by Bijou Hunter
“I’m not against marriage if you want to do it, but I don’t need it to be happy,” she says, flashing me a big smile. “Marriage is just a legal thing for the government. I won’t love you more by having a piece of paper stamped by a bureaucrat.”
“I always thought we’d get married,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
“Then ask me to fucking marry you. I’ll say yes, and we’ll have Peepaw Zeb or Bianca Bella go online to get ordained so they can legally marry us. Done deal.”
“Should I get down on one knee?” I ask while nuzzling her throat.
“Do what you want, fucker. I am agreeable to whatever your heart desires,” she murmurs before adding, “Unless it involves fisting because that’s just not fucking happening.”
Studying her blissful brown eyes, I’m certain I look like a fool in love with all the smiling I’ve done today. Nevertheless, I say, “Today is not proposing day.”
“Is it because I mentioned fisting?”
“Mainly yes.”
“You have big hands,” she says and rests them on her belly. “A woman has her limits.”
“I’m thinking we should stop talking about fisting.”
“Well, then stop bringing it up,” she says, laughing at her own bullshit. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Is it about fisting?”
“No, it’s about where you live,” she says, gesturing to my trailer. “Hey, wait, isn’t your club called Rawkfist? Does the initiation involve fisting and that’s why you keep bringing it up?”
“You don’t like my trailer. Is that what you mean to say?”
Cricket pats my face while I fondle her belly. “Your insecurities are a huge turnoff. I like my men arrogant.”
“Well, I happen to like my fricking trailer, so your opinion is wrong, woman!” I holler before laughing at her slow-clapping response.
“Can you picture it?” she asks while tugging at my shirt. “Our twins running around the property with Jimmy following behind.”
Unable to tell if she’s messing with me or not, I still nod because I’ve seen that image in my mind since I learned she was pregnant.
“I like it here,” she says and covers her eyes as she looks out at the property through the falling sun. “The town could be sweaty balls, but this setup you have here is very cool. I’d love to be able to walk to my parents’ house or Chipper’s. A little community consisting of your family feels cozy.”
“You do like it,” I say, wrapping my arms around her chest as I lean her back against me. “This is my home, but I belong with you. If you hated it here, I’d give it up.”
“I’d have to be a cruel bitch to ask you to give up your family, and I’m well known for being just a regular bitch,” she says and tilts her head back so our lips can meet.
My hands caress her belly, chasing the babies’ kicks. “I love you,” I whisper when our lips part.
“Then promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” I reply even while instantly worrying what I’ve agreed to.
“When the twins are older, promise we can build a house like your parents have. I can’t imagine toddlers and all their crap fitting in the trailer.”
“That’s it?”
“Sure, what else would I want?”
“A fancy mansion like yours in White Horse.”
“Exactly. I already have one, so why would I need another?” she says and turns around. “I figure we’ll be driving out here a few times a month and maybe more when Murphy and Minnow are bigger. They’ll need more space for their stuff. That way, we won’t need to bring everything with us each trip. We’ll have a home here and one in White Horse. The twins will grow up knowing they belong to both families.”
Sighing, I admit, “I guess I am a little insecure about my place after seeing yours.”
“Well, mine is better, but yours is great too. Just less great,” she teases. “That’s no reason to feel insecure. Our kids will grow up respecting both families. Or at least they’ll fake it like I do with my grandparents and their honky lifestyle.”
“I still don’t get why they’re honkys, and you aren’t.”
“Oh, I’m a honky too. Years ago, I used the word around them, and they were fucking horrified that I can never not think of them as honkys. Is that a problem, honky boy?”
“If you weren’t so pregnant, I would chase you with a water pistol until you were too wet to remain dressed.”
“If I weren’t so pregnant, I’d let you do that, but there’s no denying, I’m complaining for three here.”
“How do your ankles feel?” I ask, noticing they’re swollen. “You should sit down with your feet up.”
“Who says?” she asks, waddling next to me back to the deck.
I think to take credit for knowing about swollen ankles and high blood pressure, but in fact, my dad was the one who noticed earlier. He came up to me while I was grilling and whispered the advice in my ear. His stealth fathering is one of the things I’ve always loved about him. The man never expects credit for his every success. I don’t either, so I admit to Cricket where I got the idea. Her smile widens when I fess up. My woman knows I’m still a work in progress. She is too. That’s why we accept there’s no shame in needing our families.
CRICKET
Poet needs a new mattress or I need to lose thirty pounds in the gut. I am sore and crabby by the time he peels me off the bed on my last day in Tumbling Rock.
“My shower is better,” I grumble while standing in his. “I want to go home.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to jinx anything,” I say, holding my belly as the hot water works its way down my sore back. “I think I might be starting to get sick of having a pregnant body. I imagine your place would be more comfortable if I was working with my old body.”
Poet reaches out to caress my belly button. “You’re an outie.”
“Will you still want me after I’m all stretched out and old?” I ask, crying now for no reason beyond I said words that were slightly sad.
“Do I need to shove my way into that shower to prove my love?”
“Please don’t. I’m claustrophobic in here enough with just my wide load.”
“You’re gorgeous and your belly turns me on.”
“What about when I have a saggy stomach?”
“I have no doubt I can come up with a few pervy things to do with the saggy skin.”
Wiping my tears, I grin. “Really? Now I want to be saggy so you can try shit out.”
“That was the plan.”
“You’re good people, Felix Poet Bayer. It’s why I love you,” I say and turn off the shower. “That and your big sexy dick.”
Poet wraps a towel around me, drying me off since I’m too stiff to bend much. When he’s finished, he asks, “What if I suffer a dick injury and I can’t supply you with the pounding you expect?”
Cupping his gorgeous face in my hands, I enjoy the feel of the three-day-old stubble on his jaw. “No worries, baby. I’d just sit on your face every night.”
“That’s my girl,” he says, guiding me from the bathroom to the bedroom where he helps me get dressed.
“I don’t need your help with my bra,” I tease when he mostly just feels me up.
“Don’t be a martyr. Let me help.”
Leaning back against him, I giggle as he provides handfuls of helping. If I wasn’t so stiff, I’d expect him to do more than tease my nips. Though I can’t get my happy ending, I supply him one with a hand mouth combo that knocks his ever-loving socks off. Literally.
“Where the hell did it go?” he asks, looking around the bedroom.
“Who cares? You should be more like Chipper with his sympathetic pregnancy. My feet are too swollen for shoes, so you can’t wear them either. Go barefoot. It’s sexy.”
Poet gives up on finding his sock and walks with me out of the trailer where we find Jimmy chilling in the grass. The dog rolls onto his back to hint for some tummy-rubbing.
; “Sorry, pal, I can’t bend that far. I’ll make it up to you in a few months.”
“How do you think your dogs would do if they met Jimmy?”
“No idea. They’re okay with Balthazar, but they were puppies when they met him. I don’t take my dogs to the dog park because other people’s dogs are evil and I don’t want to have to shoot one if they attacked one of my animals.”
“You really think a dog would attack Lobo?”
“Probably not him, but you never know. Attack-type dogs are aggressive, sometimes with no trigger. Lobo isn’t an attack dog. He’s a guard dog.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Okay, well, if I had an attack dog and he thought you were a threat to me, he would attack you. Lobo’s nature is to protect me by putting himself between me and the threat, not to go after the threat. So if a dog attacked him, I don’t know how aggressive he would be. Big doesn’t equal mean. My giant-sized little brother is proof of that. Cap is a sweet cherub riding a unicorn and farting sparkles.”
Poet chuckles at my description before full-on laughing when he catches sight of Cap in the yard blowing bubbles with six-year-old Tuesday.
“Mean, he is not,” Poet says, helping me up the stairs of the deck and opening the door to the house.
“There she is,” Candy says and walks toward me from the kitchen. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I need a long bubble bath with the jets on.”
Guiding me to the couch, she has me lie down and props my feet up with a few pillows. Once I’m comfy, Poet brings me a glass of orange juice and then a plateful of food that I rest on my belly.
“I’ve never felt so pampered.”
“Hayes is packing up the RV with Court,” Candy says while feeding me eggs. “They’re making plans for Poet’s family to visit in a couple weeks.”
“Aww, Hayes made a friend,” I tell Poet who snorts.
“Despite all his bitching,” Candy says, “he always has a soft spot for bikers.”
“It’s the Moot-effect.”
“Yep. Now he’s bonded with Court and Jared especially. Though he and Emmett might kill each other one day while Donovan is sneaky.”
“He is!” Aunt Poppy cries from the kitchen. “I’m always saying he’s the one people need to worry about, but they don’t believe me. Good country boy, my ass.”
“What’s she babbling about?” I ask Candy.
“No one knows.”
“I thought she was our ally.”
“That was yesterday. Today, we’re allied with Journey against Poppy and Justice. The situation remains very fluid.”
“They usually are whenever women are involved. That’s why we’re so awesome. Our vaginas make us fun.”
“That’s the spirit,” Candy says and shoves another bite of food in my mouth. Looking at Poet, she asks, “When are you heading back to White Horse?”
“Tomorrow unless you think I need to go today.”
“No, we’ll make sure she gets her bath. Then we’ll tuck her in bed and read her a story. I’ve got this,” Candy says and gives him a wink.
“Where’s Chipper?”
“He took a ride with Emmett and Zeb to eat breakfast somewhere,” Candy says. “I couldn’t follow whatever the fuck they were talking about.”
“They wanted grits,” Journey explains from the kitchen. “And I don’t make grits.”
Frowning, I rub my stomach. “Chipper hates grits.”
“They told him that they knew a place with the best grits,” Journey says.
“Wait, are grits code for booze,” I ask, “because otherwise I don’t know what the hell is happening?”
Journey smiles, but I don’t think she gets just how much my brother hates grits. Of course, maybe I just don’t get how much he loves Zeb—the moonshine man.
Soon, my brother returns home where he announces moonshine is good with breakfast but grits still suck seriously hairy ass.
“That boy has bad taste,” Zeb says before standing next to the couch like I should get out of the way so he can sit down.
“Fuck off, old man,” I growl.
“I’ll sit on you.”
Poet whistles at Zeb and pats a chair. “Sit here or I have a spot on the fricking ground you can try.”
Zeb waves off the threat, even while sitting in the chair. “You don’t scare me.”
The front door opens, and Hayes bursts inside as if we’re under attack. I’d be worried if he didn’t always enter a room that way.
“Say your goodbyes and take your pisses. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
Candy pops one more bite in my mouth, and I chug the glass of orange juice. Then absolute chaos breaks out as everyone says goodbye and I realize I still haven’t gotten the kids’ names straight and they’re hugging me and acting like I’m their favorite person even though I can only pat them on their heads and call them “sweetie.”
At some point, Hayes acts like a sheep dog and corrals his people toward the RV and away from the talkative Tumbling Rock crazies. I grab for Poet so not to lose him in the mayhem. Our lips lock together until my family forces me to disengage.
“I loved every minute,” I cry as Hayes forces me into the RV. Hurrying to the window, I open it and continue my goodbye to Poet. “I love you and your family and your dog and your bed and your tiny shower. I’ll see you tomorrow, and I’ll be thinking about you every minute, and I’ll cook your babies so good you’ll think I’m a gourmet chef.”
“Don’t forget to baste them,” Chipper says from his seat while Cap settles into the back with his tablet to read.
Ignoring my brother, I smile at Poet. “This was a great weekend.”
Never speaking, Poet only smiles and nods. I’m ready to get upset until I realize he’s hiding his own emotional crap. No doubt if he speaks, he might bawl like I am as we pull away from the place my man calls home.
15—CRICKET
Bianca Bella was busy while I was in Tumbling Rock, and she’s excited to show me all the changes as soon as I waddle into the house. The dogs insist on attention first, though. As soon as I peel them off me, I follow Bianca Bella to my bedroom.
“I butched up the room a bit,” she says and opens the door to my room.
The once patchwork-designed colorful walls are gone, replaced with soothing beige except for the still green accent wall behind the door. Where the chandelier hung, a rustic ceiling fan is now. In the sitting area, rather than a patchwork-covered comfy couch, two dark-gray comfy chairs are decked out next to a crib.
“I figured you’d want to keep the babies nearby sometimes, and since you decided two babies were better than one, you and Poet will both need to feed them. This way, you can sit together with your feet up while watching TV during their middle-of-the-night feedings.”
Fighting my tears, I wish I could jump up and down and scream like a kid. Since I can’t, I grip her hand and gush, “This is amazing! The room is still so beautiful, but toned down for a man. Poet is going to fucking love it. That fan especially is his simple, country taste.”
“And there’s more,” she says, guiding me out of the room and down the hallway. “I read how dogs can get weird around new babies. For your offspring’s safety and the dogs’ sanity, you’ll want to keep them separated sometimes. Since putting the pooches outside won’t work when it’s too hot or cold, I had these safety gates installed in each hallway to keep the dogs corralled. Then when your babies are older and running amuck, the gates will keep their destruction in certain areas.”
Still crying like a hormonal bitch, I smile. “This is especially great since we’ll have Poet’s parents here after the babies are born, and you know how the cockers act when new people sleep over.”
“Lots of crotch smelling and being under foot.”
I caress her dark hair and wish I had more than words to give her. “You are the best friend ever.”
Cocking an eyebrow, she asks, “Even better than Chipper?”
“A
fter watching him act like a lush all weekend and then coming home to find all the work you’ve done, the competition isn’t even close.”
Bianca Bella tries to hug me straight on, but we end up with a side embrace instead.
“I know you didn’t want a baby shower,” she whispers in my ear, “so I bought a bunch of crap from your shopping list. Baby bottles, nipples, diapers, baby powder. Pretty much everything boring you need. We’ll do the fun stuff like shop for baby clothes together. Now, do you want to see where you’ll stick your stinky diapers?”
Clapping like a silly fucking kid, I can’t wait to see Poet’s face once he arrives tomorrow and realizes he no longer needs to sleep in my shabby chic girl heaven. I often catch him lying in bed, frowning at the chandelier above us. He’ll never admit it to me, but that thing freaked him out big-time. Now the beautiful vintage chandelier is in Bianca Bella’s room where it’ll be properly loved.
POET
Cricket is asked to go on bed rest two weeks after we return from Tumbling Rock. The doctor originally “ordered” her to stay off her feet, but she gave him a look that made him rethink his wording. Now a request, bed rest zaps Cricket of enthusiasm.
“I’m a beached whale,” she pouts from the couch.
Leaning over the back, I kiss her cheek. “You’re an exquisite mermaid.”
“A celibate beached whale,” she grumbles, reminding me to behave when my fingers linger near her breasts. “You can’t get me excited because my horniness could send the babies flying out of my crotch.”
“I love when you paraphrase the doctor,” I say, kissing her cheek again.
Chipper walks into the living room, sits in a chair, rests his bare feet on the table, and sighs. “Hayes wants to know if he should show his dick to Camden Rutgers, and I just don’t know how to answer that question.”
“I’m less crazy of when you paraphrase situations,” I say while sitting near Cricket.
“Hayes needs a resolution to Pickles’s info about the dealer working in our territory with Brotherhood protection. If we believe this Garbage loser is protected by the club, Hayes will need to do his junkyard dog routine with Camden. Pissing matches will ensue, and I would have to assume a dick-measuring contest too. Of course, we know Daddy will win.”
