Moaning, she held her belly and tried her phone again, praying for reception just long enough to dial 911. It wasn’t a landline, so her address wouldn’t pop up in their system. No matter. Her phone was still dead.
As if the entire world railed against her, the lights flickered out, leaving her in complete and total darkness. This couldn’t be happening to her. She had everything planned. In eight days, her maternity leave from the hospital began and her sister, Nia, would stay with her until after the baby’s birth. They’d install the car seat, check for last minute nursery items, and pack Zoann’s bag.
Another pain slammed into her.
Yes, it could happen to her. Because it was, and she hadn’t even hit the thirty-seventh week of her pregnancy.
Leaning back, the coldness from the porcelain tub seeped through her thin nightgown. More pain careened through her body as the lights flashed back on. The urge to push made her forget the breathing techniques she’d learned in class and from online blogs. If she pushed too soon, it could be detrimental, but, God it hurt.
Five minutes later, she had to bear down, grunting in pain and frustration, her heart threatening to burst.
Sagging back against the tub, she cursed, realizing she’d forgotten her inhaler. If she had an asthma attack now, she and her son were doomed. The light flicked off, but she pushed, not caring about the blackness surrounding her.
She pulled in deep drafts of air, her body covered in sweat. God, this hurt so much.
Another push, a louder scream, and the head crowned. Thoughts of Matthew danced in her head and she hated him a little more for the pain invading her body. He’d done this to her. Giving him a mental flip off, she pushed again and this time the head slid out of her.
Resting a moment, she drew in more air, proud of herself. She was doing this. She was bringing her baby into the world and…sudden light brightened the room and she blinked at the unexpected glare. Adjusting her eyes hurt her head. Focusing once more, she glanced down and frowned at the bloody, slimy head, peeking out of her body. Gross.
Biting down on her lip and tasting her blood, she strained, drenched with the sweat pouring from her and plastering her hair to her head. A moment later, the pressure and pain released as the baby came out of her and she laughed and sobbed all at once, sagging back in exhaustion, trying to regulate her breathing as much as possible.
Realization dawned on her.
No movement. No baby’s wails. His arms and legs had wiggled once and then went still. Zoann’s blood ran cold, the triumph of delivering him turning into horror.
Lifting him up and clutching him to her breast, she reached for the towels. Too new to regulate his own temperature, he needed to be warm.
The drain sucked down the blood still trickling from her and some of the mess of the actual birth.
Her hands and arms trembled as she wrapped him up and tapped his back.
“Breathe,” she whispered. She’d already cried a river. Now, more tears thickened her voice, the blue tint of her baby’s skin devastating, surpassing all other fear and pain she’d ever experienced. Had he been stillborn?
“Don’t do this,” she sobbed, desperate.
She was hurting so much. Maybe, she even needed stitches. Finding the strength to ignore her pain, she covered her son’s mouth and nose with her own mouth and blew gently twice. He hadn’t even been properly cleaned. He also needed a hard, flat surface for the chest compressions. The bathtub had to do. Her body screaming in protest, she laid him down and leaned over him. After the first round, she heard his gasp and hurried to blow more air into him.
He gasped again and scrunched his little face up. Zoann laughed, her fingers bloody from resting against the bathtub. He let out a wail, weaker than other babies, but the sound overwhelmed her with relief. She needed to get him to the ER.
God, what a weak-minded woman. Had she been stronger, she would’ve driven herself to the hospital now. But she didn’t even have the baby’s car seat hooked up. She wanted Matthew and Christopher and her mother.
Pull it together. Accept your life.
She didn’t have them. She only had herself.
Praying for reception, she tried her phone again.
Nothing.
Stupid fucking phone. She intended to pitch it in the toilet the first chance she got.
She needed her laptop. She’d go through her phone’s carrier and text one of her sisters. The method wouldn’t allow her to contact 911, but she’d get her baby help.
First, she’d crawl out of the bathtub and haul her son with her. She’d read an article once about a woman whose grandmother had given birth in the early 1900s, returning to the field the next day. Either she was a lying bitch or an inhuman one.
The baby’s crying faded away and Zoann checked him again, finding his dark blue eyes focused on her. “Mommie is going to get you to a hospital. Just hold on for me.”
Gritting her teeth and heaving herself onto the floor, she yelped when her head hit the toilet and her chin knocked against the floor.
She lifted herself onto her knees and groaned, just then remembering the afterbirth and the baby’s umbilical cord, everything she should’ve thought of as a nurse.
She crawled an inch. Her phone pealing through the small space halted her.
It was on? But who would be calling…? And, then, it hit her. Ophelia, floundering in the months since Patricia’s death. Full of alcohol more often than not and taking random guys home. She’d dropped out of school and been kicked out of the band.
The baby started his weak little cry again just as Zoann answered. “Fee?” she breathed.
“My nose is bleeding,” she sobbed. “Mikey hit me a lot tonight.”
“Call 911,” Zoann managed, unable to help her little sister right now when she needed to get her son to the hospital.
“Did you hear me?” Ophelia sniffled.
“Yes, baby. I did and I’m sorry, but I just had the baby. He’s breathing funny and I’m bleeding. I need to hang up to call 911.”
“Zo—”
She didn’t wait for Ophelia to finish. She’d apologize later for hanging up on her. But her son needed medical care and he came before any and every one, and always would.
She finally had something to live for.
Part Three: Innocence Surrendered
Chapter Ten
Present Day
Val lingered in the shadows, biting into his hamburger, pissed that he left his fries with Johnnie and Mort. Motherfuckers had probably finished them off before he’d gotten down the fucking block. Sunshine warmed the day, perfect for riding. But no. He’d be stuck in John Boy’s Navigator on the drive back to the club.
Stuffing the last of the sandwich into his mouth, he balled the wrapper up and belched. Public trashcans stood near the doors, but fuck it. If he attempted to throw the wrapper away, Sheriff Adam Moncette might spot him.
Other than keeping Outlaw, Johnnie, and Mortician for almost a day and subjecting them to some intense questioning, the sheriff went about with business as usual. That included being on the take from the club, which pissed Outlaw off a little more.
While Val, John Boy, and Mortician reconned this building, Outlaw awaited Moncette at his office.
Val, Mort, Digger, and even John Boy, tried to point out the possibility that Moncette hadn’t known about their arrests. Outlaw’s adamant refusal to believe otherwise had Val staking out an office building in Vancouver, a few miles down the road from Hortensia, since they’d found out the sheriff had an appointment there.
The doors slid open and Val watched Moncette strut into view, talking to a man in jeans and a button down shirt, sunglasses perched on his head. The man’s tatted fingers grabbed Moncette’s in a firm handshake.
Val hoped like fuck the two separated, so he could grab the asshole and see what the meeting had been about.
SAM leaving, Val texted, using initials for Sheriff Adam Moncette. Grabbing assfuck talking 2 him get here ASAP 2 sh
ove assfuck n SUV 2 get on move
“Call me.” Moncette clapped the man on his back and walked away, strolling right past Val’s hiding place. He paused and Val tensed, expecting the sheriff to detect his presence. He didn’t. Instead, he turned to assfuck and said, “Remember to use the burner, Dan.”
A throwaway phone? What the fuck did they need a throwaway for?
The man raised the cellphone in his hand, hesitated, then glanced around nervously. “How long I got?”
Arrogant fuck, Moncette, looked around once and barely dropped his voice to a decent shady whisper. “I file the papers in a month. I need everything taken care of by then by any means possible. I’m working on another angle, too, but I’m paying you to stay on it until it’s done.”
Dan nodded. “You got it.”
Moncette offered him a cold smile and strode away in an unhurried manner.
Val had to keep a handle on this situation, which meant he moved when Dan did. But if Moncette’s vehicle wasn’t within short walking distance from the split entrance, he’d only have to look over his shoulder and spot Val. On the other hand, if Val stayed hidden, he’d lose the other assfuck here and they’d have to scramble to follow him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Planning had been shit and execution fucking worse. They should’ve been prepared for the possibility of having to follow a motherfucker. But, no.
Blame those fucking girls. Meggie, Kendall, Zoann, and Bailey. The four of them combined were fucking with their heads and interfering in their day-to-day business.
Dan moved and Val slid from his hiding spot, glancing to his left. The sheriff reached his unmarked vehicle and shrugged out of his coat.
Fuck. Val ducked between two cars, losing time. He counted to twenty. “Fuck it.”
In the second lane, Dan stopped at a moped. Or a scooter. Or whatever the fuck that shit was called. He threw the man a disgusted frown. As the asshole mounted, John Boy’s Navigator blocked him in and he turned. Before he said anything, Mortician reached out and dragged him into the back seat.
A message alert beeped. Ride the pussy-ped back to the club and meet us there.
Fuck. It seemed as if a little torture was on the menu.
Half an hour later, Val followed the Navigator through the gates, nodding to the Probates. Some stood guard in the parking lot. A couple of them manned the gates while others washed the bikes. Val parked the moped as Johnnie and Mortician exited the SUV. Mort opened the back door and yanked the now-hogtied man up.
Lighting a smoke, Val walked up to them.
‘I can untie your legs so you can walk,” Mort offered. “Or I can carry your motherfucking ass. Just a little warning, though. Depending on my movements and yours, you might fucking strangle.”
“W-walk,” he puffed out, his face red and sweaty.
Mortician nodded and cut the rope around his legs before checking to see how secure his wrist bindings were. “I’m going to be mad as a motherfucker if I have to kill your bitch ass, anyway.”
The man swallowed. “Where are you taking me?”
“Depends on you,” Johnnie supplied. “I’m bored, you know? I have other shit to think about, such as the birthday I’ll be celebrating in a couple days. Ophelia’s birthday is today as a matter of fact. We were born ten years and two days apart.”
Ole Danny didn’t seem too interested in Johnnie’s tidbits. “What are my options?”
“You a negotiating motherfucker, huh?” Mortician sounded impressed.
Johnnie slapped his cheek. “He sure the fuck is, but is he loyal?”
“Or a fucking snitch?” Val added, enjoying his cigarette and hoping he could finish it.
“Maybe, he rat motherfuckers out to keep his eyelids attached.”
“Look, Dude,” he began in a pleading tone, looking at Mort, the one who’d made the ominous and casual statement.
“I don’t know what this shit is about. I just…yeah, I fucked that girl but she said she wasn’t nobody’s old lady at this outfit. Just a bitch who threw pussy at the brothers here.”
“This not about a fucking girl,” Mortician snapped, even more on edge because of Bailey.
Any mention of girls sent Mort’s mind right to her. Thoughts of her led to thoughts of money and both topics were sore spots with Mort.
Personally, Val suspected Mort still fucked Bailey. Not that Val blamed him. She was young, hot, gorgeous, and his pregnant wife. Fuck, they were happy he wanted a future with Bailey but they couldn’t let this shit slide. Their fucking bet was on the line.
“What’s this about?” Dan’s repeat question snapped Val out of the visions of Benjamins dancing in his head.
“Let’s take a walk, son.” Mortician shoved the man toward the outbuildings, one of which served as their meat shack, their destination. Very few motherfuckers emerged from the place alive.
The man jerked back. “No. I didn’t get my choices yet.”
“Never gave your ass any,” Mortician reminded him.
“He did.” He thrust his chin toward Johnnie. “He said where I went depended on me.”
Rocking back on his heels, Johnnie folded his arms. “Here’s the thing, fuckhead. We need answers from you about our good sheriff. If you’re willing to give up the answers, then we don’t take you to the meat shack. How’s that?”
“Moncette? This is about him?”
“More specifically, your meeting today,” Val explained. If the meeting today had been innocent, no reason to hear about anything else.
The man looked at Mort’s cut. “If I say something, you might still kill me.”
Mort studied his nails. “Well, motherfucker, if you don’t say something we will kill you.”
“You think I’m fucking stupid? You can’t let me walk the fuck away. I’m dead anyway. I’ll die and you’ll always fucking wonder about my fucking meeting with Sheriff Moncette.”
“I guess we have our fucking answer then.” Val flicked his cigarette away and turned toward the meat shack. “My knife is nice and sharp,” he threw over his shoulder. “Nice for cutting off one finger at a time.”
Using the rope, Mortician guided the man.
Ole Danny dug his heels in and Mortician stumbled. “Wait! Wait! I need my fucking fingers.”
“We need our fucking information,” Val retorted, snatching open the door, his eyes burning at the strong bleachy odor. The place had been quiet lately, since they didn’t have assholes fucking with them that they needed to disappear. That shit changed on a dime, though.
Mortician and Johnnie carried the struggling asshole inside and Val put the doorstop in to let the smell out. While they held the man down on the table, Val fastened the straps, attached for just these occasions.
Val bent to get his knife from his boot, but Johnnie held his up and twirled it.
“I have last minute fucking party shit to see to, “Johnnie lied. As if he was seeing to all the bullshit those fucking girls had planned. He couldn’t have given less of a fuck if he tried, but John Boy loved to fuck with motherfuckers. “Did I tell you that?”
“Y-yes.”
Johnnie flipped the knife and caught it by the blade, then lifted his hand to show off his cut. “I probably shouldn’t bleed alone. I tell you what. I’m going to cut you a couple places and leave you to bleed, so I can get the fuck out. Of course, you might bleed out. Ever wonder how that feels? Not enough blood pumping to your heart or through it. Pressure starts to fall. Oxygen squeezes out of you. You feel your life slipping away—“
Val and Mort exchanged looks. Just listening to that shit sent chills through Val and he wasn’t even on the receiving end. Johnnie mastered psychological torture. Who the fuck thought about that shit? Val certainly didn’t. He must never get on Johnnie’s bad side.
Stabbing the blade into the man’s thigh, Johnnie slid down.
“All right!” the man screamed as Johnnie raised his bloodied knife, preparing to slice into him again. “Moncette’s filing papers to r
un for state senator.”
Fuck. Asshole. Not as bad as Val suspected or as Outlaw believed. Val bet Moncette used club money to run. Having a senator in their pocket would work wonders for them, if the motherfucker wouldn’t double-cross them.
Mortician scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Fuck. A swindling fucking sheriff who wants to run for senator is bad fucking news.”
Johnnie’s hand stilled, anger flushing his face. “That’s it?”
“Yes!”
“So what you need finished before the filing?” Val asked to fit all the pieces together.
Dan burst into tears and leaned his head back. “You heard that?”
Sensing a chink, Johnnie jabbed him in his side. “Is there a fucking reason he shouldn’t have?”
“Let me go!”
Val didn’t feel like fucking changing, so he wouldn’t take a jab at Doomed Danny. He’d just participate in the questions and allow John Boy to do what he did best. “Moncette mention the Dwellers to you?”
Johnnie poked him again. “What’s he trying to do, motherfucker?”
He clamped his mouth shut. Johnnie growled, snatching his hand up and hacking one finger off. “Now, try again,” he snarled, ignoring the man’s screaming and bleeding. He brought the blade to his thumb.
“No! No!” he hollered. “He want to make an example of the MC. Bring the club down and run on a crime-fighting platform,” he sobbed.
His hands all bloody, Johnnie leaned close to the man’s ear. “That’s not fucking good enough.”
And there went asshole’s thumb and damn near Val’s eardrum at the scream of pain.
“I just needed to plant something on one of you…ice somebody when one of you were out partying and make it look like you did…anything…and then call in the tip.”
Johnnie straightened and wiped his blade on his jeans. “I don’t have time to clean this shit up if I blow his head off. One of you have to do it.”
“WHAT?”
They ignored the man’s hollered question.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 131
