A Secret Vow: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance

by Zoey Parker

  True, there are things I am hiding from him. I’m still figuring out the best way to present the whole Kendra situation to the club. Some guys might frown on stealing another man’s wife, even a man as piggish as Grady, and I need a full bloc of support if I want to start taking shots at the guys who work the triggers of the government guns. Something like outright theft just won’t look good.

  But it isn’t fair to call it that. She’d come with me because she wanted to, not because I’d made her. That sounds hollow even in my ears, though. I have to admit, if another Angel had done something as foolish as run off with the wife of the one guy in the whole town who could unravel our business on a whim, I’d be on his ass quicker than lightning. No, I need to have a bulletproof explanation, and this is neither the time nor the place nor the way in which I want to lay all my cards on the table.

  I open my mouth to respond to Croak’s question, but a burst of noise interrupts behind me before I can begin.

  “I want his fucking head!” Grady roars, kicking in the door to Croak’s office. He has his police baton in one hand. The tip of the weapon is twirling like it is hungry to inflict pain. He looks down, sees me sitting in the chair, and seizes me by my shirt before I can react. Grady spins and slams me against the wall, pressing the baton across my throat to cut off the air. I try to push him away, but he’s fueled by rage. Crazy always wins in a fight.

  “You motherfucking cocksucker, I ought to kill you right here! How fucking dare you march her around in front of me like that. I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to you, you goddamn crook!” His jowls flop like they are surging with enraged electricity. Spit flecks from his mouth to my face, which is only inches away.

  Vince and Steezy come barreling into the room and pull Grady away from me. I hear them apologizing to Croak as they separate us. They help me down from the wall and step between Grady and me to prevent any more fighting. He shakes them off.

  “Don’t fucking touch me, scum,” he snarls.

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Steezy says to Croak. “We didn’t know if we could stop him or not. He had his badge out. He told us he’d have us arrested on the spot if we tried to keep him out.”

  Croak raises both hands, trying to bring the tension in the room down a notch. Everyone is huffing and red-faced from the exertion. “Thank you, boys. It’s okay. Officer Freeman, sit, please.” He points to an adjacent seat. I stand still where Grady had thrown me, fists clenched, ready to swing if provoked. Croak looks to me. “You, too, Mortar. Sit.”

  I stride cautiously to the seat I had been in before. Grady scowls at me as we sit next to each other, separated by only a yard. Either one of us is more than willing to cross that distance and end the life of the bastard on the other side of it. Croak is the only thing stopping that from happening.

  He walks around the desk and sits on the edge closest to us. When he speaks, his tone is low and soothing, like a zookeeper talking to wild animals. “Grady, you and I have been working together for a long time. We’ve made a lot of money together and you know I do everything I can to make sure you stay happy. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Grady glares at me. “This motherfucker stole my wife, the piece of shit,” he spits.

  Croak raises an eyebrow as he turns to face me. “Is this true?” he asks. There is a brooding undertone to his voice. He’s not happy about finding out like this.

  “She came on her own, Prez,” I say, keeping my words concise.

  “That’s a fucking lie!” Grady says, starting to leap up at me. Croak put a hand on his chest and lowers him back to his seat.

  “Don’t you touch me either, you bastard,” the cop growls at him. “I’m a cop. Nobody fucking touches me.” Sweat is running in rivulets down his starched navy collar.

  Croak doesn’t waver as he replies, “You may be a cop, but you’re in our house right now, Grady. Think before you act.”

  “Are you threatening me?” His voice is murderous.

  “Not a threat, Officer. Just a fact.” Croak is every bit as icy calm as his reputation predicted.

  I see Grady’s hand itching to draw his gun. He must be insane if he’s willing to resort to that. There’s no way he’d be able to explain to a state ethics investigation why he’d been in the middle of a known criminal hangout during a firefight. I can’t imagine that he’d be so stupid.

  He reconsiders and leans forward, practically spitting in Croak’s face. “I want his head on a silver fucking platter. Do you understand me? He stole my wife. He fucked her. And he needs to die for it. I’m not negotiating here, Croak.”

  Croak acknowledges Grady’s words with a somber expression. He looks to me. “Tell me what happened, Mortar.”

  I lay out the story as simply as possible. “She didn’t want to be with him. She came with me. I didn’t force her; she chose it. That’s all there is to it.”

  Croak nods, taking in what I said. I see the gears turning in his head. What could he be weighing? There is never any telling what’s happening in that inscrutable brain of his. He folds his arms across his chest before saying in a careful voice, “I can’t let you kill him, Grady.”

  Grady looks apoplectic. He might explode just sitting there. The tone that comes out of his mouth, though, is dark and controlled. I didn’t expect such self-control. I don’t like to see anger held back like that. You can always count on an angry man to be angry. But when an angry man holds back his emotions, it always pops out in unexpected ways. Unexpected is the last thing I want.

  “Fine,” he grits. “But the bitch owed me money. I want repayment. For her and for her debts.”

  Croak nods. “That seems justified. What were you owed?”

  Grady outlines the terms of the deal. The amount of money he quotes is jaw-dropping. I don’t know how I’ll manage to pay it off, but I keep my face under control. No weakness in front of the enemy.

  “Mortar will pay everything that she owed you, as well as a blood money fee to compensate for the loss of your wife.” Croak’s words are final. I know without even asking that he’ll never budge.

  Grady stands. He turns to me and raises his baton. From the back of the room, Vince and Steezy start to step forward to intervene, but Croak holds up a hand to stop them. The mood is tense, thick enough to slice, practically sweating with pent-up fury.

  Grady pushes the tip of the baton under my chin. I feel the cold plastic on my skin, black and threatening.

  “You crossed a line, my friend,” he says. The thin-lipped smile on his fat face is far scarier than any weapon he might aim at me. It’s the smile of a man prepared to do terrible things. “I’m coming for you. For her, too. You’re both gonna wish you’d never been born.”

  He stares down the baton at me. Neither of us blink or move. I can see Croak, Steezy, and Vince lingering in the corner of my eye, ready to jump in the second something happens.

  “We’ll be ready,” I hiss back. Grady’s smile does not change.

  “Good.” He drops the baton, holsters it, and strolls out the door, whistling.

  I suck in a deep breath, rubbing the lined bruise on my throat where he’d pinned me against the wall. Croak drops into the seat next to me as Vince and Steezy file out the door with concerned looks on their faces.

  He won’t look at me. “You know I’m right,” I tell him. “You know what needs to happen.” He won’t say a word. He’s slipping, letting the whole organization crumble between his fingers like sand at the beach. Grady needs to be stopped or else he’s gonna cause a world of trouble for us for a long time. Not just me, but the entire club. Can’t Croak see that? Doesn’t he realize what’s at stake?

  But he won’t say anything. He just tents his fingers in front of his face and stares at the floor, unblinking, as I stand and walk out the door.

  I suppose, all things considered, that this was kind of a victory. I didn’t get the green light I wanted from Croak, but I’m not so sure it matters anymore. He’s not as on top of things as he once was. I’m w
illing to bide my time, but if things escalate and I decide to put a bullet in Grady’s thick skull, I’m not gonna be sitting around waiting for Croak to tell me everything is all good before I pull the trigger.

  The debt is another issue. I made a promise to Kendra that I would help her keep the studio, and I intend to follow through. But, like everything else in this grim, shallow world, it just comes down to money. I’ll have to find a way to make it all work.

  At the core of it all is Kendra herself. I feel a little uplifted at the thought of her. She’s mine, despite whatever Grady fucking Freeman has to say about it. There’s not a person in this world who can do anything about it. We’re bound by a promise. Croak, Grady, and anyone else who has something to say about us can just go ahead and shove it up their own ass. She’s mine, and I’m never letting go.

  Never.

  * * *

  I decide to take the long way home, cruising down the boardwalk to see the families and tourists flocking to the beach. I pass the bike shop, some restaurants, and, just before the last turn, a tall, run-down building that catches my eye.

  There’s a window thrown open on the second floor. From street level, I can see a figure in there with her back to me. I’d recognize that body anywhere.

  Parking my bike on the sidewalk in front, I dismount and kill the engine. I frown when I notice the door swinging on its hinges crazily, one bad bump away from falling off and hurting someone. I’ll have to get that fixed. I don’t want Kendra getting concussed by something as silly as a broken door.

  Moving inside, I mount the stairs two at a time. Light streams through the upstairs room, along with a sea breeze that flirts with the edges of the loose canvases that cover every desk and table top.

  Kendra doesn’t see me as I enter. I pause at the door and watch her work. She’s got her hair tied back in a messy ponytail and paint smeared on her neck and arms. She’s wearing an apron over a tank top and jean shorts, just enough clothing to show plenty of the dusky skin I love. The strokes of her thin muscles bend and flex as she dips a brush in paint, raises it to the canvas on the easel in front of her, and focuses intensely on a tiny patch of sky. I laugh at how zoned in she has, how in her element, so unaware of everything in the world except for the miniscule square inch under her brush.

  She’s one of a kind.

  I stroll towards her, careful to be quiet and avoid breaking her concentration. She still doesn’t notice me. I drink in the easy curves of her breasts, pressing against the rough cotton of the apron tied around her. Her belly is flat, but I can’t help but let my imagination wander and do some painting of its own. I picture her stomach growing, swelling with my child, until the apron is taut across her rounded womb. I wish I could walk up behind her like I’m doing now, rest my hands on her hips, and feel the soft thrum of my son kicking within her.

  I’m hard just thinking about it. Picturing this woman heavy with a baby is a bigger turn on than anything else I’ve ever encountered in my life. None of the women in my past could even come close. She just looks so starkly stunning, so beautiful, so alone in the world.

  It occurs to me that that’s exactly what she is: alone. I don’t like the idea. I walk up behind her and press my hand lightly on her throat. “You shouldn’t be here by yourself,” I whisper, my lips touching her ear.

  She jumps in fright, spinning around to see me. “Jesus, don’t do that!” she says breathlessly. “You scared the living hell out of me.”

  I frown. “I don’t like you being here alone,” I tell her. “And you should have told me you were going to leave the house.”

  “I can do whatever I want,” she snaps back. “I don’t belong to you.”

  I catch her wrist as she starts to turn back to her painting. She needs to understand the stakes of what’s going on here. If she had only seen Grady’s face in that meeting, if she had gotten a glimpse of that thin, evil smile, she would understand that there is danger everywhere for her right now. “You’re wrong. You can’t do whatever you want, and you do belong to me. We made a pact, remember? You wanted protection. Well, that’s what I’m telling you. If you want to be protected, you need to do everything I say. And that means you can’t leave the house without someone around to guard you.”

  She scowls, but she knows I’m right. She was with Grady long enough to know something about his temper. Hell, she’d probably seen more of it than I had. He wasn’t a motherfucker I trusted on the loose.

  Kendra walks to a nearby table and starts fiddling with the scattered art equipment. She doesn’t face me as she talks in a rapid, low voice. “I don’t want to be a prisoner, Mortar. That’s not what I signed up for when I left with you.”

  I take two big steps to cross the distance between us, seize her wrists in each hand, and push her back against the wall. I pin her hands to the wall overhead. “Listen to me,” I say. Her face is half-frightened, and half something else that I can’t quite make out yet. It might be anger. It might be desire. “Grady is a sick bastard. You’ve seen that. You know it. I swore I’d keep you safe. I need you to listen to me so I can do that. That means do what I say. Don’t go out alone. Don’t leave without telling me. It’s the only way I can fulfill my promise.”

  She huffs a loose strand of hair away from her forehead. We stare at each other, intensity crackling like static between us. Then she sighs and relaxes. “Okay,” she whispers. “I get it. We can go. Just let me put a few things away.”

  I drop her wrists and she walks slowly away to clean up. I let loose the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. My chest eases.

  I don’t like yelling at Kendra, but I’m even more afraid of seeing her hurt. Until now, I haven’t quite grasped the extent of the protective urge I feel for her. I need to keep her safe, even more than I feel the need to obey the instinctive desire to protect myself. She is an extension of me, as essential as my own body. Soon, if she isn’t already, she’ll be carrying a piece of me, too. I’d lay everything on the line to keep my child and his mother safe.

  I see worry in her posture as she moves around the studio, straightening things and placing items into rickety drawers. Her shoulders are drawn back, tense, loaded with years of constant fear for her own safety. I wonder if my anger triggered the automatic reflexes she’d developed during her time with Grady: cower, run, defend. I don’t want her to be like that with me. This whole arrangement won’t work if she doesn’t trust me. Most of the time, I believe she does, but there are still moments when I look at her and can’t help but ponder if she still harbors some deep-seated dread.

  Kendra crosses over to a paint-stained sink and turns on the faucet. She rinses colors from her hands under the water. I walk up behind her and place my hands on her hips. Her mind may still be a mystery as yet unraveled, but her body has been a clear, pure note from the moment we met. There’s no misunderstanding our touch. When my fingertips alight on the sliver of skin exposed between her shorts and tank top, she pauses. There’s so much intention in the contact. So much sitting behind it.

  I want this girl powerfully, essentially. I want to strip her in front of me and put her on display. Not for anyone else in the world, just for me and me alone. She’s a treasure, and now that I’ve made her mine, there’s no way I’ll settle for another man touching her ever again.

  “Weren’t you in a big hurry to leave?” she murmurs over her shoulder.

  “We’ve got time,” I say back as I work at the knot of her apron and send it cascading to the floor. She shuts off the faucet. The only sounds in the room are the swish of the ocean breeze through the window and the deepening rasp of our twin breathing.

  I slide one hand around her front and up her shirt to hold her breast in my palm. Tweaking her nipple between my fingertips, I take her earlobe into my mouth and gnaw gently. I let the hot rush of my breath flow down her neck. She pushes back into me, slowly grinding her hips on my growing erection. I feel her slip a hand down my wrist to grip my thigh.

  “Take me
home,” she says. “I don’t want people on the street to hear.”

  “Let them hear,” I tell her. “I want ’em all to hear us. The whole damn world should know what it’s missing out on.”

  The only thing she can say back to that is a moan.

  I push the shirt over her head. She raises her arms to let me pull it off her before I drop it on the floor to one side. She’s not wearing a bra, so her bare back presses against my chest while she works her hips in patient, steady circles, bringing me hard to life. I keep cupping her breasts, kneading the stiff peaks of her nipples, and kissing up and down the length of her neck and sloping shoulders.