by Naomi West
I laugh. I do that, though, I’ll end up getting bored.
Despite what I’m about to do, I arrive at the club in a pretty decent mood. I pull up to the front. There are a few of the Wylde Ones out front, and they look at me, a little surprised. I had told them that I would be out all day; I don’t think that they suspected that I would be back so soon. In all honesty, I hadn’t thought that I would be, either. I thought that I would need to fight with Lena, make her believe me.
I should have known that I would be able to trust her and her faith in me.
I walk up to the front, nodding to the boys that are there.
“Get everyone together. I have something important that I need to say to everyone.”
Apprehension crackles through the clubhouse. People are roused from pool games and booze, a small handful tugged away from getting their dicks wet in some club girl pussy. Pixie and Happy are the last ones to join us; I can tell that they were getting up to much the same, and Happy’s not too happy about being disturbed.
Oh well. He’ll have to get over it, because what I have to say is more important than him getting a good fuck in.
“Well, now that everyone is here,” I say, loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “There’s a few things we need to talk about. Over the last few months, some of you might have noticed some big changes around here. I’ve been doing more stuff behind the scenes, doing less out with the club. That’s something that happens. Sometimes you get wrapped up in work and you start to pull away from people that you called family.
“But it’s more than that,” I go on. “It’s more than that … and I think it always has been. The less I was around, the more shit started to happen. The more faith I put in certain people to help run this shindig, the more things kept getting fucked up from negligence. It’s partly my fault, I know. If I’m being honest with you guys, I haven’t been interested in this club in a long, long time.”
There’s a murmur that goes through the crowd, and I let that little nugget sink in before I go on.
“It’s not any one person’s fault. This is just how things are. And it’s for this reason that I’m stepping down as president—”
There, I get the real uproar.
It ripples through the club like a thunderstorm. I see that they weren’t expecting that. Maybe me telling them things needed to change, that something needed to happen to turn the club around, but this is a bomb that they never expected to be dropped. I let them have their moments, yelling this and that about Booster no, and Booster why, before I hold my hands up.
“I have a baby on the way, and someone special to me that I’ve found is more important and worth more time and investment than salvaging an MC. Which brings me to my next order of business. Happy. Come here.”
I look over to Happy, and so does everyone else. Despite the fact that I know this is what Happy’s wanted, he doesn’t look like he trusts anything that I’m about to do—and he shouldn’t. I wait until Happy is standing near me before I start speaking again.
“Happy here has been beside me … faithfully … for a long time. As my VP, it’s always been him who’s helped run this place. So much so that he’s taken it upon himself to actively try and oust me from my position behind mine and your backs. If you want to know why I had no knowledge of the raid you guys did on the high school, why I was so heavily drugged after, just ask him. He can be your new president … or he can not. But I figured you all should know who the ‘leader’ you would be leaning on would be like.”
That information is the real kicker. That was something else that I pieced together over my days of recovering after the raid—everyone thought that it was my idea, not Happy’s. They thought that they were acting on my orders, not Happy’s. I decided to keep that information to myself, until now.
All eyes turn on Happy. He pales.
“B-booster, come on now, don’t go joking like that—”
“Did I sound like I was joking?” I shrug. “Anyway, it’s not my problem anymore. You all can do with what you want with that information. I’ll clean out my shit this week; I hope most of you make the best of this.”
A few of them try to get me to stay. They ask me not to do this, tell me that the MC needs a man like me—but it really, truly, doesn’t. An MC needs a man that has his heart invested in it, and my heart is somewhere else.
It doesn’t take me long to ride to Lena’s place. I’ve spent as much time today in the company of Happy and the Wylde Ones (upon thinking about it, I hope they decide to rebrand themselves. Maybe Happy’s Boys?) I laugh at the thought.
I pull up to Lena’s house, parking the bike. I make it halfway up the porch when Lena’s door opens up to her, standing in her doorway. She’s changed into some more comfortable clothing; something baggy. I realize that they’re maternity clothes. She’s already started buying.
For some reason, that makes me grin. I scoop her up into my arms and kiss her deeply, moaning against her lips as I do.
“I take it everything went well,” she murmurs against my mouth. I chuckle.
“Better than well.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
Lena
Life is pleasantly, wonderfully, busy.
After Booster left the Wylde Ones, we decided that a move was in order. We’d both spent so much of our lives stagnant, stuck in the same place, that it was obvious to the both of us that what we really wanted was a hefty bit of change. We moved from Milwaukee to New Jersey—the first of several big changes.
I decided that I want to go back to school. I liked teaching high school, and I love children, but with one of my own on the way, I was growing out of the idea of watching other people’s children day in and out. I wanted to start teaching at a higher level—the college level.
Booster supported this idea wholeheartedly, and between my stellar credit and Booster’s savings helping me along, I was able to pay for college with so few loans that I might as well be going for free.
Now I have classes in the morning, and I’ve started writing in the evening. A love story like mine is something for the romance shelves, after all, and I’m already looking into publishers willing to sell my story.
Booster didn’t go back to MC life—now he’s immersed himself in the world of bikes, opening up his own body shop in the city. He has enough starting capital that it doesn’t put us into the hole, and business booms surprisingly well. Especially when he extends the business to working on full automobiles, too.
And then … then there’s our darling little daughter.
She stays with Booster while I’m at classes. I think it’s hilarious—he talked too much through my pregnancy about how he was going to have a boy to show the ropes, just like his uncle did. We didn’t find out Hannah’s gender until she was born. The look on Booster’s face was hilarious.
His surprise only lasted all of five minutes. He’s bought her so many car toys and little toy motorcycles and reads to her at night out of motorcycle magazines, that he may not have a boy, but he’s definitely living out his fantasy of having a child that takes after him. Not that I mind, too much.
It’s picture perfect …
There’s just one more thing I want.
***
It’s a late night of studying for me. Booster’s down in the garage, working on one of the bikes that had been brought in earlier that day. We have one of those buildings with the shop and office on the bottom, and all the living space in the top two floors. It makes things easy; we don’t have to commute back and forth a lot, but it does make Booster’s late night a small bane for little Hannah.
She’s fussy, and I’m working on a paper. Or at least I would, if Booster’s tools weren’t making way too much noise than they should. It makes me a little cranky, too. Booster’s been putting so much work into the shop lately, it’s been hard getting a break myself for my own things. I don’t want to begrudge him his time, but it’s hard.
I guess this is what couple
life is like. I almost think married, but we aren’t that yet.
Admittedly, the stray thought sours my mood even more, and with Hannah in my arms, I make my way down the stairs, and into the shop. Booster’s hunched over, doing some kind of maintenance. I don’t know a lot about how all of this works, and I’m all right with that. Booster knows what he’s doing, but I wish he didn’t do it close to twelve at night.
“Booster,” I say. He doesn’t answer me, because he can’t hear me, nor the little whimpers that Hannah gives. “Booster!” I shout a little louder, and this time he hears me. He looks over his shoulder, grinning.
“Yes?”
“Don’t you think it’s a little late?”
“Oh, I was just finishing up.”
“You said that two hours ago.”
“Oh yeah. Well I mean it this time.”
My mouth sets in a hard line. So it’s going to be that kind of night then, is it? I roll my eyes.
“Hannah’s trying to sleep and you’re making all that noise. I’m trying to work on schoolwork, Booster. Please.”
He nods, serious, but turns back to the bike.
Seriously.
“Hey, Lena, can you hand me that box over there?”
“What?”
He gestures vaguely.
“That box, over there, it’s little and black.”
I huff. I didn’t come down here to play lackey for him. But whatever.
I hoist Hannah up on my side. Booster’s going to need to do a lot to make this up to me, that’s for damn sure. I go over to where he’s pointed, looking around …
I find a small black box, but it’s nothing like what I expect. It’s small, smaller than anything that I would have expected in the shop. My brows furrow. It looks like …
I gasp, and, not able to help myself, I open the box.
Inside, nestled in a little velvet bed, is a brilliant, beautiful, diamond ring. It’s dainty and feminine, and sparkles even in the yellow light of the workshop. My hand comes to my mouth, covering it, and I can’t believe what I’m looking at.
“See, you were all huffy and mad at me, and all I wanted to do was propose to you.”
I turn around, shocked. Booster’s standing, his hands sheepishly pushing into his pockets. He’s grinning at me, ear to ear, and I honestly have to fight back tears.
“You’ve been getting on my nerves on purpose just so you could propose?” I ask.
“Well, to be honest, I figured you’d get annoyed before now. But I suppose all the same that it’s good you at least held out. Built up all the tension.”
“You—you—” I shake my head, laughing. “Come here and kiss me, before I change my mind.”
Booster’s grin deepens, and he walks on over. He leans forward, pressing his lips to mine.
“I take it that means yes,” he says, his words coming out between our lips.
“Yes. A thousand times, yes.”
THE END
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DIESEL DADDY: Skull Riders MC
By Naomi West
THIS DIESEL DADDY WANTS TO LIGHT MY WORLD ON FIRE.
He was gasoline; I was a lit match.
We never should have been within a country mile of each other.
But I just couldn’t turn down the scoop of a lifetime, and look what it got me:
The bad boy’s hand on my throat… and his baby in my womb.
When I saw Diesel walk into that bar, I thought he’d be my ticket to the top.
A bad boy biker with a rap sheet thicker than the dictionary?
Sounded like the perfect juicy news lead.
But what I found out was that Diesel had something else thick he wanted to share with me…
And he knew it’d make me juicy, too.
I should know better.
But I just can’t say no.
Not when he pulls me into his arms.
Not when he bends me over his bed.
And not when he whispers in my ear exactly what he wants to give me:
His baby in my belly.
Chapter One
Willa
“Sometimes it feels like the only reason I’m here is to look pretty.” I throw a mock pout at Brittany, but in truth I don’t feel like making a joke out of it. “And some days, I even fail at that.” We’re standing in the breakroom, Brittany leaning up against the counter with a mug of coffee and me leaning against the wall, clutching my bundle of papers. I’ve been chasing up some stories about rogue stringers in the city, running lights, climbing fences, trespassing. It’s a good story. It’s a story which cuts straight to the truth. It’s exactly the sort of story I took this internship to follow.
“You haven’t even asked him yet.” Brittany is ten years my senior at thirty-three, with shoulder-length brown hair and big chunky red glasses, and big chunky colorful dresses, and big chunky multicolored shoes. I can imagine sitting around a circle with bunch of hippies hitting a drum and singing into the night, and she’s my only real friend here. “How are you going to stand here complaining if you haven’t even asked him?”
“I know, I know.” I nod shortly.
She’s right, of course. I shouldn’t throw myself a pity party just yet. Maybe I’ll walk into his office and slam the dossier down and he’ll smile and clap me on the back and tell me I’m the best darn intern he’s ever had. And also maybe a flying pig will watch from the corner.
“I better get to it,” I say.
“Wait.” She almost falls across the room when she comes to me. “Smile, Willa. You don’t need to look so grumpy. You know what Peter’s like.”
“What’s he like?” I ask.
She gives me that sideways, cocky grin and leaves the breakroom.
Clutching the dossier and trying not to think about all the hard work I did for this story—trailing stringers for almost two weeks, several interviews, several close calls with criminals and their pursuers—I walk across the main floor toward Peter’s office. I would like to burst upstairs to Sofia Silva’s office and present the dossier to her, but an intern approaching the head of the station is a big no-no. It’s the kind of thing which might see the intern unable to pay the rent even on her crappy apartment.
Brittany winks at me from her desk, holding up crossed fingers. I force a smile onto my face and then knock on Peter’s door. I have to be strong now. I have to be confident. I have to pretend like I don’t have doubts about the course my life is taking, that I am fully committed to this job and still feel the passion for it I felt for the idea of it back in college. I need to pretend that every night when work is done I don’t ask myself the question: am I doing the right thing with my life?
“Come in.”
Peter’s office is large, clippings of the sister paper’s biggest headlines framed on the walls, screen captures of the station’s biggest hits right next to them. Peter sits in a large executive’s chair, his hands resting on the armrests, looking far too young for a chair that important. Brittany has told me he’s around thirty, but he looks around mid-twenties, with pale red hair and pale gray eyes. He is always well-kept in his blue business suit, his hair clipped short, his face cleanshaven and not unhandsome. He steeples his fingers and watches me closely. His gray eyes roam more than is necessary. I ignore it.
“Take a seat,” he says.
I sit in the chair opposite him, placing my dossier on the desk.
“And what’s this? A story?”
I don’t like the way he says that. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but his tone of voice is like the tone of an indulgent parent. I remember once, before the hell that scarred my life happened, going into the living room with a bad painting of a tree held in my hand,
jumping up and down for Mom to pay attention to me. “And what’s this? A painting?” She sounded exactly like Peter sounds now.
“Yes, a story.” Brittany said to smile, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Smiling would give the wrong impression. I need to be professional. I sit up straight and smooth down my sweater. “It’s been an open secret for a long time that stringers—you know, the men and women who listen to police scanners and chase down stories for news footage—”
His smile is small and somewhat condescending. “I know what stringers are, Willa.”
