“We have to hurry this the fuck up,” Johnnie advised them, hot on Matthew’s heels. “We’re in ICU. Not a fucking regular room.”
“You got Father Wilcunt to come, huh?” Christopher asked dryly.
“Outlaw, please, don’t go fucking with that fat, little fuckhead right now.” Matthew snatched Ryan out of Kendall’s arms and dragged his way to the other side of Zoann’s bed.
“You’re hurt really bad,” she cried, recognizing his pain even through her haze. “What happened to you? Kendall said you were shot. Why?”
Everyone fell silent for a moment, but Christopher growled at Kendall, throwing her a dirty look.
“That’s why you raced to get up here, right, gorgeous?” Johnnie asked tiredly.
Kendall didn’t speak.
Unease furrowing his brow, Matthew limped closer to Zoann’s side. “The priest has to talk to you, Puff.”
“Bailey, I don’t want you here,” Mortician growled into the silence. “If you’re coming here to show me that little bump in your belly, I’ve fucking seen it. Now get the fuck out of my face.”
“I told you, Meggie,” Bailey spat, anger and hurt infusing her words.
“Let me talk to him—” Meggie said calmly.
“No!” Bailey snarled, a hint of wildness in her tone. She fumbled to open the purse she carried. The moment she did, she grabbed folded documents and shoved them against Mortician’s chest.
He caught them in reflex. “What the fuck are these?”
“Divorce papers. Sign them, Lucas, and me and the baby will be out of your life forever.”
“That baby’s mine. You not fucking keeping it from—“
“It’s a girl,” she hissed in hard tones, “and—“
Once more the door opened, interrupting Bailey’s response. Father Wilkins waddled in, huffing in a few breaths. He stopped at the foot of the bed and glared at Zoann.
“Are you aware of what’s going on?”
Zoann narrowed her eyes at him. Although she wasn’t quite herself, she was lucid enough to understand everything.
“She sure, right, Val?” Christopher questioned, allowing Meggie to take CJ into her arms.
“Why don’t you fucking ask her, Outlaw?”
“I will,” Father Wilkins snapped. “Have you accepted Mr. Taylor’s proposal?”
“Of course I have,” Zoann muttered, affronted he didn’t think she understood the difference between yes and no, or right from wrong. “I-I love him.”
“And I love you, Zoann,” Matthew responded without hesitating.
“Then you wouldn’t be doing this,” Kendall snapped.
“Not now, gorgeous,” Johnnie said with a sigh. “We talked about this. Remember?”
“Still doesn’t make it right.”
“Come with me, Bailey,” Mortician grunted. “I need to talk to you.”
“No. All you’re going to do is tell me how much you don’t want me and our daughter.”
“I don’t want a fucking divorce.”
“Because you’re an idiot,” Bailey said with a sniff.
“My baby is having my fucking name.”
“I told you, Bailey,” Meggie said softly. “Don’t marry this other guy.”
“Bailey ain’t marryin’ fuck all, baby,” Christopher said. “That’s fuckin’ bigamy.”
“I think that’s why she wants a divorce,” Kendall offered in cool tones. “So she can marry again.”
“Fuck, Kendall,” Johnnie growled. “Tell me…you did not draw up those fucking papers.”
“Fine. I won’t say anything.”
“That’s crossing the fucking line, Red.”
“You want to marry into this?” Father Wilkins asked Zoann in outrage.
Drawing in a steady breath, Zoann sighed, the words floating around her like a wispy cloud. She wanted to go to sleep, but the voices were keeping her awake, most insistent of all, the priest’s.
“I’m not doing this ceremony—”
“Bitsy?” Christopher called into the sudden silence. “You wanna marry Val or what?”
“Y-yes,” she mumbled. “T-today was going to be our wedding day, so I must want to marry him.”
“Nice, Val,” Meggie chirped tightly.
“Low down motherfucker,” Christopher growled.
“Prez, please.” Matthew sounded desperate. “This is my only chance.”
“I’m preparin’ my fuckin’ eulogy for your dumb fuckin’ ass soon as I get the fuck home.”
“Get to it, Father Wilkins,” Johnnie urged.
Ten minutes later, Matthew’s big, calloused hand grabbed hers and slid a ring on her finger. Zoann smiled at him, not quite believing they were finally married, before sliding her eyes closed into a deep, blissful sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A sense of déjà vu surfaced in Lucas “Mortician” Banks as he stood in the fourth floor hallway of the building Bailey lived in. This time, he had intimate knowledge of her body. Unlike the last time, the day he’d taken her virginity and turned her into a woman. His woman. He raised his hand, then dropped it again, leaning his forehead against the cool wood.
Why couldn’t he leave Bailey the fuck alone? Why did his heart feel as if it broke every time he thought of losing her? After Char, he’d sworn he’d never attach himself to another woman ever again. At least, Char had been older. Bailey was ten years younger than him and hadn’t ever had another lover.
Char had fucked her way through LA and wherever in the world her parents took her. The shit she’d pulled with Val had fucked with Mortician for months, even after he’d whipped Val to the ground. He’d wanted to beat Val’s teeth out of his head, but, for some reason, teeth knocking-out had never been their thing. Easy to have motherfuckers walking around looking beyond fucked up with gaps in the mouths. One hard punch to the mouth did it. Focusing on broken ribs, ruptured spleens, fucked-up noses, internal bleeding, provided a better head rush.
Prez must be floating into orbit with the way he’d fucked up Val. Stupid fuckhead deserved it. Of all the girls to mess with, even Jesus knew Meggie wasn’t one of them.
Still, Mortician empathized with Prez. It went without saying how much he loved his woman, but her vulnerability fucked with his head, making him do what he did best—create a wall between them. Only, now, immersed in grief and guilt, Meggie wasn’t turning into the crazy little bitch Prez needed.
As soon as he could, Mortician was going to pull her aside and talk to her. Together, they’d figure out a way to reach her husband and his prez. Mortician would make her understand that Prez had been caught in the crossfire of two powerful men. Powerfully fucked up. Powerfully violent.
Powerfully opposite in their feelings for him.
Big Joe had loved Prez, more than he’d loved his fucked-up son. Everything the man did had Prez’s best interest at heart. To this day, Prez loved Big Joe as much as he despised him. On the other hand, Lowman’s hatred guided him and he’d lived to destroy Prez.
That shit fucked with Mort’s head and he wasn’t even the target.
K-P had taken Mort under his wing, like Big Joe did with Prez.
Fuck. K-P.
No, absolutely, no motherfucking way, not. Mortician was not thinking about K-P, Bailey’s dad. Mortician wanted to believe that, sooner or later, K-P would’ve come around and accepted him as the man in Bailey’s life. He’d been pissed when he’d found out about the bet Mort had made with the others, but K-P was fair, if nothing else. Not only had he realized they’d made the bet before Mort met Bailey—so it hadn’t been exactly about her—he’d admitted he would’ve joined in had he been around.
That fucking, goddamn bet. Maybe, if it wasn’t for it, he’d take a chance with…
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, motherfuck, fuck!
He always talked about Prez, but his own ass was one pathetic assfuck. He went around catching feelings like a little bitch.
Why, motherfucker, why?
Who the fuck knew? W
ith only six weeks left to the bet, he was almost home free. He could collect his money and prove to Prez, Digger, John Boy, and Val no bitch alive could wrap him around their fingers ever again. Especially a young bitch.
Char is three years older than you, fuckhead.
Scowling at the thoughts hurting the fuck out of his head, Mortician straightened and glared at the door. He hadn’t seen that cunt in almost ten years, and he did not want to think about her now.
The elevator dinged, so Mortician knocked on the door. He didn’t feel like having some bitch ass bringing the fucking cops in because he appeared to be loitering, since he wore his leathers. Mr. Big Bad Motorcycle Motherfucker here to fuck up some stupid fucks.
Whatever, bitches.
“Lucas?”
Bailey’s sexy voice floated from behind him and he turned, her beauty bitch-slapping him as always. For a moment, he saw past the defenses she’d erected around herself thanks to his being such a dickhead, and glimpsed her feelings in the depths of her green-brown eyes.
A motherfucker cleared his throat and Mortician realized she wasn’t alone. A man in a suit and tie hovered behind her, hands resting on her shoulders. His olive skin and bald head made his ethnicity hard to identify, but his spectacles told Mortician he was a bookish motherfucker. Maybe not a quiet asshole, but one with a more normal life than Mort’s.
The kind of life K-P would want for his baby girl. The kind of life Mortician should want for both Bailey and their daughter.
He glared at the other man, territorial over his woman and his baby girl. “Get the fuck outta my fucking face, motherfucker.”
Glancing over his shoulder, the man’s startled eyes made him look like a fucking owl. “Uh—”
“You have no right to talk to Finley like this,” Bailey snapped, not noticing what a yellow-bellied motherfucker she had on her hands. Finley seemed ready to run his ass off. “Now, go. I don’t want to talk to you again.”
Although he deserved them, her words irritated the fuck out of Mortician. She was dissing him in front of another dude. “I’m not leaving this motherfucker ‘til we talk, Bailey.
Bailey glanced at Finley and lowered her lashes, her defenses back up. Her cool composure might’ve been convincing if Mort hadn’t glimpsed her love and longing when she’d first seen him. “Fine. Whatever you need to say, you can say it in front of him.”
“The fuck I can. You my fucking wife. The baby in your belly belongs to me. What we talk about is our business.”
Mortician had hoped to shock fucking Finley—not about Bailey’s pregnancy. Her belly gave the shit away. But the other part? Her being his wife and the fact that her baby was his, too. He didn’t succeed, though. Bailey must’ve laid all the cards on the table, a fact that made Mortician hate Finley a little more.
“Finley Abbott,” the asshole said in a shaky voice and held out his hand, but still didn’t step in front of Bailey to protect her. Mortician could be some type of insane motherfucker, intent on doing Bailey harm. Instead of making sure she was protected, Finley Abbott hid behind her. “Why don’t we go inside?” He pulled out a Blackberry and began to scroll through it. “I’ve pulled up my calendar. We can go over some dates for us to have coffee and discuss things.”
The more Finley spoke, the more Bailey cringed. As she fucking should. Mortician advanced toward the fucking asshole, but Bailey placed her hand on his forearm and stopped him, her touch jolting. “Get rid of him, Bailey,” he ordered. “Or I’m fucking choking him with that motherfucking Blackberry.”
“Say now.” Finley’s thick brows drew together like a big fucking caterpillar was popping out of his skin. “No need to resort to violence. We can settle this like intelligent adults.”
Bailey whirled to fucking Finley. “I’ll call you when Lucas and I are finished,” she whispered, standing on tiptoes to kiss him but Mortician’s growl halted her and she gave him a nervous look over her shoulder, her dark hair curling at the ends and flirting with her ass.
“Don’t pick up my suitcases, okay? I’ll move them to our room—”
Our room?
What the fuck?
OUR room?
His nostrils flaring, Mortician grabbed Bailey’s arm and dragged her toward her door, ignoring her squeak of protest. Somehow, he stopped himself from grabbing his gun and shooting the fuck out of that yellow-bellied motherfucker as he high-tailed his ass to the stairwell. Not fucking man enough to wait for the elevator. Not brave enough to turn around and investigate Bailey’s protest.
“Open the fucking door, Bailey,” Mortician gritted through clenched teeth.
Too angry to wait, he snatched the door key from her and unlocked it himself. As he flipped on a light and slammed the door shut, she yanked herself out of his hold, teetering on her heels. He shot forward and grabbed her arms to steady her.
“You’ve fucked Finley?” he snarled, shaking her.
“Does it matter?” she blazed back, digging her nails into his arms and attempting to wiggle out of his hold. “You want a divorce, remember?”
“I never told you I want a fucking divorce. You the motherfucker who came to me about a fucking divorce.”
Incredulous, she stared at him, probably calculating if he needed a fucking straight jacket. Maybe, he did. The day after they’d married, he’d sworn they’d get an annulment, but hadn’t been able to do it. Instead, he’d sobered up and fucked her again.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said into the silence. “I won’t play these games with you anymore.”
He couldn’t fucking blame her, but, still…She backed away from him, bumping against the trunk near the wall. Several other pieces of suitcases, along with four boxes sat there, too. Finley’s shit.
“You don’t want me in your bed,” Bailey continued quietly and released a small sob. “I know you’ve slept with other girls and I’m not dealing with that. Cheating is a deal-breaker for me.”
He stared at her, her glistening eyes tearing him up. The fucking problem in a nutshell. Everything Bailey did affected him. Around her, he couldn’t focus on anything else. He had to know her every move. He had to touch her and feel her and listen to her. Whatever she wanted, he handed to her. Just as long as she was fucking happy.
He should let her continue with the mistaken belief he’d fucked other bitches, but that made her unhappy, and he didn’t want to be the reason for her unhappiness, any more than he already was. “I got my dick sucked once.”
Well, that shit was true. But, fuck. He needed to stay the fuck away from Bailey. She lured him to hear her voice, see her smile, listen to her laugh. If he wasn’t careful, she’d end up with the same power over him Meggie had over Prez.
Had Char even had that power over him? He’d loved the fuck out of Charlemagne, too. Fuck, with Bailey, though, shit was so different and he couldn’t understand why. Love was fucking love.
Oh, fuck….he didn’t love Bailey.
Yes, you stupid motherfucker, you do.
Fuck, he couldn’t love her. He wouldn’t be wishing he could sleep with other chicks if he loved Bailey.
The one time he’d gone with another bitch since he’d first fucked Bailey, he’d panicked, scared she’d find out and get hurt, and he didn’t want anything hurting Bailey.
That’s why you’re always hurting her, right? Telling her you’re fucking everything that moves.
Turning in a tight circle and scrubbing his hands over his face, he glared at her. “What do you want me to say?” he snapped. “She sucked me off. That’s it. Not like I stuck my dick in her or ate her pussy.”
She bowed her head and covered her face with her hands, her heart-wrenching sobs reminding him of his mother’s devastation when his father continued to fuck over her.
“Fuck.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Bailey, listen to me—”
“Get out,” she cried, glaring at him. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”
He didn’t need to be put out of anyw
here twice. Turning on his heel, he stalked toward the door and paused, despite his brain demanding he walk the fuck out. He needed to see her one last time. Tomorrow, he’d talk to Brooks to make sure Bailey received a generous amount of alimony and child support every month. She hadn’t asked for jack, but she had enough to hate him for. Money didn’t need to be added into the equation.
But, the moment he looked at her, another piece of his soul floated to her. He took a step towards her, then stopped, determined to regain control. His heart was already pounding in anticipation, his dick already rising. He growled in frustration.
“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck. YOU,” he snarled, grabbing a figurine and smashing it against the wall.
She flinched, her watery eyes wide, her shock evident in the ‘o’ of her mouth. Even as his brain told him to stay the fuck in place, his legs were moving, not allowing him time to stop and consider anything. He pulled her into his arms and slanted his mouth over hers, breathing her in and raising her shirt. Stepping back only long enough to bare the upper half of her body, he settled his hands on her waist, his tongue sweeping over hers and wrapping around it, tasting her warm recesses and grunting against her mouth.
He dropped to his knees and yanked both her pants and her panties down, kissing her belly where his baby rested. Once he’d removed her heels and the rest of the clothes, he lifted her leg and plastered his mouth against her pussy, already wet and hot.
He lapped her clit, opening her swollen lips and dragging his tongue around her tender flesh. She pressed her slim fingers against his forehead, then tugged his dreads.
“Lucas,” she whispered, his name on her lips the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.
He gave her cunt one long lick and she whimpered. Removing his mouth, he licked her taste from his lips while taking his dick out. He pulled her to the floor.
“Turn around,” he rasped, flipping her over even as he gave his command. The moment she lifted herself on her hands and knees, he teased her clit with his dickhead and plunged into her. He wanted to slam into her but didn’t want to hurt their baby. Breathing hard and grasping her hips, he pumped into her, his dick in the haven of her tight pussy almost too fucking much for him. He squeezed her smooth ass cheeks, ran his fingers along the heated skin of her back and grabbed handfuls of her hair.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 147
