by Naomi West
I wake up to Rocco and Cecilia sitting beside me. For a moment I think I’m in my apartment and I wonder what they’re doing here, but then I hear the beeping of the hospital equipment and notice the ubiquitous whiteness of the place. I try and sit up but Rocco leans forward, touching me softly on the chest, pushing me back down.
“You need your rest,” he says.
“How do you feel?” Cecilia asks, her voice high-pitched and full of worry. It’s the voice that lets me know she cares about me, the voice she used when we were kids and I fell off the swing and landed on my face.
“Tired,” I say. “Tired but okay. Not hurt. The baby . . . oh God, Rocco, the baby?”
“Both of you are fine,” the doctor says, sweeping into the room with his clipboard. “There’s no cause to worry, Miss Ericson, no cause at all. Some smoke inhalation, but thankfully your body is fighting back. We’re going to keep you under observation for a few days, but I don’t foresee any problems.” She nods her head and smiles, a bright-looking lady with small studded earrings. “I’ll leave you guys to it.”
“You look better,” I say to Cecilia. It’s not that her appearance is changed in any way. But there’s a look to her face that I can read through twin magic. She’s getting over Shotgun’s death, moving on with her life.
“I’m not working at the restaurant anymore,” she tells me. “I’m working for a nonprofit, a company which cleans plastic from beaches. I do feel better—but this isn’t about me!” She giggles, shaking her head. “Look at me talking about myself here of all places. Don’t worry about me, Mona. Just get yourself better.” She kisses me on the cheek and then leaves me and Rocco alone.
He grabs my hand. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, Simone.”
“Sorry?”
Speaking in a grim tone of voice, he tells me that he was the one who set the fire. When he’s done, he looks at me as though he expects me to push him away.
I laugh in the way only a person who’s nearly died can laugh. “Our baby is healthy!” I exclaim. “And I’m alive! And we’re together. And we’re in love. There’s nothing to be miserable about. We’re safe now, aren’t we?”
He nods. “We’re safe now but . . .” He trails off.
“But?” I say, worried.
“But I’m wondering if you’ll wanna be with me even though I’m not the president of the club anymore. I gave the title to Beast. I’m not anything in the club anymore. I’m an unemployed man with some savings to fall back on but not much else. All I am, now, is a man who wants to be with his family. The bloodshed, the violence . . . it never meant anything to me when I was on my own and thought I’d always be on my own, but seeing you like that, lying there, I’m done with it. I want you instead.” He lays his hand on my belly. “I want us instead.”
I blink away tears. “I’m not crying,” I say, “and you can’t prove that I am.”
He leans down and kisses my tear-wet cheeks. “I never said you were crying,” he whispers, and all at once I remember the first time I felt his breath on me. Even lying here in the hospital bed, the excitement isn’t reduced. I want him now just as badly as I wanted him then. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting him.
“When they say you can leave, you’re coming home with me. I put a down payment on a three-bedroom outside of town.”
“For the two of us?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice, even if I shouldn’t be shocked. This man was a secret sexy photograph on Cecilia’s phone . . . I think back to that afternoon in the mall. It seems like years ago instead of months.
“For the two of us,” he confirms.
Five days later, Rocco is driving me toward a three-bedroom detached house in a quiet suburban street, compete with a white picket fence surrounding the yard. All down the street there are kids’ bikes and swings and slides and similar picket fences. Rocco takes me by the hand and leads me into the house, which is mostly empty except for a bit of leftover furniture dotted here and there.
“We can do whatever you like with it,” he says.
“We’ll do it together,” I reply. “We’ll do it all together.”
“Well, I’ve actually got started on one room . . .” He leads me upstairs.
I step through the threshold, my mouth falling open like a cartoon character’s. He’s set up a crib in the corner and painted the walls a neutral blue and put up starry-night wallpaper, with a baby dial above the crib and a play mat and some baby’s toys on the floor. “Rocco,” I whisper. “Rocco, it’s . . . it’s just amazing.”
I turn to face him, to kiss him, to hold him and make love to him. That’s when I see my six- foot and then some man on one knee, the ring box looking tiny in his big hands, looking up at me with dark eyes which will never stop melting my heart.
“Simone Ericson,” he says, “will you marry me?”
For the tiniest fraction of a second, my mind conjures up an image of how the old Simone would’ve reacted to this, the pre-Rocco Simone. But then I push that image aside and fling myself at him so fast that he has to jump to his feet to catch me. I wrap my arms around him and kiss his neck, his cheek, his beard.
“Is that a yes?” He laughs.
“It’s a yes, yes, yes!” I cry.
He kisses me over and over, telling me I’ll be the perfect mother and he’ll try to be the perfect father, telling me he’ll never let anything happen to us again. Once he’s slid the ring onto my finger, I reach down for his crotch.
“Is the bed ready?” I ask.
“Well, just a mattress. The frame is arriving later today.”
I take him by the hand and drag him onto the hallway. “A mattress will do.”
THE END
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WILD CHILD: The Wylde Ones MC
By Naomi West
WHAT DO I WANT? A BABY.
WHEN DO I WANT IT? RIGHT F***ING NOW.
She’s the teacher, but I’m the one about to teach her a lesson:
Never deny me what I want.
So when I say I want her to bear my baby, there’s only one answer I want to hear:
“Yes, Mr. Wylde.”
I’m the president of the Wylde Ones MC, but it isn’t enough to have my name on the club.
I won’t be president forever.
And when I go, I want an heir to my throne.
I could wait and let fate dictate who that heir will be.
But I’ve never been one to leave things to chance.
I’ve made up my mind.
This is what’s going to happen:
I’m going to have Lena.
And Lena’s going to have my baby.
No matter what denials come from those pretty pink lips.
No matter how much she moans or protests.
I’m going to show her she needs my body just as much as I need hers.
But I can’t forget that she’s just a tool. A means to an end.
I refuse to let myself get tangled up in the process.
This is strictly a business transaction.
And I intend to transact with Lena again, and again, and again…
Chapter One
Lena
“No.”
“But, sir—”
“Lena, we’ve been over this a hundred times already—”
“Actually, we’ve been over it six, and if you would listen I could propose to you why the investment is necessary and worth the cost—”
“It’s not in the budget, Lena.”
“It never is, is it?”
Principal Walters stares at me from across his desk. He’s an older man, graying, with frost-blue eyes that peer at me over the rim of his gold-framed glasses. This
is an argument that Principal Walters and I have been having since I was hired at this high school. I think that we should have better textbooks—in fact, I’ve spent extensive time researching and compiling a list for the man of all the books that we need in order to get up to a decent education standard. Principal Walters, however, doesn’t feel that the investment is worth it. I get the same comments every time I bring it up.
It’s too costly.
The students have learned just fine with the books that we have.
We have other things to concern ourselves with.
We’ll talk about it next year.
We never truly talk about it next year. Principal Walters puts it off and puts me off every single year, and there’s never anything that gets done about it, because all Principal Walters has for me is excuse after excuse, as though that’s supposed to make teaching any easier, or give me the resources that I need in order to get things done. Sometimes I think that he enjoys holding the fact that I have to go through him in order to get the things I want done. He’s the one with all the saying power in the school, after all, and all I am is a teacher.
It’s infuriating.
That fury is still there as a small smile graces his thin, wrinkled lips.
“Lena,” he says, his tone patronizing. “We’ve been over this. This isn’t up for debate.”
There’s dismissal in the statement. I sit there for a few more moments, and I contemplate sitting there and being stubborn.
It’s late, though. And I’ve already wasted enough time in Principal Walters’ office. I still need to head home. There are papers that need grading, and no one else is going to do them but me.
“Fine.” I’m resolute as I stand. “I’ll remember what you said about talking about it another time,” I tell him.
“I’m sure you will.”
Principal Walters’ mouth twitches, but he says nothing more. I leave him in his office, snapping the door promptly shut behind me. I hope it rattles the stupid diplomas he has hanging on his walls!
It’s been a hell of a week. Between Principal Walters, the students being distracted by the upcoming dance (meaning they have no room in their heads right now to deal with any sort of English lesson coming from me), and being the only person remotely concerned about my students’ futures, I’m burned out.
Insufferable man … how do you even become a principal if you don’t care about the students?!
I head back to my classroom. I can at least get another hour of work in before I really need to be off campus. I sit in there and pore over the cost of a bulk order of all the English I’d need—not only for myself and my students, but the whole department as well. The results are as abysmal as they always are; my savings account has already taken a hit in buying extra materials … It’d take a miracle to come up with this money in time for it to actually matter.
Groaning, I give up for the evening. It’s already getting dark outside, and I need to get home. That is a totally different ball game in and of itself.
I may or may not … have a car. Another expense my savings account will take a huge hit for. And quite frankly, I’m not looking forward to the choice between books for my students and a car for myself.
Don’t let anyone tell you being a teacher is a lucrative business.
About a half an hour later, I’m well on my way home. It’s considerably darker out now, and probably not very safe. I’m a bit stubborn in that respect; I could easily take public transportation, but I like the fresh air of the evenings after a long day of work. It helps me think and clear my head, which is especially important when it comes to the most recent problems I’ve been facing.
I think that I’m making a little headway on that, moving numbers around in my head so that I can possibly, maybe, hopefully, figure out what I need to do—
When I hear a low, rumbling engine behind me.
A car?
No, a bike.
It’s dark out, and I’m alone. This road is all but deserted, a side road that leads down to where my house and a few other family homes are. It’s one of the few places in Milwaukee that’s out a ways. I like it for the privacy; right now, it’s really not serving me well.
My pulse races as I realize that the sound of the engine is getting closer, but it’s going slow.
Following me.
It’s things like this that scare the shit out of my mother when I talk about my walking home instead of getting a ride. Scenarios like this that I roll my eyes over, and her overprotective speeches that follow.
“A young woman shouldn’t be out late at night like that on her own. What about all the bad, crazy people out there?”
I’m more independent than my mother would like, and it’s why I have a can of mace in my pocket, just for situations like this. I slip my hand in my pocket as I continue to walk along, hoping that this person is just lost and will figure out where they’re going sometime soon so they can stop scaring the shit out of me.
I glance over my shoulder.
Still there.
Panic settles in a little more. What does this person want? Why can’t they just drive past me like a normal person? I can see the headlines now.
Local Teacher Run Down Slowly by Creepy Biker Dude
My mind goes wild with how I’m going to experience death by bike, when suddenly the engine cuts behind me. Oh … Oh no.
I’m in terrible flats. No support. I can’t possibly think to run, let alone outrun someone bigger than me.
I clutch the can of mace tighter in my pocket and pick up the pace. Boots thud behind me, closer, closer—
I turn around when I feel a hand come around my arm. I spray before I can really take aim, and I hit!
… sort of.
Mace hits and sprays off a shiny visor instead of catching the biker in the face. Before I can act quickly enough to flip his visor and try again, his other hand grabs for my mace, taking it away from me. He slides it into his back pocket, out of my grasp.
In the middle of the ire that I feel over this, there’s something I recognize about this person. Maybe the build … or the leather vest he has—the patches seem familiar. I don’t get a lot of time to contemplate this when he laughs at me.
“You’re feisty, aren’t you?” His voice is muffled beneath his helmet’s visor, but it doesn’t change the fact that I can hear how he’s making fun of me.
“Let me go.”
“You gonna spray me again?”
“… no …”
The man laughs again. He keeps my wrist in his grip, though he lowers it as his other hand comes up to flip the visor of his helmet. I finally see his face—
He’s incredibly handsome.
Deep sapphire eyes peer down at me from below a sweep of honey blond hair. He’s got this mature look about him, with a bit of a youthful glow that makes him a damn catch. I blush—I’m staring way too hard, but I didn’t expect him to look like that.
“Listen, doll.” He pulls me from my foggy thoughts, reminding me that he’s not some dashing knight but a creep on a bike who just spent the better part of the last five minutes freaking me out. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Impressive reaction time, though. If I hadn’t had my visor, I’d have a mouthful of pepper shit. So, kudos. Now, I’m gonna let you go, and you’re gonna behave. All I want to do is talk.”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to believe him or not. Who follows and sneaks up on a person in the middle of the night just for a talk?
I pull my arm from his hold. My wrist is warm where his leather-gloved hand held it. I rub there as I stare up at him. He’s got at least a foot, maybe even more, on my own height.
“You know, if you wanted to talk you could have been less creepy about it. I don’t mind talking to people when they approach me normally.”
The man laughs again.
“I didn’t want to ride up on you like a hellion. Pardon me for trying to be polite.” He holds his hand out. “Booster Wylde. President of the Wylde Ones.”
I have no idea what this man is talking about, nor who he is, introducing himself like that. I can only assume that he means he’s a part of a motorcycle club … or gang … or something like that.
Oh boy. This sounds like trouble. Exciting—but trouble.
“Okay …” I look back up at Booster, not taking his hand. “So, what did you want to talk about … Booster?”
He loses the smirk when he realizes I’m still hesitant, and not totally impressed with his introduction. Honestly though, what does he expect from me? Gushing?
“I want a chat with you, but not here.” He nods back to his bike, a few feet away from where we’re standing. “I’ll ride you into town and we can have a little discussion over drinks.”
