Pride and Pregnancy (A Devil's Dragons Motorcycle Club Romance)

by Nikki Wild

  “Don’t do what?” He asked, almost accusingly. “He doesn’t have a day job, he lives out of some cheap hotel, he was just sitting and drinking every night until you showed up… he goes and visits around the city, but why is he here?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I mean, I never bothered to really ask him most of those details,” I answered defensively. “He’s some kind of football player on vacation here. What’s to know?”

  “He wears high-end suits and disguises how loaded he probably is,” Connor stated, remaining on the offensive. “It’s suspicious.”

  “It’s pissing me off,” I replied.

  “You too, huh? I knew you weren’t that dense.” He grinned, swallowing down another bite. “Let’s see what we can dig up on this guy. Have you even googled him?”

  “No, Connor, you’re pissing me off,” I told him. “Just fucking drop it, okay? If there’s something there, he’ll tell me, alright? I trust him. I don’t need this to get complicated. I like that it’s something simple… something easy. There’s a hard deadline set, and he’ll be gone soon. Just let me fucking have this while it’s here to be had.”

  Connor looked positively wounded. “But Riley, I just don’t want you to be–”

  “To be hurt?” I hissed. “I’ll be fine. You’ve known me for a long time, Connor. I’ve got thicker skin than most. I’ll manage.”

  “Speaking of that…”

  I noticed him take a deep breath.

  Oh, no. Not now. Don’t do this.

  “Riley… I tried to keep it to myself, but I can’t help it anymore,” he began, clearly lowering himself to the point of complete vulnerability in front of my eyes. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Ever since we were kids, and I fought off that bully for you–”

  “This isn’t the time,” I insisted.

  “When is the time, Riley?” He demanded. “It’s never the right time, is it? Because you don’t want to hear it. And that’s fine for you and all, but I can’t help the way that I feel–”

  “Connor, please stop,” I pressed. “You know that I’m with Lex. If you had to let this out now, you could have waited another month or so–”

  “That’s not good enough,” he told me under no uncertain terms. “I know that you’re falling for him. God, Riley, it’s so fucking obvious. And I’ve seen how he looks at you, too. You’re both going to hurt each other, and that’s all there is to it.

  “And then I’m going to have to come in and scoop you up, just like I always do when you get too attached to a guy.”

  I paused warningly, raising an eyebrow.

  “…Excuse me?”

  Connor realized his mistake, but it was too late for him to back out of the corner he’d painted himself into. “Wait… that’s not what I meant. Riley, you know that I’ll always be there for you–”

  “We’re finished,” I told him, rising up from the seat and tossing down a ten and a five onto the table in front of him. “I’m taking a few days. I’ll contact you first. Leave me alone.”

  I didn’t look over my shoulder as I left the restaurant, abandoning him to the rest of his meal alone.

  But that was yesterday.

  I checked on the painting again. It wasn’t just good… It was perfect. I couldn’t let Connor get under my skin. Things were going well for the first time in a long time…

  After changing into some casual clothes, I heard my ringtone pinging from the living room. Kicking back into a chair, I snatched up my phone and glanced at the caller ID.

  It was one of the local galleries, which I considered odd, but they usually only reached out to me if there was a substantially good reason.

  “Hello, Miss Ricketts?”

  “Adam!” I grinned to myself affably. “How are you, my love?” Of all the others, it was incredibly rare that the Pulliam Museum reached out to me, let alone the head curator. “I hope all is well down there.”

  “Things are splendid,” he responded in his usual, casual tone… although I sensed something just beneath the surface. “In fact, things are a little better than splendid… I just received a rather interesting phone call.”

  “Sounds curious. Do tell.”

  His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “We are apparently about to host a rather distinguished guest, Ms. Ricketts… I just got off the phone with one Gloria Van Lark.”

  My heart stopped in my chest.

  “Miss Ricketts? Are you there, Miss Ricketts?”

  I swallowed the burst of emotion that threatened to surge out of my throat. “I am absolutely, definitely here, Adam.”

  “Good. You are in New Orleans, I trust?”

  “I’m at my apartment now, just thirty or forty minutes away.”

  “Excellent. She was rather particular about an artist’s work that she wanted to peruse… and indicated that she had already scoured a few other galleries in the last couple of days. I sincerely think that you should get down here immediately.”

  Gloria Van Lark was here?

  And she was looking at my work?

  WHY AM I JUST HEARING ABOUT THIS NOW.

  “Absolutely. Oh god, Adam, thank you so much for contacting me. I had no idea that she was here!”

  “Neither did I, truthfully,” he receded back into his typical casual tone. “I have excellent working relationships with the other galleries in town, but it would appear that none of them saw fit to indicate this… delicate matter to me. Oh well. She is expected within the hour. It might serve you to represent yourself…”

  “I’m heading out the door as we speak,” I lied, glancing over towards my closet and already running clothing options through my head.

  “See to it that you are, my dear. Bonne chance, mon amie!”

  “Merci, monsieur!”

  With that, I haphazardly dove towards the closet, quickly settling on a conservative yet trendy outfit that highlighted a prim, subtle sense of style.

  As I locked the door and darted down the stairs towards the streets of New Orleans, I dug out my phone and sent a group text to Reiko and Connor.

  Yes, even Connor.

  He was one of the very few people in the world who understood the gravity of what was happening here… and how utterly important this moment was to me.

  “Gloria Van Lark is here, and she’s prowling the local galleries featuring my art as we speak.”

  A few minutes later, Reiko responded:

  “GET IT, GIRL.”

  And then Connor:

  “I knew this day would come :) Good luck!”

  Unsurprisingly, he was just happy that I was talking to him again, even if only in passing.

  The massive smile stayed glued to my face all the way down to the Pulliam Museum, where I flashed my Gallery Pass to the front attendant and strolled into the building.

  I wasn’t sure what to do with myself, or what kind of signal to expect that would indicate her presence, so I went ahead and walked towards the exhibit that carried some of my signature work.

  Ascending up the white tile stairs, I took in the surroundings of the Pulliam Museum. It was a rather modern piece of architectural elegance, built to emphasize light and luminescence.

  During the day, the various skylights, glass ceilings, and reflective surfaces shimmered a dazzling but not blinding force of light across the main atrium and aortic passages, emphasizing ample use of vertical space with winding staircases.

  At night, however, the sunken lighting took over, enhancing the entire museum with an astounding array of modern brightness that bathed the careful architecture and beautiful tiling work with majesty, grace, and exquisite accent.

  It was one of my favourite places in the city, and it was a tremendous honor to have an exhibit dedicated to my paintings. The fact that I’d gained a fantastic working relationship with the head curator, Adam Garmont, was simply a coveted perk.

  With some time to spare before her arrival, I ascen
ded the last few stairs before the drop-off to my corner of the gallery. I turned at the passage away from the ascent, striding alongside the circular railing that gave a stunning view of the lower atrium levels, and passed several galleries featuring recovered artifacts and priceless art that made my head spin.

  But that was nothing compared to when I stepped into my gallery.

  Gloria Van Lark matched every story I heard of her. With her attention focused on a wintery landscape piece I’d painted on a five-foot canvas, she stood tall, hawkish, with long black hair and half-moon spectacles. She was dressed in form-fitting black attire under a flowing coat, a colorful shawl, and a pair of white, cubic earrings that glistened as the light touched the fine jewelry tips.

  Oh sweet Jesus, Gloria Van Lark is here.

  I could feel my phone buzz in my pocket, and I moved to silence the tone from my group texts. Although she stood thirty feet away, Gloria’s head twisted to regard me coolly, and her face settled into a small, wicked smile.

  “You should know better than to disturb others with your technology, Riley.”

  Just hearing her lips speak my name clashed against the incredible embarrassment I felt at the social faux pas. I quickly dug my phone out and silenced it, slipping it back into my purse.

  “Miss Van Lark, it is… an absolute pleasure to finally meet you,” I spoke as I approached her, summoning all the courage my heart could muster.

  “Charmed,” she spoke almost sarcastically, extending her delicately manicured hand. I noticed a flash of green across her nails as I lightly shook it, matching her pressure.

  “What brings you to New Orleans?” I asked politely.

  She ignored the question, turning back to face the wintery landscape. “I see that you rely on a clear coat water-based style. Popularized to American culture by the famous Bob Ross.”

  “I grew up watching his work,” I nodded, fondly remembering his thick, curly afro, his soft and gentile voice, and the kindness in those old, warm eyes.

  “Yes, as did many,” she replied. “He did great things for making the production of passable art accessible to otherwise talentless imbeciles… in some cases, those said imbeciles came to learn a touch of greatness… it was rare, but it happened.”

  I nodded along, trying to determine if she was commenting on American culture, or insulting me. I assumed it was probably both.

  “I’ve heard of you in passing, Riley.”

  “What have you heard of me?” I asked, trying to keep the sheer curiosity out of my tone.

  “A number of things: that you’ve a natural at your craft, that you work quickly and efficiently, that you are a humble but confident artist with friendly working relationships with a dozen museums in this city alone… what do you have to say about these things?”

  I was caught a little off-guard as she turned her undivided attention to me, the creases around her eyes settling into a deep, analytic gaze.

  “I… would say that you haven’t heard wrong,” I responded. “I work hard at this,” I waved to the paintings surrounding us. “I’ve dedicated my life to the craft. I’ve been lucky enough to support myself exclusively through my art… sent on international retreats… that I’ve–”

  “Yes, yes, your resume is very impressive,” she drolly commented. “If you honestly think I care even the slightest about your past, then you fail to grasp what will earn a single spot in the Spinnoc.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Riley, do you deserve a place in the Spinnoc?”

  I didn’t know how to answer this, and I suspected that it was a trick question. Does she want me to be bold, or does she want me to be humble? What does this woman want from me?

  I answered the first thing that came to mind.

  “…No.”

  Her eyes flared open.

  I clarified: “Miss Van Lark, with absolutely all due respect… I don’t deserve a spot, but I want one. It’s all I’ve wanted for years… and I feel that I can earn it, if I haven’t already.”

  It was only then that I noticed a few other patrons in the gallery, perusing my art. They appeared to recognize me, which wasn’t difficult, given that my face was on a nearby wall-mounted foam board with a short biography. It was a few small groups of people: one, a lithe, elderly woman, was speaking to a younger couple in a hushed tone and watching me.

  Gloria Van Lark leaned in closely with a crisp, cold smile, so that only I could hear her response: “I will be in touch, Miss Ricketts.”

  With that, she lifted her chin and strolled from the room, leaving me stone-faced and defeated. I knew what that meant. I’d heard the stories.

  The legendary curator had turned me down.

  My shoulders rose as I took in a deep, hectic breath, struggling to come to grips with the opportunity that had just sailed past me.

  “What a bitch,” an old voice whispered quietly to me. I turned my head, snapping back to reality, and noticed the lithe, elderly woman at my side. “Who was that, anyway?”

  “Her name is Gloria Van Lark,” I answered mechanically, feeling the life start to slip back into my veins. “She’s a powerful and influential curator… she headhunts for one of the most prestigious museums in the country.”

  The old woman chuckled. “She didn’t look all that impressive to me. All that black? Bah. What is it with people and black? You’re in a museum, not a godforsaken funeral! Chirp up!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “That’s right, that’s a good girl,” the woman smiled softly. “You’re the one who painted all of this, aren’t you? What was it… Riley Ricketts?”

  “That’s me,” I nodded. “Do you like it?”

  She gave the room another glance. “If you want an old crone’s opinion… I certainly think you’ve got a knack for this. How long have you been painting?”

  “Since I was old enough to hold a paintbrush.”

  “Heh. Good answer. A little cliché, but it gets the point across,” she winked. “Anyway… don’t get your hopes down. Sounded like you really respected that woman… I’m sure you’ll get another chance down the line. You never know. Maybe it’s just not your time yet.”

  I smiled fondly at her. “You’re very kind.”

  “I’m told that sometimes,” she laughed. “Well… I’ve got to get back to my grandson.” She indicated the male half of the younger couple, standing over to the side, near the exit of the room. They didn’t appear to be watching for her. “But before I go, why don’t we look at this one together?”

  She pointed me towards one of my earlier pieces, the painting of an arguing couple on a bridge during noon. I had been experimenting with a post-modern influenced style at the time. I wasn’t terribly fond of this one anymore, but it was considered a classic in the circles who appreciated my work.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking when you painted this one?” She whispered behind me.

  I fell into a small trance, thinking back on that time in my life. It was before I had won the Finland scholarship, and taken the artist’s retreat. It was from a more chaotic time, when I still struggled with my foster parents and their wishes for the direction I was going to take in life.

  I snapped out of my thoughts. “I don’t think very much when I paint,” I answered. “But this comes from a rough time in my teenage years… at the time, I was conflicted over–”

  Glancing back over my shoulder, I noticed that the three of them – elderly museum patron included – were completely gone.

  With a soft, recollecting smile, I silently thanked the stranger for her tenderness and her kindnesses, and I turned back to silently regard my old painting once again.

  29

  Lex

  I got it into my head that I wanted Riley to see a little more of the kind of lifestyle I usually led. That’s why I booked a private suite in one of the most expensive hotels around, surprising her in her apartment with a room pass.

  “The Frione?” She asked, tilting her head as she stu
died the small, plastic card on its lanyard. “You booked us a room at the freaking Frione?”

  “I did,” I chuckled, crossing my arms. “Room is already prepared and everything.”

  “But that’s such an exclusivist hotel,” she thought aloud, turning back to face me. “How did you afford that?” Her gaze changed, and she stiffened up a little. “How much money do you have, Lex?

  “Enough to cover my bases,” I answered conservatively, cocking my eyebrow. “Are you coming along, or are you going to just sit there and gawk at that card?”

  “Give me half an hour,” she replied, dashing towards her bedroom.

  I made myself comfortable as I heard her rummage through her room, slapping together a bag of the “essentials.” When she eventually came back out, dressed in a sleek dress with a small suitcase, I couldn’t help but stare openly at her.

  “What’s the matter?” Riley asked.

  “You… look absolutely beautiful.”

  For the first time, I watched her blush. “Th-thank you,” she murmured, before composing herself and carrying the case straight past me. “You don’t look so bad yourself, handsome.”

  I stood up from her couch, straightening my tailored suit and running my fingers through my thick hair. “Thanks, buttercup,” I grinned. “Shall we be off?”

  I followed her downstairs and hailed a taxi. Twenty minutes later, we were strolling through the lobby of the lavish Frione hotel, taking in the sights of the beautiful smoked marble and Grecian columns.

  One of the delights to this hotel was the glass elevator to the private upper suites. Running up the outside of the building, we were treated to a phenomenal view of Downtown New Orleans as the elevator ascended. Night had just fallen across the port city – the sea of lights and extravagance beneath us stretched in every direction. In the distance, we spotted the pair of parallel Crescent City Connection bridges that crossed the Mississippi River, stretching far and rising high into the sky from the twirling tangle of Interstate highways.