GABRIEL’S BABY: Iron Kings MC

by Evelyn Glass

  Turning away, I head toward my bedroom. “As soon as I save enough money,” I say, “I’m getting my own place. I can’t live here anymore, not when you won’t even admit what you did was wrong.”

  “It was wrong,” he whispers.

  I pause at my door, half-turn back to him. “What did you say?”

  “It was wrong,” he repeats.

  I turn all the way. Tears are sliding down his cheeks, I see, his jowly, fleshy cheeks. My heart breaks a little, even more than it’s already broken from Chance’s long absence. “Of course it was wrong,” he goes on. “All of it’s wrong. The whole damned thing is wrong. I’m—I was a fuckin’ animal selling you to that man, if you want the truth. And I was a fuckin’ asshole for getting into the debt to begin with. And I was a fuckin’ asshole for getting into a situation where men like Julian and Giovanni have power over me. But it’s too late now…” His eyes begin to close and I realize he’s drunk, just drunk, and he may not remember this admission in the morning. “It’s too late…”

  His chin rests on his chest and he begins to snore.

  I go into my bedroom—paintings from when I was a kid and teenager on one wall, a trophy from a Spelling Bee resting on a cabinet, the bookshelf with old American literature and Harry Potter books resting on it, dusty now from long disuse—and walk to my easel. Sitting on the stool, I feel my ass hurting more than usual. I’ve been pregnant three months and I’ve managed to hide it from Dad and Mom. Mom is easy, since we ever only speak on the phone, but with Dad I’ve had to make sure to wear baggy clothes, even going to the store to buy a load of loose T-shirts with the excuse that I need them for painting. But just how long can I go on like this, pretending the baby doesn’t exist? Just how long can I keep up the charade? Pretty soon my bump is going to grow bigger and bigger until it is so big there will be nothing I can do to hide it. Pretty soon Dad is going to find out. And then what? Hopefully I’ll have my own apartment by then. But that means getting a new job, which I’ll have to do quickly if I don’t want the interviewer to see me as a baby bomb waiting to go off. That’s a depressing thought, but one I have to think about.

  I paint for around an hour. Lately, almost subconsciously, I’ve been painting Chance over and over, only it’s not Chance, not exactly. It’s more like how I see Chance when I close my eyes, depending on my mood. So one day I’ll paint a giant, dark-eyed, blue-furred wolf standing atop a knife-shaped mountain, howling into a moon so full that it blots out the stars. Another day I’ll paint a barbarian, knuckle-dusters made of bone gripped in his hands, growling at me, scarred chest bare. Another day I’ll paint a gentleman in a suit looking lovingly into my eyes. I ache for him as I paint, my pussy burning, my chest tight with longing. Going from almost two months of constant contact, touching, rubbing, writhing, explosive orgasms triggering repeatedly inside of me, to sitting here imagining what it would be like to be with him again is agony. When I’m done painting, I’ll often sit stone-still and imagine that Chance is behind me, that any moment now he’ll lean down and place his hands on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, “I love you,” or, “I’ll always be here for you.” And even if I know he would never say anything like that, it doesn’t change how warm it makes me feel.

  I love him, I love him, I love him.

  I try to tell myself otherwise. Lying awake at night, alone, lonely, wishing that he was beside me, I try and lie to myself, reasoning that I’m only attached to him because he kept me so close to him, or because he saved me from those wicked men, or because he was so sexy, so wild. But I know that, though all of that is a part of it, it’s more than that, too. It’s much more than that. I’ve never believed in souls, but now I find myself thinking if maybe there’s something in it after all, if Chance and I have a connection that goes beyond reason. Then I laugh at myself, because that sounds like mumbo jumbo. Really, it just comes down to one simple fact: when I awake alone at night, I would give anything for him to be beside me.

  I’m going over all this, paintbrush hovering near the paper, when my cell starts to ring. It’s the new Taylor Swift song I assigned to Mom, so I know who it is before I answer. Which is good, otherwise her chirpy voice might surprise me as it squeaks through the speakers.

  “Hey, honey!” Mom is strange, the only woman I’ve met who can sound chirpy and worried at the same time. When she’s concerned or worried—like she sounds now—I often think of a chipmunk returning from a run to find that all her nuts have been stolen. “Just thought I’d check in on you.”

  “You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” I say.

  “I’m worried!”

  I go to the bed and lie down, having to maneuver more than before to make up for my belly. Three months, and already I have to account for it. How the hell am I going to move at eight months? Staring up at the ceiling, which is still patchy with colors from where I tried to do my own version of the Sistine Chapel as a kid, I wait for Mom to come out with it.

  “So, how’s your father doing?”

  She’s been calling more and more this past month, always with that same question, as though I’m not her daughter but a spy employed for the sole reason of checking up on Dad.

  “Mom,” I say. “I know you still care about him, but—”

  “Now hang on a second, missy!” she breaks in. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “Mom.” I sigh. “What’s gotten into you lately? First, you were calling to check in on me after Chance brought me back—no, I won’t call it a kidnapping—and now you’re calling at least three times a day to—to what? I know. To keep tabs on Dad.”

  She lets out her chipmunk sigh. I have a clear image in my head of a chipmunk with puffed-up cheeks letting them deflate. “I recently found our old photo album. You know I’m working as a teacher’s aide now, right? Well, I was looking through the photos because the kids wanted to a see a picture of you, and then I came across the one of me and Michael before you were born, when he had that dreadful haircut, and when he was happy, and hopeful, and not deep in the Family life. I remember him telling me that we’d open a little tearoom somewhere in Maine or Texas or—you know, somewhere that isn’t New York.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Dad, opening a tearoom?”

  “I know. It’s silly. But I was looking over the pictures of us, so young and happy, and then over the pictures of the three of us, a perfect family. I think we could’ve been a perfect family. But then with his drinking and his gambling and—and, oh, Rebecca, I just wish I didn’t let him push me away! I know it makes no sense. Logically, logically, yes, it makes no sense. I understand that. I’m an educated woman, I’ve been to college, I was proposed to by a doctor once upon a time, and yet I felt drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Do you know, since your father, I’ve only even been with one other man and even then I’d had too much wine—”

  “Woah! That’s enough information, Mom!”

  “I’m sorry. I know. It’s just…Do you think I should call your dad? I have his number, for emergencies, but maybe I could call him and we could talk and see where it goes?”

  “I’m not going to play matchmaker for the two of you,” I say. “It makes me cringe so hard I might be sick.”

  “Oh, Rebecca, that isn’t very nice, is it?” I roll my eyes, and she snaps, “I heard that. You just rolled your eyes.”

  We giggle together for a few moments, and then I start thinking about me and Chance, which I’m always doing even if it’s in the background. Chance is never far from my mind. I start thinking about Chance and how I’ve let him push me away, how, since he left me alone at Nate’s, I’ve made no effort to find him. He thought he wasn’t good enough for me and by retreating to my regular life, with my regular problems, I’ve agreed with him. Just like Mom did all those years ago, I’ve let him drift away from me. Could I become Mom? Could a decade go by with me raising our child alone with me dreaming of Chance every single day, with me wishing I had done everything differently?

 
“If you want to call Dad,” I say, “I think you should call him. I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Oh, I knew it was!” Mom screeches, making me hold the phone a couple of inches away from my ear. “I will, I definitely will. I think it will be awkward, but, but…Well, people are still the same, deep, deep down, aren’t they? Good people are good people and bad people are bad people. And your father has always been a good person, where it matters.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Sure, Mom.”

  We say our goodbyes and I return to the easel, to Chance, this time covered in blood brandishing his gun, shooting down the men who tried to rape me.

  Touching the still-wet paint, I whisper, “I want to be with you, baby. I want to be with you again.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chance

  I ought’a leave New York. I ought’a take what cash I’ve got stowed away and get the fuck outta here. That was the plan when I left Becky at Nate’s. I crept out of bed and I told Nate that he’d better make sure she gets home alright, that he better make sure she don’t get any stupid ideas like goin’ to Giovanni or anythin’ like that. But I just couldn’t leave the city. I tried to, stole a car and even got as far as I-87, but then I pulled up on the side of the highway and got outta the car and fell to my damned knees in the snow and tried to get a hold of myself. Sittin’ here today in my shithole apartment in this shithole buildin’ in Hell’s Kitchen, just down the way from Nate’s place, I still don’t know what happened to me. At the start of winter I was colder’n snow and nothin’ could get to me. Near the end of it I was kneelin’ in snow wishin’ with everything I had that all I had to do in this life was be with Becky, hold her and all that shit.

  I came to this apartment so that Nate could warn me if anyone was tryin’ to sneak up on me. He’s set up hidden cameras all around the place, and I keep three cells on me at all times, so that whatever happens he’ll be able to contact me. At first, I spent the time watchin’ the TV news, gettin’ updates about the kidnapping. What was weird about it was that there weren’t any interviews with Becky, just shots of her walkin’ in and outta the police station. I reckon that’s ’cause her loyalty got the better of her and she didn’t wanna say I took her by force. Part of me was happy about that, but part of me was pissed, too. It means she ain’t distanced from me like she should be. But then all of it dies down, the police get their bullshit headline, life goes on. I get Nate to do some of his hackin’ shit on the Family and he tells me that Giovanni is startin’ to talk about me less and less, which is a good sign. He knows how good I am. Maybe he’s decided that I’ve run away and considers that good enough.

  So why am I still here?

  The apartment ain’t really an apartment, more of a basement full of dust without workin’ heatin’ and a refrigerator that only works half the time. The only thing that doesn’t mess me around are the free weights. I work out like crazy, mornin’ and night, enjoying the way my muscles burn. Despite livin’ on a diet of meat pies, microwave meals, and the occasional piece of fruit or chocolate bar, I gain eight pounds of pure muscle. I get Nate to arrange for a punching bag to be installed while I make myself scarce, and work on it every night, sweatin’ into the dust. And every day, I tell myself, is the day I’m gonna leave. Every day is the day I’m gonna decide that I’m done here and the risk ain’t worth it, even with Nate lookin’ out for me.

  But I can’t get her outta my head. I just can’t. I work out, and she’s there, her dark eyes watchin’ me, her lithe body ready for me, her smile curled for me. I punch the bag and she’s just beyond it, arms folded, pouting sexily. I sleep and she’s next to me, body curved into mine like it was carved for the purpose. Sometimes I even wake up with my hand on my prick thinkin’ it’s her cute mouth, and even when I jerk over her, it ain’t good enough. I need her hand, her mouth, her cunt. Not this imagination shit.

  I tell myself she’s better off without me, which is true. She’ll have the baby and raise it and live a good life and become an artist and go on to meet some other artist type, a fuckin’ writer or somethin’, someone who can talk to her all fancy-like about fancy things at cocktail parties in a suit jacket. Not a blood-bathed man, not a killer, not someone who’s only ever painted in carmine.

  I know all of this is true. I know that Becky’s life will blossom without me. And with me, it’ll only turn dead and corrupt like my fuckin’ heart. And yet as I stow myself away in this place, I can’t help but obsess about her. She’s the only person I’ve met in my entire goddamn life who showed me any kind of affection, the only person I ever let myself be comfortable around, even if it was only a little bit. That don’t mean that I’m about to crash into her life and ruin it when I’ve already done the right thing by gettin’ out, but it does mean that I wanna say goodbye, even if it is a weak, warped, pointless goodbye. And then I’ll leave New York, and let myself fade into nothin’ but a vague memory in her head.

  I call Nate.

  “Who owns the motel where Becky and me stayed? Is it still the mob?”

  “Let me check. I’ll call you back.”

  After five minutes of me just starin’ at my cell, it rings. When I answer it, Nate tells me: “After the police raid, the mob abandoned it. It’s not owned by anyone at the moment. It’s abandoned. It’s going up for auction in the summer, once the red tape has been snipped through.”

  “Alright.”

  I hang up, get dressed in a hoodie and jeans, pull the hood up, and leave the basement. I’ve got my guns tucked in my holsters under my hoodie, but since it’s the middle of a spring day and the sun is shinin’ and it’s Hell’s Kitchen so there are people fuckin’ everywhere, I don’t wear ’em on the outside, even if that means they’ll be harder to get at. I catch the bus to Brooklyn. On the way, I stare out the window, spottin’ a couple’a places which hold memories for me, like a tree I once pissed against after gettin’ drunk for the first and last time in my life, the spot near a Chinese takeout where I used to go after a job just to calm down, back when I needed calmin’ down. I watch the city, watch the memories, and then catch another bus closer to the motel.

  When I get to The Resin, I’m met with an empty, ghost-town place, the gate locked. I hop over the gate and walk past the emptied pool, condoms and literal shit stuck to the bottom, toward mine and Becky’s room. This is gonna be a poor goodbye, I reckon, a pathetic goodbye. But if I find Becky and try’n say goodbye to her face, I’ll end up not bein’ able to say it at all. I’ll try’n stay with her instead, and all that’ll do is make her life worse, her baby’s life worse. So I’ll go into the first room we ever fucked in, the room with the ruined bed, the room where I drilled into this scared shiverin’ thing without knowin’ she was a virgin and without knowin’ how much she’d change me.

  The door is unlocked, swingin’ on its hinges. Looters’ve been in by the looks of it. The TV is gone, the ruined bed overturned, the shower ripped from its setting. I walk around the room, which seems damn small to spend a month and a half in now I look at it, and try’n feel somethin’ of Becky, try’n imagine that she’s here and if I say goodbye now, that’s good enough. But I feel nothin’, nothin’ but the urge to be with her properly, which I know would be a damned mistake.

  “Becky,” I say, feelin’ like a fool. “Becky, I’m sorry I can’t be with you, alright? But it’s better this way. I’ve never been good enough for you and I never will be.”

  I stare down at the bed, sighing, knowin’ what I said ain’t a match for how I feel about her, but knowin’ I ain’t gonna come up with anythin’ better, neither. So I turn around and make for the door.

  That’s when he walks in, two goons at his shoulders, wearin’ a big fuck-off three-piece suit and smokin’ a cigar.

  “Chance,” Giovanni says, suckin’ on his cigar. “I never took you for a sentimental one, but I’m glad I spent the men. I’m glad we pretended to be done with you, too. That hacker really is a pain in the ass, ain’t he?”

  The two goon
s are holdin’ shotguns, aimed right at my face.

  I ain’t got any choice but to do what Giovanni says.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Becky

  After staring at the painting for some time, my fingertips covered in dried paint, I hear Dad stir from the next room. His cell is playing some eighties rock ringtone, a song I don’t recognize, and after about half a minute of drunken groaning and cursing, he answers it. He never answers his cell in the apartment. He always goes into the hallway, or to his bedroom and onto the mini-balcony, where he’ll stand with a cigarette in one hand and the phone in the other, out of my earshot. But now, he just slumps back down on the chair and begins talking.

  Morbid curiosity sends me across the room to the door, where I crouch down and place my ear against the wood, listening carefully.

  “The Boss wants me?” he’s saying, voice throaty with alcohol and tobacco. “They have him there, now, and the Boss wants me…I don’t get it. Why me? Maybe you could tell him to handle it himself or—No, no, you don’t need to tell him I said that. No! I said you don’t need to fuckin’ tell him! Yeah, I’ll be there! I’ll be at the compound! I just said that, didn’t I!”