A Good Girl's BIKER Baby_A Forbidden Baby Romance

by Cherise West

  “Maybe I should ask her out,” Shapiro opines. “Yeah.”

  “You’re going to ask Lisa Marino out,” I say.

  “Maybe. She looked good in that outfit,” he comments casually.

  “Shapiro, you insulted her,” I remind him scathingly.

  “So? You’ve never insulted someone you were in to? Or been insulted, by someone who’s in to you? That testy relationship thing, it never goes away. Sometimes you have the best chemistry with your worst enemies,” he observes studiously.

  “That’s not true,” I shake my head. “I’ve never… well,” I stop myself. God. He’s right. He’s more right than he could possibly know. I suck down a deep breath, and another swig of tea.

  “You’ve never…?” he presses me.

  “No, nothing,” I blurt. “Nothing.”

  “So you have insulted guys you’ve been in to,” he narrows his eyes at me. “I’m on to you. You’ve got a thing for Lukas Porter, I bet. Or, even better,” he whispers warily, “you’ve got something for one of those Wardogs, I bet.” I blink at him, taking a shallow breath. Drinking. Does he know? Is it that obvious? Finally, a smirk spreads across his face and I laugh anxiously along with him.

  “You’re crazy,” I stutter. Just pretend he never said it, Mara.

  “Maybe. Crazy enough to get you another drink,” Shapiro smirks, getting up from the table.

  “No, you really shouldn’t,” I plead. “It’s getting late and—”

  “Getting late! That’s when the fun starts.”

  “Fine,” I grimace. He slips back through the crowd. Alcohol buzzing in my ears and through my fingers and toes, I immediately dive for my phone, flicking it back to life. Hoping for a message. Nothing. Face twisting in anger, I pull my message up. Hoping maybe the phone just didn’t notify me. Nope. Nothing. Sneering, I take the last sip of my tea. A very long, deep sip. My eyes hazy and my fingers quick, I tap out a new message to him, flying into a frenzy.

  Liste nheRe. U. Yu slkeep at my House ANDd, with me. Next t.o you. U giev me a nightg like hTHAT and hen. WHAT?? You leav ethe nexxt day. NoT sayin anything. How DARE u?? Who d you think yu are??

  I read it back with a satisfied nod. Good. Tell him what’s going on, Mara. You deserve it. He deserves it, filthy criminal. I mean, it’s a bit hard to read, but… whatever, right? He’ll get the idea. I’m Mara Lewis. I’m a prosecutor. I’ve worked hard, hard enough he should be the one messaging me, begging for my attention. Hmph.

  “You’re looking pretty ticked off,” Shapiro says, working his way back through the crowd. “Maybe you really do need another drink.” He passes me another glass topped off with liquor. I hear Dolph Jackson’s echoing laughter again and a bitter frown curls across my cheeks.

  “I guess I am,” I say, my ire raised. “I met this guy, and—” I start, but hesitate, discretion pinging painfully in my head.

  “See, now this is the fun Mara, the one who talks about men and fun and not work,” he smiles. “What about this guy?”

  “I really shouldn’t talk about him, he’s a client—” I swallow my words suddenly.

  “You’re involved with a client?” Shapiro says, wide-eyed. “Mara Lewis, always a stickler for the rules, putting herself in a potentially ethically compromising situation?” he sing-songs teasing.

  “I-I mean, not really a client, just a potential client, you know,” I stammer, laughing.

  “I guess better a client than an adversary, right? You’re not dating a Wardog are you?” he asks, chuckling loudly. I laugh nervously along with him.

  “Ahah. No. Never in a thousand years would I ever think about even talking to one of them. Much less, dating one of them. Or sleeping with one of them. Never,” I clear my throat, drowning myself in a sip so deep of my liquor I cough harshly at the burn filling my mouth, my stomach; my nostrils.

  “Never? Never had a dirty dream about a bad, bad biker whisking you away on his roaring hog of iron and steel?” Shapiro teases. I shift uncomfortably. I have dreamed of that. I hadn’t before, not like most women. But now that I’ve had a night with Tony, there’s nothing else I dream about.

  “No,” I lie flatly, drinking my tea. Drinking, and drinking, and drinking. “This guy, though, he’s… he’s a maybe… maybe client, and he thinks he’s a real big deal, right? Thinks he can just, you know… say, and d-do…” I skirt the meat of what I want to say about Tony, before grimacing and jumping in. “He’s just an ass, who thinks he can hurt girls and get away with it, right?!” there’s no way Shapiro could know who I’m talking about, right?

  “Aww, Mara,” Shapiro coos sarcastically, “did you get wrapped into a one-night stand with a guy? Are you mad he didn’t call you the day after?” he teases. “First time?”

  “First ti— first time what? No, it’s not the first time!” I exclaim, cheeks rosy. “I’ve been with men before, I dated Josh for three years!”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he smirks knowingly, taking a deep sip of his drink. “Your first time getting turned down. Your first time getting the cold shoulder. Mara Lewis, the unshakable prosecutor, sad-drinking over a one night stand.”

  “It’s not— that’s not how it went,” my face curls up in anger. “It’s— it wasn’t a one-night anything, okay.”

  “I didn’t even know you got yourself wrapped up in one-night stands,” Shapiro laughs.

  “I don’t! I didn’t!” I drunkenly protest, reddened eyes glaring at him. “That’s not how it was! He didn’t— it wasn’t a one-night stand okay,” I scoff. “I don’t do those.”

  “Mara, it sounds to me, like you didn’t think it was going to be a one night stand, but he had other plans,” Shapiro shrugs. “That’s how it goes sometimes.”

  “N-no, that’s not what he— that’s not how he acted,” I insist. Realization sets in slowly, my finger tapping nervously against my glass of liquor. Was it really a one-night stand? Is that all he had wanted out of me? It can’t be. My enemy, sleeping with me… it had to mean something to him, right?

  Right?

  “Don’t worry, Mara,” Shapiro jests, reveling in my apparent naivete. “I’ll keep the drink flowing. We can forget it, together.”

  “Don’t get any kind of ideas, Shapiro,” I snarl, bitterly sipping my liquor.

  “Purely friendly, I promise,” he smirks, “no one-night stands with me.”

  “Shut up,” I grunt. He just smiles.

  Chapter 11

  Was that night all a dream? It feels so far away now. I’m starting to think it was.

  My phone’s screen comes to life; I scroll through to Facebook. I open it. Still open to his page; nothing on it has changed in the last three weeks. I open the conversation between us. Completely one-sided. Since that night, I resisted, but eventually gave in to my need for some kind of word; some kind of closure. I’ve gotten nothing of the sort from him. Four messages - the first very simple, just asking to talk. The second, a little more forward, telling him how I felt used. The third… long, probably too long, typed out after a night of drinking alone in my house.

  No response to any of them. I check each day. Feeling like a creep, I gathered what information I could from the dossier on him with the police, including his phone number. I called him in, on the pretext of being a part of hearing for one of his brothers. No response. He hasn’t even showed up with his Wardogs to any appearances in court; Butcher had another appearance, as did Lefty Pete. Billy Boy’s even shown his face at one or two of them.

  Not Tony.

  “Lewis? You okay? You haven’t said barely anything.”

  The world calls and I snap back into a dreary existence. Seated in a booth in a quiet diner, wood paneling keeping us quartered away from the rest of the restaurant, a cup of coffee half-empty in front of me. Sitting opposite are Jersey City PD detective Greg Valence and officer Renee Bruno, two of the key officers in the case against the Wardogs. You know, the two cops that the Wardogs and Dolph Jackson and Lisa Marino insist I’m… bribing, o
r sleeping with, or something, even though Greg is married and Renee, I’m pretty sure, isn’t a lesbian. In reality they’re as dedicated to the Wardogs cases as I am for similar reasons - Greg’s older brother died in a gang war with the Wardogs, and Renee grew up with parents involved the same sort of world, parents who got out, and taught her right - not to get involved in that sort of mess.

  The same sort of mess I involved myself with, stupidly, when I slept with Tony St. James.

  “Oh, no, nothing… nothing serious,” I sigh, watching my Facebook messages, hoping, foolishly, that any second maybe Tony will respond to me. “The case has just… you know, it’s been a long few days. Scott has me working on practically every case in the office after I chewed him out a few weeks ago.”

  “Stone? Scott Stone? Irritating weasel,” Greg grunts, clearly having a number of bad experiences with him. Tall and tough, Greg wears his hair cut to the skin and, with tattoos visible circling his collar, looks like he belongs in the Wardogs, instead of fighting them. Thankfully, he has a conscience. “Office is much better with you on those cases, instead of him. Not that I want you to be, y’know, overloaded with work or anything, Mara.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying,” Renee tries to bring me back into the conversation, “last few weeks the Wardogs seem to have gone quiet. No rumbles in the streets, no dealing. I watched Donnie Z loiter around a corner over on the west side for two hours one night, not a single deal went down,” she says. A short, dark-skinned and dark-haired Italian girl, Renee has more muscle than most six-foot-tall men I know, and she’s not afraid to use it. “I feel like somebody’s been telling them to keep low. Or, they’re just too busy cluttering up the courthouse, antagonizing you,” she guesses.

  “I haven’t seen… their leader,” I lament, with a quiet sigh. “Or, who I guess, is their leader.”

  “Billy Boy Nonniwicz?” Renee asks curiously. “I’ve seen a lot of him.”

  “No, no, you’re talking about Anthony St. James, aren’t you?” Greg exclaims. I nod.

  “Anthony St. James? Who the hell is that?” Renee seems as confused as I first did, seeing him in the courtroom, the Wardogs obeying his commands.

  “Young guy, the new acting boss of the Wardogs after Quentin Hill croaked,” Greg says, forking idly at the half-eaten hamburger laid out in front of him. “Protege of Billy Boy and a favorite of Quentin while he was coming up through the ranks. He disappeared from the streets for a few years and resurfaced after Hill bit it to take over the gang. Billy Boy’s the muscle, but he’s just a dog on Tony’s leash.” I listen plaintively, still unable to believe I slept with that monster. He seemed so different, with me, if only for that one night.

  “Don’t see him on the streets,” Renee shrugged, “though I guess I wouldn’t know him if I did.”

  “I doubt you would. Quentin liked him because he had a legitimate face, and he didn’t muscle around in the streets like another follower. That’s why we should be twice as scared of him as we are of Billy Boy,” Greg adds.

  “I am,” I respond reflexively. The both of them give me a strange look.

  “Has he threatened you or anything?” Greg asks, concerned.

  “Give me the word, hun, and I’ll kick his ass,” Renee growls.

  “No, no, nothing like— not that, no,” I struggle. Looking at my phone in a malaise, I read past my message again. I question every sentence. Am I too harsh? Did he deserve it? Should I have said this? Why am I so worried about it? He’s my enemy. He’s dangerous, the most dangerous man in the gang, one of the most dangerous in New Jersey. I should be worried about him killing me, not whether he’s going to respond to my angry protests over his treatment of me after the night we just happened to sleep together.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Mara?” Greg questions. “You seem pretty distracted. I haven’t seen you like this before, at last not when we’re discussing the Wardogs.”

  “Valence is right,” Renee states. “We’re cops, Mara. We can tell when somebody’s BSing us. That’s kind of part of the job.”

  “I’ve just been… worried, is all,” I swallow. “Haven’t seen the leader of the Wardogs in a while, and it makes me feel like they’re planning something. I don’t know.” Cops are trained to sniff out liars. They wouldn’t need it for me, though; I’m a terrible liar.

  “We’ll keep our ears to the ground,” Greg reassures me. “Billy Boy doesn’t know the meaning of the word subtlety, so if there’s any plans in place for anything, we’ll catch him before he could even think about putting it into motion.”

  “Thanks,” I nod, glancing at my phone again. No messages. Weeks now.

  “Break’s up, so I should get back out there,” Renee nods. “Keep me in the loop in case anything happens, okay? We’ll be on top of it.” She makes her way through the restaurant, and after we hear the door close, Greg leans in close.

  “I’ve got a plan, and I didn’t want to say too much in front of Bruno, because it’s still in the working stages,” Greg whispers, with all the excitement of a giddy kid. “I’ve got an idea, for catching all of them, even Tony St. James—” He’s clearly excited about his plans, but my lackadaisical disinterest shifts to true despair. “…We’re going to get him, with this deal I have planned… you’re really in a bad place, aren’t you, Mara?” he questions.

  “Just worried, is all,” I sniffle softly.

  “Hey, don’t worry, okay?” he tries to console me. If only he knew. “We’re going to get them, Mara. And they can intimidate all they want, Mara, but Bruno and I and Chief Durham, we’ve all got your back, okay? Daniels, at the state’s attorney, he’s behind you in this push against the Wardogs. Nobody would dare touch a hair on your head, Mara, okay?”

  “I trust you guys,” I whimper. “I’m hoping you’re right.”

  “We are,” he says.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I stutter abruptly, standing up from the booth and collecting my briefcase.

  “Do you want me to walk to the car with you?” Greg offers.

  “No, I’ll be fine, I promise, just finish your dinner, okay? Tell Melissa I said hi,” I sigh, briskly striding towards the door.

  “You’ll be fine, Mara,” he says after me, “remember that.” Maybe he’s right. I’ll be fine. Even without Tony in my life, whatever sorts of disasters it might have brought. I’m better off without him. I have to forget that night ever happened; it’s best for the both of us, isn’t it? And after that, I can’t believe Tony would hurt me.

  I push out into a frigid night, the sound of a train’s horn blaring in the distance. My car sits at the back of the diner parking lot, empty brick buildings clustered around the restaurant, the little glowing source of light and life in this dead corner of town. On my way back to my car, my nerves cool. I resist the urge to look at my phone again, hoping to see a ping from Anthony St. James’s Facebook. I take deep breaths with each step, eyes taking long blinks to try to wash away every steamy memory from that night. The storm clouds start to clear from my head. Maybe Greg’s right. We can put the Wardogs away, somehow, and put this whole chapter behind us.

  I pull my car door open, exhaling deeply. I open my eyes, pushing the keys into the ignition. Something suddenly feels wrong. Smells wrong. My hand jitters in fear, and I turn my head to the passenger seat.

  “Ya know, you shouldn’t leave your car unlocked in this part of town,” he says, in the booming voice of a revival preacher, lighter flicking open, the cigarette between his lips flaring to life. The low, orange glow of the flame illuminates the crooked wrinkles of his face and that grin; that damn, evil grin. “Yer lucky I’m the one that happened ta come along, and not some lowlife hoodlum,” Billy Boy says. “I think it’s about time we had a chat about Tony, don’t you?”

  “…No,” my voice shakes in panic. He doesn’t seem interested in taking no for an answer.

  “Drive, pumpkin.”

  Chapter 12

  “Can you… not… smoke, in my car… please?” my words
come out stilted and scared, in spite of my best intentions. Reclining in my passenger seat, comfortable in the shadows rolling across him from the darkness of night, Billy Boy puffs away at the cigarette. Each time we race through an underpass, my heart stops for a quick, fearing this may be the secretive spot he tells me to pull over. The place police will find me the next morning, discarded on the curb. Taunting me, he takes a long and slow drag on his cigarette, puffing ringlets of smoke out.

  “Don’t ya know smoking is good for you?” Billy Boy wheezes sarcastically.

  “I don’t think… it is,” I say meekly.

  “Oh? I guess my mama didn’t know nothin’ then,” Billy Boy chortles. The window whirrs down a half-inch and he flicks ash out into the street. I pull a corner, just wanting to go home, but he holds a hand out to me. “What’s yer hurry, pumpkin? Turn up here, and take it slow, okay?” he demands, pointing to a side alleyway. My hands shiver on the wheel. Now he’s telling me where to go. This is it, Mara. Your stupid crusade has finally got you into something you can’t talk or scream your way out of.

  “No hurry,” I swallow of the words, killing any attempt made at sounding calm.

  “Good,” he nods, puffing deep. “Thought maybe you were afraid of me or somethin’,” he grins, toothy. I pull where he asks, taking it slowly along the cramped thoroughfare. He says nothing else; I just drive. I drive for a good minute, undirected; slowly crawling the empty of streets on the dying side of the city. The whole time my heart pounds and my eyes dart along the sidewalks, searching for any sign of the leather-bound Roarin’ Wardogs ready to hop into the street, smash my windshield, drag me from the window of my car and do away with me. The entire time Billy just puffs, puffs, puffs, glancing at flickering streetlights and down dark side alleys.

  “Here, turn here,” he points to a side alley. The silence terrifies me, but maybe not as much as the rasping crackle of his cigarette-smoke voice. Rounding a corner, my hands freeze and my eyes go wide, seeing a huddled group of men just around the edge of the next building. One glances to me through the darkness, his eyes sullen and defeated. My stomach lurches. He turns back around.