’m not sure he’s angry, but he’s not happy either. I think he’s mostly confused, and he has a right to be. This is sort of out of left field for him. I’ve been sitting on this particular life-changing information for two months. Ever since I peed on a stick and got a positive.
“I told Drake about the baby, and he got all weird on me. Instead of reacting like I’d thought he would, like most teenage guys would”—I stop and eye Brock—“he used it—the baby—as a reason for us to be together again. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. But then I had to tell him that
he might not be the dad.”
“And he took it badly?” Brock says in a flat voice.
I try to look him in the eyes and not let my gaze drift. I hate being stared down.
“You could say that. I, uh, had to tell him who the other possibility was.”
“Me.”
“Yes, you. And he also took that poorly. I mean, you know the past you and he have with Corbin. He started saying you weren’t going to take his child from him, and he was going to take care of it, man-to-man.” I swallow and reach up to tuck my hair behind my ear.
“What did that mean?” Brock asks, finally pushing himself from the desk and pacing back and forth.
It’s nice not to have his penetrating icy eyes boring a hole through me right now.
“I don’t know.”
“How much of a possibility am I? I wore a condom, and you said you were on the pill.”
“I never said I was on the pill. But he used a condom, too, so there’s no way for me to know.”
“Fuck, what are the chances? I don’t remember the condom breaking,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “How did you find out about the hit? Did he tell you?”
“No, he’s been closemouthed on it. I don’t think he trusts me, and now, he really won’t since the Lions know I’m with you. But I have a contact,” I say, shrugging.
“You have a contact? Who?” Brock stops and asks, putting his hands loosely on his hips, and I dart my eyes toward the door. “Mooney?”
“Yes,” I say, and he blows out a long breath. “He tries to keep me in the loop on whatever Drake is doing.”
“Fuck, Peyton. What have you gotten me into?” he growls, coming forward.
I back up a step. I want to throw my hands up, but he doesn’t do anything else, just cocks his head to the side and studies me. I don’t like it.
“Quit looking at me like that,” I say, angry.
“Like what?” He stalks closer, and I try not to shrink down but fail.
“Like I’m a problem to get rid of,” I hiss.
“Aren’t you?”
His lips curl up in a lazy smirk, and I reach out to slap him, but he catches my wrist, holding it in his hand. I try to jerk it back, but he keeps hold, pulling my hand until it hits the wall behind me and covering it with his own.
