OUR UNLIKELY BABY_Blacksteel Bandits MC

by Paula Cox

  The two men, taken aback by her sudden venom, shuffled awkwardly. They made some paper-thin excuses, before bumbling off in the dark, taking their flashlight with them. Their heels scuffed the cement, as if they were dawdling in an attempt to catch a glimpse. Miranda got the impression Francesca watched them go with silent disdain.

  A flare of light, a hiss of fire, and the scent of phosphor tickled the air. For a brief second, Francesca's face graced her sight, a cigarette dangling from her lip and a burning match pinched between her fingers. It wasn't her face that scared Miranda, though. It was what she handled in her hand, as she lit her cancer stick: A dildo. Her stomach churned with disgust and fear. She wasn't going to use that on her, was she?

  “Don't touch me with that,” snarled Miranda as Francesca leaned into the circle of light. Hatred and disgust roiled in her thoughts. If her muscles weren't screaming from pain, Miranda would kick out her feet wildly at the woman.

  “This?” Francesca eyes flickered from Miranda to the dildo. She held up the sex toy into the light. Miranda flinched and jerked back, sick to her stomach at the very thought of being used against her will. The woman's fingers nimbly popped the top off the dildo. Miranda's eyes widened, catching the glint of steel.

  It wasn't a sex toy, at all. A small knife jutted from the base as Francesca held the sheath in her hand. The tip of the knife jerked toward Miranda's face. An involuntary scream burst from her lips a second before she realized the knife had bypassed her face. The edge sliced between her extended hands, pain peeled away at her wrists.

  Miranda's legs gave out under her, pain aching along her knees as she fell to the floor. Dust and dirt mushroomed up around her, swathing her in clouds of particles. She rubbed feeling back into her wrists, despite her biceps hissing in discontent.

  “Tyler sent me,” Francesca whispered as she dropped to the floor beside Miranda. “He has a plan.”

  “A plan?” Miranda echoed the woman, her eyes widening. Delight filtered into her thoughts. She was right! Tyler wouldn't ever leave her behind. She couldn't further question Francesca, though. Outside, the fleshy pounds and howls of a fight briefly bustled through the air.

  “That's our cue, come on.” Francesca took her by the wrist, ignoring any protests as she hauled Miranda to her feet. She could barely stand. Pain laced along her muscles.

  She didn't lead Miranda to the front of the warehouse, though. She led her to the back. Confusion sliced through her thoughts. “Why are we going this way?”

  “You'll see.”

  “But–” Before Miranda could continue her disagreement, her dark-adjusted gaze realized where they were heading. While tied up, she couldn't have spotted this shaft of light. A small square painted the floor, originating from a window. In the wall, however, a rectangle was outlined by light. A door!

  Francesca shoved it, fearlessly. The door opened with a metallic creak and night spilled in. Miranda followed close behind the woman, the scent and feel of fresh air a delight on her lungs and her skin. The sun had already sunken behind the horizon, leading the world into dark-blue night.

  “Where's Tyler?” Miranda asked, her eyes darting about. A fog still strangled her thoughts, but the fresh air started to dissemble her mental knots. The fight. Miranda's body lurched toward the corner of the warehouse, intent on finding him. Francesca barely had the chance to grab at her when someone careened into her.

  Miranda squeaked as a pair of familiar arms wrapped around her. His scent, his body, his heat all melted into her as Tyler pulled her closer. He breathed in her scent, sighing happily, “Mir.”

  “Tyler,” she breathed, burrowing into his chest. She ignored the scent of blood that coiled against his shirt and the damp, red spots. Relief and joy filtered into her thoughts. He had come back for her. Baldie was wrong. His arms tightened around her, as if he'd never let her go.

  The roar of a motorcycle stopped her dead in her happiness. Her eyes widened as tension sluice through Tyler. Her was coming. Pete was coming.

  The name echoed through Miranda's head like a warning bell. She jerked in Tyler's arms.

  “Guys, we have a car to catch.” Francesca's voice interrupted Miranda's chaotic thoughts. Tyler released her and she turned, finding a jet-black car sitting amongst the trees. Her eyes narrowed. Why hadn't she noticed the car before? And why did it seem familiar?

  The door opened and a man stepped out. He stood tall, dressed in expensive black clothes. As soon as she saw him, Miranda knew it was. Her heart sank and she shot Tyler with a glare. Her lover didn't dare look her in the eye. The man spoke, his voice taunting memories of her childhood from her head, “Miranda, we must go. Now.”

  She didn't answer him. Her gaze flared across Tyler's face as a single question shot out of her mouth, “What did you do Tyler?”

  “Your dad is going to take you home,” he whispered, still unable to meet her gaze. She would have laughed – how many times had he said that in the past! - but she couldn't locate her amusement.

  “What are you going to do?” She hissed, realization slapping at her thoughts. She was going home. Tyler wasn't. He was going to confront Pete, but how and why? To foolishly sacrifice himself? He should know Pete would do anything to get to Miranda! But, if her family knew…Miranda's gaze swung to her father, but she couldn't read his impassive expression.

  In his green eyes, though, she could see a storm brewing. He wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer, even if he had to drag his daughter into the car himself. Sickness clawed up Miranda's throat. Her family would happily sacrifice Tyler, her Tyler, to guarantee her safety. Tears bit at the back of her eyes. “But, I can't–”

  “Just go!” Tyler shoved her toward car. She swung around, fire and heat in her heart and her gaze. Tyler melted under her expression, pain creasing his face. He wanted to touch her, one last time, but didn't trust himself to let her go. “Please, Mir, just go.”

  His expression, his softened words, stunned her into silence. The roar of the hogs grew louder as she stared at Tyler, eyes wide and tears brimming in her eyes. Was this really the end? He was going to sacrifice herself as her father raced her into comfort and safety?

  “They're getting closer!” Francesca hissed, grabbing onto Miranda's arm. Her nails dug into her arms, like talons of a bird, before she dragged her toward the car.

  She couldn't argue. She couldn't disagree. Her body felt like mush and she couldn't resist Francesca's demanding shoves toward the car. She couldn't say 'no' to Tyler's plea, either. Numbness clung to her body as they trundled into the darker part of the parking lot, to an almost unseen road. Francesca sat beside her as her father glared at the road, throwing Miranda disappointed huffs and glances.

  As the car jostled her down the road, the sound of motorcycles died away. She stared at the phone Tyler had slipped into her hand, just before their hug broke. Flipping the prepaid phone open, a number flashed across the screen.

  Her numbed mind stared at the number, uncomprehending. Without thinking, she called the number, held the phone to her ear, and waited. The phone rang three times, before someone picked up. Miranda's eyes widened as Lloyd's voice filled the opposite line, “Miranda. Is it that time, then?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  He watched the car bustle down the drive. It didn't take long until the sleek vehicle became one with shadows and the pavement. Tyler turned abruptly, and dashed to the front of the warehouse. He needed to give Miranda time to get away. Then, if everything went right, Lloyd and the Bandits would arrive. He just had to taunt Pete enough to keep him busy.

  Tyler froze as he rounded the front of the building. A half-circle of bikers awaited him. Smack in the middle of them, a familiar mug leered at him. Pete Delaney didn't look like much. Average height and average build with a generic hairstyle and grey eyes that sometimes looked blue in the right light. He was the last man anyone would notice. That was part of his charm. He could get anywhere with his 'Joe Schmoe' act and no one would remember his unmemorable mug.
Though, under his kutte, thronged muscles bunched along his body, lithe but steely.

  “Well, well, Red Ferguson, I finally caught you.” The man laughed as he swung off his hog. His Average Joe act awash as he approached Tyler. “Not that you were all that secret. Before Francesca, two other dunderheads noticed you in a bar fight. Of course, I'll have to call Frannie for letting this slide, but-”

  Pete continued to blather on and on. Tyler tensed, fingers curled into fists as he prepared for Pete's first strike. Mentally, he cursed himself. It wasn't just Francesca who gave them up. There were others in San Marta who put the spotlight on Tyler and Miranda.

  “So, did you save your slut?” Pete chuckled, taking another step closer. “It won't do her any good. Once you're dead, I'll find her.”

  “Leave her alone. She doesn't know shit about you,” Tyler bristled, his lips twisted into a scowl.

  Pete's eyes turned icy cold, his lips thinning as he growled, “You two found Francesca. That's enough.”

  Red rage pinioned through Tyler's thoughts. Fear scraped across his synapses and the will to protect her reared in his head. Pete knew they had found Francesca. There was no way to hide that. He needed the man out of the way. He didn't want to trade repertoires with Pete. He wanted Pete dead, if only to end this for everyone involved.

  He just needed to distract Pete until the Bandits came. If they came.

  Pete laughed and danced out of Tyler's thrown punches. He ducked and dodged as the sloppy blows whizzed over his head, barely missing him by a fraction of an inch. Tyler finally snarled and launched himself at Pete, tackling the man to the gravel.

  The world flew out from their feet. Pete landed in the rocks with a gasping grunt. Pebbles and gravel went flying as they rolled around in the rocks. Dirt and dust kicked up around them, shrouding them in a whitish cloud. Arms swung, knees jerked upward, fists went flying. The air resonated with the sound of their blows echoed. Rocks dug into Tyler's limbs as he and Pete scrabbled against one another. He managed to shimmy atop Pete, raining blows onto his face. Curses flew from his lips, his arms going up to block Tyler's knuckles from connecting.

  A gunshot rang out, slamming into Tyler's alertness. He jerked forward, the air in his lungs suddenly made of pain and heat. Something exploded into his chest. Pain and heat coiled down his limbs.

  “Mike? The fuck you think you're doing! You could've hit me!” Pete barked as he punched Tyler off him.

  He grunted, more air expelling from his lungs before he slumped to the rocks beneath him. Heat and pain ate away at his insides. His brain still scrabbled to make sense of the pain, the heat that dribbled down his chest. Now, his jaw throbbed, colored with bruises from Pete's knuckles.

  Somewhere, out of Tyler's dimming sight, someone – Baldie? - apologized, “Sorry, boss, I saw a shot and took it.”

  Pete climbed to his feet with a grunt. Tyler could hear the glare in his voice. “Next time, don't be so fucking rash.”

  The feet in his line of sight turned toward him, in the most threatening fashion shoes could manage. They seemed to observe him before one foot pulled back. It rocketed into his side, adding another touch of pain to his thoughts. Over and over, the booted foot slammed into his side, coaxing air and peace from Tyler's body. Something warm and wet gushed beneath him and, somewhere in his mind, he thought the sensation originated from the hole in his chest.

  Another kick to his side, more gushing redness, more copper staining the air and tickling his nose. Tyler gasped, pain clawing up his lungs and his throat. Nausea fought through his throat and, faintly, he wondered how painful vomiting would be. Probably painful.

  As his world narrowed to a small slit, rounded with darkness and pain, Tyler only had one gracious thought: Miranda got away.

  * * *

  Miranda caught sight of Tyler slumping against the ground, a pool of red beneath his body. She let out a shriek, but the roar of the motorcycles swallowed her scream. The crew swarmed into the parking lot of 1523 David Drive, a part of the business district that lay abandoned. The motorcycles wound around Pete and Baldie, a tight circle bathed in the headlights of the choppers. She hopped off the motorcycle as soon as it rolled to a stop and rushed to Tyler. Lloyd, meanwhile, climbed off his motorcycle and strutted to Pete Delaney.

  “So, you were skimming from the Bandits, Delaney.”

  “Tyler, Tyler, please!” Miranda sobbed, her heart shuddering in her chest. She knelt beside him, gathering him up in her arms. Her fingers slid into her pocket, touching her phone.

  “Mir?”

  “Yes, yes, I'm here!” She held him closer, fear coiling around her lungs. Her phone lay forgotten beside her knee. She could barely breathe. In the light of the motorcycles, he looked ungodly pale. Tears burned at the backs of her eyes.

  “It was just a little bit, Lloyd! Just something to start up a business.”

  “A business peddling drugs and sluts, Delaney?”

  “Mir,” a breath rattled his throat. “Why did you come back?”

  “I called Lloyd. Tyler, everything is going to be fine!” Miranda tried to swallow down the plea in her voice. She could feel herself bargaining with fate, needing a miracle.

  “It was for the club, Lloyd!”

  “Still, I'm glad to see you, before…” His thought trailed off, his brow furrowing, “Before I…”

  “Don't say it!”

  For a split second, his eyes focused on her. The tears wobbled on Miranda's lashes as hope spouted through her thoughts. This was a good sign, right? “You know, don't you?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed, unable to control the tears that streaked down her cheeks. In the background, flesh landed on flesh as multiple fists rained down on a fleshy body. Miranda didn't hear the Blacksteel Bandits deal with Pete, nor did she listen as they rounded on Baldie. All she cared about was the man in her arms.

  Faintly, Tyler's brain seemed to skitter across an adjacent thought. His eyes swiveled around, but only succeeded in making him sick to his stomach. “Where's your dad?”

  “Back at the hotel,” answered Miranda, swallowing her distaste. There had been a short argument with words thrown hastily around. Mostly from her father. Quite frankly, Miranda wasn't sure if she'd have a job or a family to go back to, after everything she said. “I told him I wasn't going to leave you behind.”

  “Mir, go back to him,” he wheezed, though amusement gently colored his words.

  Even inching closer to death, Tyler cared. It made the tears burn hotter at the back of her eyes. Why did he care about her family? Why did it matter if they cared for her? It didn't matter, though. Tyler always worried about Miranda and her family. Even when he should be hauled to a hospital to care for his wounds.

  A sudden thought slammed into her head. She felt stupid. Miranda scrabbled for her phone as Tyler touched her cheek. His focus was fading. She punched in 911. Just as the operator picked up, someone plucked her phone from her hand. She swung a fiery gaze on Lloyd, her lips twisting into a scowl and her eyes wide with fear. “What the Hell are you doing?! Don't you see he needs–”

  “We'll take him to the hospital,” Lloyd said, without inflection, as he pocketed her phone.

  Miranda's thoughts buzzed around with pain and fear. “It could be too late by then!”

  “He's a fighter. We'll get him there in time.”

  “And if we don't?” She spat the words out with venom and pain.

  The implication hung heavily in the air. Miranda turned her tear-streaked face to Tyler as his head slumped against her. Her gaze flicked from his face to the pool of blood beneath him. A fresh spring of tears poured from her eyes, before Lloyd relieved her of her burden.

  Miranda knelt there, staring at the blood on her hands and soaking through her clothes.

  * * *

  Sounds started coming back, first. From the dark, deep void of wherever his brain resided, Tyler finally recognized awareness. Machines beeped, shuffling feet, the whirr of a mechanical unit. His sense of smel
l oozed back in, bringing with it the stinging of antiseptic. Closer, someone shifted.

  “Tyler?”

  He recognized that voice. His eyes flew open, greeted with deep green eyes and a brow pinched with worry. She hovered over him and, when his eye opened, her smile split across her lips.

  “You're up,” Miranda breathed, relief dotting her face. For the first time in four days, she breathed easily.

  With his eyes cracked open, Tyler was able to make out the room. White tiles, white walls, white curtains betrayed the setting: a hospital. As if the beeping machines and scent of antiseptic weren't enough. Outside the room, the sound of something on wheels – a wheelchair, a gurney, or maybe a linen cart – squeaked by his door. A small rolling tray table stood guard beside the bed, across from Miranda. Atop it, a plastic pitcher and two cups sat, one filled and the other dry. Overhead, the majority of the lights were turned down to almost darkness.