Biker's Baby: Devil's Wings MC

by Nicole Fox

  We sped on through the night. Fortunately, we were not far from the Devil’s Wings headquarters, and I quickly found that familiar yet alien building looming into sight. My father had only taken me there once as a child.

  “This is no place for little girls,” he said. Got that right, Pops.

  Just looking at the place, you would not have found it impressive. It was an old, dingy brick building, like you could find on the outskirts of any city. You’d have thought it was just another relic of the dying industrial age … that was, until you felt a chill of menace creeping up your spine.

  Cameras, hidden in dark alleyways, defended when they appeared to have nothing to defend. The bright eyes of a watchman peered through the night window. He might look like some old security guard relaxing his way through the night shift, but the handle of his gun was well worn and his gaze was cunning and alert.

  Connor road a wide circle around the place three times before finally slipping down the driveway. He wanted to make sure that no one had followed us. At last, we pulled in, and he turned the bike off. Leaping nimbly off the bike, he then turned to help me avoid its red-hot engine.

  A man opened the door and stepped out into the gloom. His stride was wide and cocky, and he placed a lazy hand on his hip, where a gun was holstered.

  “Connor!” he exclaimed. “You’re back! And with another chick! We weren’t sure we’d be seeing you anytime soon after this morning’s fiasco!”

  Connor scowled, and the man chuckled under his breath. I knew better than to ask what they were talking about.

  “I bring something important to the club,” he said, a steady pride in his voice.

  I found myself liking him much more than this other asshole here.

  “Oh, really?” replied the man skeptically. “That’s good, then. This has been a good night for the Devil’s Wings.”

  At his words, the back of my neck erupted in goosebumps, but I could not have said why at that moment.

  There was a small scuffle at the door as a number of new men, caught by our conversation, emerged. All of them lounged with that cocky arrogance I’d found men had when they thought they’d stacked the deck. They gazed at Connor curiously, a number of them chuckling and scratching their bellies.

  “Yes,” Connor persisted. “A good night. You see, I have brought the daughter of Sam Michael’s. She is here to save the club, and the club is here to save her.”

  Save the club? I thought. What the hell did he mean by that? Oh, this Connor was a tricky one. He must have had something up his sleeve.

  The men, like me, stared openmouthed. Then, one by one, they did the last thing I had expected:

  They burst out in laughter.

  “Sam Michaels’ daughter?” They crowed. “Ha! That’s a good one! Goddamn, Connor, you’ll be taken in by anything!”

  I looked frantically from the jeering crowd to Connor and back again, riddled with confusion. Connor chin was lowered into a terrible frown, and a deep, ugly blush was creeping over his features.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice a menacing growl.

  The lead man, the one who had begun the conversation, opened his mouth to speak, but he silenced himself suddenly with a smile. For behind him, outlined in the warm light streaming from the MC, came a pair of figures.

  One, I did not recognize. He was older than Connor by about ten years, clad in the leather armor of a high ranking Devil’s Wing. His face had all the casual confidence of a leader, but none of the cunning. He was smiling broadly and nodding to each of the men in turn.

  And in his arms, he held a woman.

  “Honi!” I cried, making a dart forward, but the ring of Devil’s Wings suddenly bristled, a few raising their weapons.

  She grinned and kissed the man on the cheek.

  “President Montengo,” she said, swishing her ankles through the air like a stage dancer. “Thank you so much for the protection you’ve offered me.”

  “Of course, Devil’s Daughter,” he replied, staring openly at her cleavage.

  Honi continued,

  “As a gesture of goodwill for the club from my aunt, I present to you this gift: a whore, worthy of yout, uh … special attention.”

  She nodded in my direction, and I whirled around, looking for whom she meant. Then, with a slow, tingling clarity, like the rising of a terrible sun across a dead and barren landscape, I realized whom she was talking about.

  Me.

  “Honi, no!” I cried, trying again to take a step forward. This time, one of the Devil’s Wings blocked my path, grabbing me by the arm so hard that it brought a gasp of pain.

  Honi’s gaze leveled with mine, and her eyes bored directly into me. “Remember,” she said. “The Michaels women always keep their promises.”

  I gasped. I remembered my words to her. No more whoring, Honi. I promise. But then I thought about the price I’d have to pay to keep that promise … what those words would mean …

  “The envelope!” I burst suddenly. “My aunt gave me the envelope! That’s how … that’s how you would know you can trust me …”

  I petered out, already aware of how pointless my words were even as a spoke them. Honi. Honi had stolen the envelope. It was her ID, her passport into the motorcycle club, and into safety.

  And me? I was stranded.

  It had never occurred to me until that moment just how dangerous motorcycle clubs could be.

  ‘This is no place for little girls.’

  In that moment, I really, really wished that my father was alive.

  Honi laughed, a grand, show-girl laugh that started deep in her bosom and echoed all the way up her long, luxurious neck. The other Devil’s Wings joined her. It was like the cackling of crows among a trumpeting swan.

  The sound terrified me.

  When she was finished, Honi turned, nuzzled her nose against President Montengo, and together they strode off. Distantly, I heard Connor mutter, “There goes another grand on a hotel room.”

  But I had bigger problems to worry about.

  The ring of Devil’s Wings closed in. They leered and cackled and lunged at me with greasy fingers.

  “No!” I cried, looking around for someone, anyone, who would help me.

  Honi was long gone, deposited carefully into a limo by Montengo.

  My eyes fell onto Connor. I expected pity, confusion, even aid. Instead, I saw a deep and burning hatred. I recoiled as if I had touched hot coal.

  The Devil’s Wing who had grabbed me yanked on my arm, hard. I stumbled as he half-dragged, half-pulled me towards the door.

  Suddenly, my fear vanished. A rage surged through me, fueled by a sense of profound, aristocratic injustice. “Get your stinking hands off me!” I shrieked, wrestling myself away from him with all the muscles my classes at Stanford had given me.

  The group went silent. Connor, I noticed, had faded into the background.

  “What, you think you’re too good for us, you whore?” one said, his voice low and menacing.

  “Yeah,” another laughed cruelly, reaching out to pinch my breast. “Look at the way she’s dressed! I bet she thinks she’s a fucking princess or something.”

  “Princess, princess,” they mocked, catching onto the word like a chant. “Princess, princess.” They shoved me around, so that I toppled into each of them.

  “Hey, princess,” one said, grabbing hold. “In this biker’s club, the princess bows to us.”

  He pushed me down, right onto my knees. My skin cried out in pain as the rough payment bit into it, but that was the least of my problems. In a flash, I was on my feet again. My stockings were torn and bloody, but I stood firm, ready for another one to come at me.

  The mob glowered. They did not like me being strong. They wanted me to give in. To surrender.

  One of them—the first man, who had mocked Connor at the start—drew a knife.

  My heart leapt to my throat, as if it could hide there. The tip of the blade glistened like death in the moon
light.

  Could this be where I am going to die? I thought.

  And then,

  “Stop!” a voice interrupted, strong but young. I whirled, pulse thundering, and saw Connor cutting his way through the group.

  “You heard Montengo and Michaels!” He said. “This whore is now our property! And do you break and shit on your own property? No. Because that’s fucking stupid. It’s a waste of good Devil’s Wing property. Now, she’ll be a good whore. She’ll do what she’s told. But not if you fucking kill her.”

  The mob hesitated. The man with the knife lowered it, slowly, to his side. I sensed some of that raging violence ebb, like a pot of boiling water removed from the heat. They all stared at Connor.

  “I thinks maybe he like this whore,” growled one, and Connor instantly bristled.

  “It’s not the whore I care about. It’s this fucking club. You’ve seen the books, huh? You know the trouble we're in! And now a perfectly good whore comes along—who’s not only got a great piece of ass, but could serve as a stronger alliance to Venus Michaels. And you want to fuck it all up just to have a little fun?”

  They wilted. Connor’s argument had unsteadied them.

  “Now,” he continued, his voice quieter but just as sure. “If you, Leo, could escort the new whore to her chambers, then we can get a move on. I believe we had a meeting planned for this morning? And since you’re all already awake …”

  There was some grumbling, but there was no rebellion in it.

  “Good, now let’s get going.”

  The man called Leo—the same one who had drawn the knife—strode forward and grasped me by my arm. His grip was not painful, but it was sure as hell firm.

  “Come on, Princess,” he said.

  Princess. I knew, then and there, that that was to be my new name. My whore’s name.

  In silence, he led me to my room.

  Chapter Eight

  Connor

  I was nervous as Leo led the new whore away, and the rest of us gathered into the meeting room. I was a powerful Devil’s Wing, of course. No new fucking recruit. But there were plenty of men in that ring who outranked me, and I’d effectively told them to fuck off.

  Now, I needed to make sure I kept my cool, and didn’t lose face in front of any of them. Keep it about the club, I told myself. That’s what they all care about.

  We shuffled into the room in silence. Normally, we’d all be talking and laughing, jostling each other, but this morning was different. I entered last, and respectfully took my place somewhere in the middle of the table. The last thing I wanted to do was insult any of the higher-ups—the Road Captain, Sergeant-At-Arms, any of them. Joey, who had just arrived and had not been part of the mob outside, cast me a nervous smile.

  We all sat down. Nobody seemed to know where to begin, or what tone to take. ThenJoey cleared his throat and said in most his jovial, teasing way, “Man, Connor! You do love them girls!”

  The group erupted in laughter, but it was a friendly, jostling laughter, as if among friends. I felt, the muscles in my shoulders relax just slightly.

  “Yeah, first the black-haired chick, and now this!” said Juan, the treasurer.

  That rankled, but I forced a smile on my face. Busting each other’s balls was normal. It was healthy. It vented crazy shit without leading to violence.

  And the last thing this club needed was infighting. Montengo was hard enough to deal with as it was.

  It was not that I was protecting Farrah. Farrah, Felicia, Princess—whatever the fuck her name really was. She had lied to me. That was clear now. The bitch had fucking lied, and she deserved whatever she got as a result. Whores should know their place. And yet …

  I could not deny her cleverness. She was a scared, desperate whore, and she had said exactly the right thing to make me help her. It was hard to find a woman with brain and tits like hers. And, man, did she have both.

  And if that’s how smart Farrah Michaels’ whore is, I thought, then the real Farrah Michael’s must be a fucking genius. She could definitely help out the club.

  I considered bringing up my idea to the group—an alliance between Venus Michaels and the Devil’s Wings, with Farrah at its center—but they were still babbling on about Princess.

  “You know what I think,” Joey continued, now high on the good feeling of the group. He was always like that. “I think that, seeing that Connor thinks taking care of MC property is so important, he should be the one the break in the new whore!”

  There was a general chuckling at that, followed by an exchange of knowing looks.

  “Oh, come on guys,” I said, thinking, The less I have to with that bitch the better.

  “What are you, afraid of her?” another Devil’s Wing joked. “I would be! See the muscles on the girl. She obviously works out.”

  That had been clear. Any other girl in her situation would have been on the ground, sobbing. But she had resisted their attacks. The mystery about this Princess just kept increasing and increasing.

  “I’m not afraid of her!” I barked. “I just have more important things to do, like focus on the MC’s fucking finances! Have you seen the state of them?”

  I grabbed a folder from the table, pockmarked with oily fingerprints, and brandished it through the air. “Monteng—Some people are spending out their asses, and we’re not making enough!”

  I had caught myself just in time. Everyone knew who I meant—Montengo, and his buddies—but we were still a disciplined enough club not to voice it. Still, our finances needed discussing. Much more than who was going fuck Princess first.

  Though, a deep part of myself muttered, You really, really want to.

  And that was exactly the part of myself I knew I shouldn’t be listening to. That was the part of myself that had gotten tangled up with the raven-haired witch, and all the rest of them.

  Joey perked up, distracting me from my thoughts. “You know, guys, I still think there’s plenty of money in my classic car restoration idea. We’ve got a lot of talented mechanics here.”

  He nodded around the room, trying to butter everyone up. A few smiled faintly.

  “You’re only saying that because the president isn’t here,” someone muttered, and Joey blushed.

  “That’s not true!” He insisted. “I’ve brought it up to him a dozen times! I don’t understand why he won’t listen …”

  “Because classic car restoration means going legit!” Juan blurted. He knew the money problems as well as the rest of us. “We’d have to deal with actual business, and titles, and taxes, mixing legal and illegal paperwork. We don’t have the accountancy for that! Jesus, the thought of anyone looking at our books …”

  There was dark muttering around the table. When confronted with legal scrutiny, Montengo tended to deal with it in the only way he knew how: bullying and bribes. Juan was right. Our books couldn’t survive the slightest bit of investigation.

  I thought: But … with the legendary Farrah Michaels on our side … I did not voice this aloud. My reputation was still too tender after my embarrassment that day/ .It’s a shame that Princess wasn’t the real Farrah Michael’s…I was beginning to like her.

  Joey scowled, stopped by the same arguments that stopped him every time. He knew that many of us were on his side. Having a legit brand of business could be extremely helpful, so long as it was handled correctly.

  The only things President Montengo handled were big tits and bigger assess.

  I sighed, then reached into my pocket to pull out one of my crumbled cigarettes. I was getting so tired of this rigmarole. It was the same every goddamn time. At least everyone seems to have forgotten about me and Princess … I thought.

  I fucking wished.

  The Devil’s Wings bickered for another hour, everyone taking turns suggesting money-making schemes that were each more ludicrous than the last. I sat silently and smoked. The meeting ended with Juan standing up and summarizing, in a lengthy, familiar, and infinitely depressing way, just how shitty the
clubs finances were.

  “Long since the days of Sam Michaels,” Smitty, the Sergeant-At-Arms muttered under his breath. He was the oldest of the Devil’s Wings members, and he could well remember a time when the club had been run smoothly. I offered him a cigarette and gave him a look that said, Don’t worry. We’ll find a way. We’ll get our goddamn glory back.

  Damn fucking right.

  At last, the meeting was over. We all stood up and began shuffling our way out of the room, feeling more depressed and desperate than before.

  No wonder they were so angry outside. They’re frustrated, and with no new schemes in mind, they have no way to vent that. I sighed, pulled on my cigarette, and began to leave out the main door.