by Brook Wilder
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Outlaw’s Baby copyright @ 2017 by Brook Wilder. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER ONE
Prescott wished he could remember the exact moment when he realized everything was going to go wrong.
It had all started out innocently enough. He was in the clubhouse with his old man going over the last six months of purchases and shipments they’d made.
“Are you paying attention?” his dad asked.
“What? Yeah,” Prescott said.
“You’d better be. When you’re president, you’re the one who’s going to be taking point on things like this.”
Prescott’s father, Charles Graves, was the president of the Hell’s Reavers motorcycle club. His leather kutte was as old as the club itself. He was one of the founding five. Prescott wasn’t sure the president patch was going to look right on his own kutte. Road captain suited him just fine. But his father had other ideas.
“Due respect, Pop, you’re gonna live forever. I’m not looking to take over as president any time soon.”
Charles laughed, a throaty sound that Prescott found comforting. “You’re going to be taking my place before you know it. These old bones only have a few rides left in them.”
“Whatever you say. Where were we again?”
Charles sighed and shook his head. He pushed the leather-bound ledger he’d been perusing across the table to Prescott.
“Try to spot the discrepancies,” he said. “Someone’s been skimming. I’m just trying to figure out where and how.”
“Isn’t this a job for Hank?” Prescott asked, aware that he sounded like a whiny kid.
Hank was the club’s secretary. He was generally in charge of their finances and making sure that the Reavers were keeping their heads above water.
“It would be a job for Hank,” Charles said, smiling at his son. “But…”
He didn’t finish his thought, leaving it open for Prescott to fill in the blank.
“But… what if Hank did it?”
“Phew,” Charles breathed. “I knew you had to have a couple of brain cells rattling around up there.”
“Fuck off,” Prescott grumbled, but he was smiling. He loved his father’s easygoing nature, the sense of humor that carried him through thick and thin.
“Hank is a good friend,” Charles said, his tone becoming serious. “I don’t want to suspect him, but I can’t call him innocent just because it’d be easier.”
“I get it,” Prescott said, running his finger down the lists of numbers. He grabbed the calculator Charles offered him and started doing some calculations. “The first of every month…” he mumbled.
“There it is,” Charles said.
“Doesn’t amount to much,” Prescott commented. “Few hundred dollars. You think whoever’s doing it is just pocketing a little extra?”
“I did consider Shaft for it,” Charles admitted. “He and Kayla have a second kid on the way. Maybe they need the money.”
“Shaft would never,” Prescott growled, shoving the ledger back over to his father.
Shaft had been Prescott’s best friend since they were both in diapers. Prescott absolutely refused to suspect him of a crime against the club. They both lived for the Reavers.
“Like I said. Hard being president,” Charles said quietly. “But the culprit isn’t necessarily pocketing it. Maybe they’re paying someone off. We can’t know until we figure out who did it.”
“How do you want to play it?” Prescott asked.
His father shrugged. “First of May is only a couple weeks away. We’ve got a shipment coming in on the thirtieth. There’s a good chance we might catch wind of some clues if we just keep our eyes and ears open. And our mouths shut.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m serious Prescott. You breathe one word of this to Shaft…”
A knock on the door interrupted him. Charles called for whoever it was to come in, and Hank poked his head inside.
“Sorry to interrupt. Al just got here, says he needs to talk to you.”
Prescott frowned. He didn’t know why, but his gut twisted whenever Smilin’ Al was mentioned, or when he entered a room, or when he spoke.
Or when he smiled.
That smile poured ice into Prescott’s veins.
He’d told Charles about it, but his dad had brushed aside Prescott’s concern. Al was another one of the founding five, had been with Charles and the others from the beginning. Prescott tried to put his fears to rest, but he couldn’t help hating the man. He hated the way he treated the club girls, and especially his smile which seemed to be hiding a dark secret.
“I’ll be right back,” Charles said, pushing himself out of his seat.
Prescott leaned back in his seat and tried not to let his discomfort show. Charles disappeared, leaving him to stew in his thoughts. He tried to consider what Charles had been trying to say about not letting friendship get in the way of being a good leader. Charles and Hank were good friends, yet Charles was willing to admit that Hank might have been stealing from the club. Prescott was sure he could never accuse Shaft of anything like that. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be president at all.
Charles stayed away for quite a while. When he finally returned, he looked ten years older. His expression was tight, and his eyes seemed to look right through Prescott.
“What happened?” Prescott asked, now on high alert.
“Trouble across the border,” Charles mumbled.
“The Varangians?”
The Varangians were a rival MC from Canada, and had been a thorn in the Reavers’ side for years.
Charles nodded. Prescott waited, but he didn’t offer any more information.
“What’s going on?” he asked finally.
“Al got wind of something going down on Varangian turf. They’re catching some trouble, and Al thinks this would be the perfect time to get in there and take what’s rightfully ours. Establish our territory for good, and move in on theirs at the same time.”
“You don’t think that’s the best move,” Prescott observed.
Charles shook his
head. “It’s not the right time, and the Varangians are a minor threat. We shouldn’t be getting mixed up in their bullshit. Not right now.”
“I’ll bet Smilin’ Al loved hearing you say that.”
“He thinks we could expand our reach and our products. Not just guns anymore. Drugs maybe.”
“That’s bullshit. The Reavers move guns. That’s our market.”
“Exactly what I told him,” Charles said, nodding. A spark of approval shone in his eyes, despite his tired expression. “You’ll make a good president, son. I can tell you that for free.”
Prescott shrugged off the comment. He didn’t want to get into this discussion anymore, especially not now when Smilin’ Al was making moves, testing Charles’ authority.
“Dad… I don’t like Al,” Prescott said into the silence. “I know I said it before, and I know you told me to let you handle it, but I can’t. He’s bad news, and I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”
“That’s not your call to make,” Charles said, his voice hard. “Al and I both want what’s best for this club. We just have different opinions about what ‘best’ might mean.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Prescott insisted, not dropping the subject. “He’s bad news. I’m worried he’s got something up his sleeve.”
“I’m still club president, right?” Charles said, getting impatient. “You worry what I tell you to worry about. I’ll handle Al and the Varangians. Your only concern should be figuring out how you’re going to run things when I’m gone.”
Prescott could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this argument. Charles was a kind man, but stubborn and hard-assed when he needed to be. Lately he’d been showing the stubborn, hard-ass side of himself a little too much for Prescott’s liking.
Charles sighed and shook himself a little. He got up, walked around the table, and clapped Prescott on the shoulder.
“It’s late, and we’re clearly both tired,” he said to his son. “We can take this up in the morning. Let’s get out of here for now.”
“You’re the boss.”
Prescott stood up and stretched. He followed his father out of the meeting room and into the clubhouse proper, where a couple of the guys were hanging out. Prescott saw Shaft in the corner, drinking a beer, and headed in that direction.
“You and your father have a good talk?” someone asked.
Prescott stopped short as Smilin’ Al himself stepped into his path. He was a big guy, an inch or two taller than Preston, with several rings and tattoos. Surprising no one, he was flashing Prescott a big, shit-eating grin.
From the corner, Shaft glanced over, taking note of the exchange. He stayed right where he was, but Prescott knew he had a friend on his side.
“Nothing important,” he said to Al. “Just father-son stuff.”
“Touching. You guys gonna stick around?”
“We’re heading out actually. I was just gonna say hi to Shaft. You have a problem with that?”
Al made a big show of gesturing Prescott onward and stepping out of his way. Again Prescott was flooded with a feeling of dread. He walked over to Shaft and flopped down on the couch beside him.
“Long night?” Shaft asked.
His friend didn’t look at him. He was watching Al, who was currently speaking in hushed tones with Hank and Charles.
“You have no idea,” Prescott said.
“So tell me.”
“You hear the Varangians are having trouble up north? Al wants to move in on their turf. My dad’s against it.”
Shaft shook his head. “We shouldn’t overreach. Charles is making the better call.”
“I know he is. It’s Al I’m worried about.”
Shaft shrugged. “He’d need a unanimous vote to do anything anyway. As long as you and I are here to say no, who cares what he does?”
“Good point.”
“I know. I was always the smart one.”
Prescott punched his friend’s arm. “I’m heading home.”
“Cool. I should probably do the same.”
They got up together and went to the door. It was pitch dark outside and the April chill helped to wake Prescott up for the ride. Everyone else left the clubhouse with them, and they all swung onto their bikes.
Prescott didn’t bother saying goodbye to his dad, just waved.
If he had known then what was going to happen, he would never have let his father out of his sight.
CHAPTER TWO
It was just after midnight when Della realized all the coffee was gone. The library café had long since closed, so there was no chance of replenishing the supply. She’d survived the past two hours on sips of stale brew from her paper cup.
“I know that look,” said Della’s roommate, Kate. “She’s gone. We’re not getting Della back until she’s had a solid eight hours.”
Della could only nod as she rubbed her eyes.
“Should we pick this up on Friday?” asked Trevor, the third person in their group. “Same time, same place?”
“Friday sounds great,” Della said, already gathering her things.
She didn’t know what she was going to do when her other classes piled on their own final exams and projects. At least they only had one to worry about right now.
“Great work, team,” Kate said, slapping the table as she stood up. “Let’s all go home and crash.”
Trevor waved goodbye and headed for the exit. Della sluggishly got to her feet and slung her bag over her shoulder.
“Remind me again why I thought grad school was a good idea,” she mumbled to Kate.
“Because you’re a glutton for punishment,” Kate replied. She nodded at something behind Della. “Don’t look now, but I think your not-so-secret admirer is here.”
Della groaned, feeling too tired to deal with Simon.
“If I just stand here all night without ever turning around, do you think he’d leave?”
Kate snorted. “Not likely.”
“Let’s just go,” Della said. “If he pounces, please stay close.”
“You know I wouldn’t abandon you like that. Come on.”
Steeling herself, Della turned and walked with Kate toward the exit. Sure enough, Simon was waiting just inside the door. She tried not to make eye contact, but she knew it didn’t matter what she did; he was going to talk to her whether she wanted him to or not.
Della had first met Simon the previous semester. They shared two classes, since they were in the same MBA program. He had taken notice of her almost immediately. Della had noticed when Simon started making a point of sitting beside her for every class. Kate was there for one of them, so they devised a plan where Della would sit at the end of a row and Kate would sit beside her. This didn’t discourage Simon, who elected to sit behind Della every time.
He’d introduced himself almost immediately, and Della had tried to be polite. He was harmless enough, just a little creepy.
But recently it had gotten worse. At a party a few weeks back, Simon had cornered Della and asked her out to dinner. Della’s first thought had been anger toward Kate, who had dragged her to the stupid party in the first place. Della would never have gone without Kate, as she didn’t do the social scene too often. She preferred to stay at home. When she did go out, she liked to be among small groups of her close friends in a low-key setting.
“Della, hey,” Simon said.
“Simon,” Della acknowledged, trying to hide the annoyance in her tone. “It’s late. What are you doing here?”
“I saw that you were studying here and decided to wait for you,” he said.
Della wondered if he really had just happened to see her, or if he’d followed her to the library. She shuddered at the thought of him stalking her.
“So,” Simon continued. “If you’re all done, would you like me to walk you home?”
“Kate can walk me home,” Della said. “But, uh… thanks for the offer, I guess.”
“What about my other offer?” Simon
asked, not relenting.
Kate sighed. She’d brushed him off at that party, hoping he’d get the hint. She’d told him that she’d have to think about it, or something similarly vague. At the time, she had thought he would get the message. “I need to think about it,” is a universal term for, “I’m not interested.” Or so she’d thought.
“I don’t know, Simon. It’s late and I’m stressed out from this project,” Della said. “I’m gonna go home now. We can talk about it later maybe.”
“Yeah, I totally get it,” Simon said. “You need your sleep.”
