Filthy Daddy (Satan's Saints MC #2)

by Bella Love-Wins

  “I have my break now, and you looked like you might be bored. Want some company? Maybe we could meet up in the back?”

  Her fingers brush the front of my cut, gliding down my chest and pulling at the top of my jeans. This forwardness isn’t a first, but I’m reminded yet again that I don’t feel the slightest interest in taking up a random sexy stranger on an offer for a quick fuck. Before Molly, I would already be out the door with this ginger’s skinny ass, shoving those bikini bottoms to the side for a one and done. Tonight, I’m not interested.

  Shit.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’m actually working.”

  “Rain check?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” I say to get her to stop distracting me.

  “Okay!” she chirps, brightening up that hope is still alive. “You come around here often?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t normally do this, but I had fun that night. We should hook up again.”

  “Sure,” I say, but I only want Molly. Which tells me that something is fucking wrong with me. That last bone I throw the redhead’s way must do the trick. She waves her hand in my line of sight and eventually goes away with a smile on her face.

  I notice Molly organizing her bag while she speaks with the organizer. The idiot motions her toward the ring and shoves a pair of gloves into her arms. Uh, no. Molly can’t be thinking she’ll fight. Not tonight, or anytime soon.

  I push past people in the crowd, step over the roped off area beside the steps, and put a hand on her shoulder. “What the hell’s going on, Moll?”

  The organizer has the nerve to step up to me. “Do we have a problem over here?”

  Molly shakes her head and waves off the little guy. “No. We don’t have a problem at all. Just give me a second.” She turns to face me and smiles up at me. “I’m going into that ring. You’re not going to stop me,” she announces.

  “You’re not getting in that ring. Forget about it.”

  “I already agreed to the fight.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Who’s gonna stop me? You?”

  “If I have to, yes,” I tell her.

  She seems to soften at the firmness in my tone and stern look on my face. “I just need to blow off a little steam. Go on back to keeping an eye on me. I’ll be fine in there.”

  “Give the guy those gloves back.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Do we need to have another chat about Jett, or do you want to know what it’ll feel like to have me throw you over my shoulder to get you the hell out of that ring?”

  “We don’t need to talk about anything. I’m filling in for a no-show.” She tries to pry herself away from me, but I rest both hands on her shoulders. I’m not letting her move another inch. “Come on, this fight’s a no-brainer. Do you know how much money is on the line? Plus, I can take her. You’ve seen all the girls who’ve gone up so far. It’ll be over in the first round.”

  “No. Fucking. Way. Not on my watch. You’re not getting in that ring to get your ass kicked, or to advertise to Jett that you’re here, if he’s around.”

  “I won’t lose.”

  “I get that you believe you can take on anyone who steps into the ring with you. That’s not the fucking point. I need to do my job.”

  “You can do your job while I fight.”

  “It’s not up for discussion. You’re not getting in that ring. Keep it up, and I’ll seriously throw you over my shoulder caveman style, if that’s what it takes to get you out of this hellhole. If you’re not doing the nursing gig, you don’t need to be here.”

  “We didn’t hire you to stop me from earning a living,” she shrieks. “Do your job.”

  She wrenches out of my grip, pushes me backward, and runs up the steps into the fucking ring. I try to follow her, but meatheads appear with the organizer. While I’m busy with them, I see Molly strip off her clothes to reveal the same tiny matching short-shorts with a bikini top that the other fighters have been wearing all night.

  She’s been planning this all along.

  She leans over the ropes and reaches her hand out to mine. “So, I fight here sometimes. I probably should’ve mentioned that.”

  I look behind her at the shadow of a figure she’ll fight. The crowd erupts, cheering their asses off when her opponent steps into the middle of the ring. The woman’s a fucking giant. She’s probably taller than me and twice my width.

  “Are you fucking nuts? You’re fighting her? She’ll annihilate you in there.”

  “I’m doing this.”

  “Step out before you get yourself killed. Right now!

  “I beat you, Tate. I can take on this bitch,” she says.

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “Do me a favor and go back to the first aid room for my bag, will you?” she asks as the girl with the clipboard steps into the ring and pops a mouth guard over her teeth.

  This fight can only end one way.

  Bad. Very bad for Molly.

  Chapter 11

  Molly

  I stretch my arms to loosen up and catch a glimpse of my opponent out of the corner of my eye. She’s focused on some fancy footwork, probably to stay warmed up.

  She’s big and she’s skilled, but I can take her.

  I’ve seen her fight a few times.

  Her moves are predictable.

  Mentally going through my sparring techniques, I prepare myself.

  Tate crosses my mind. It’s kind of cute that he’s so protective, but my anxiety about Jett doesn’t mean that I’m weak. Stepping into the ring to face a fighter is in a different ballpark from watching over my back in case some crazy ex who’s fucked up in the head shows up and tries to slice me up into little pieces.

  I wish I could’ve gotten that across to Tate, but he’s in a state of panic. I take a second to look for him. He’s not back yet.

  He should know I’m determined. Stubborn. Tenacious. At the same time, he’s bold enough to follow through on his promise to eventually step into the ring and cart me off.

  But I need this. A win within this roped off square means more to me than the prize money. It’d be a win for my busted-up psyche, victory over my fear, triumph over the months of psychological intimidation that Jett put me through.

  I picture Tate’s face from a few minutes ago. He’s terrified for me, but I know this girl. I understand her moves inside and out. I can do this. I have a shot, and there’s a heck of a lot of money on the line. Money that I can say I earned, as opposed to what my mother inherited from her family and what she was given after my father died.

  I’m doing this.

  Pain isn’t a factor. I’ve never been scared of physical pain. If anything, it’s a damn good motivator for this fight. This chick is mine. That’s the pep talk I give to myself after the girl with the clipboard steps into the ring and puts a mouth guard over my teeth.

  The bell rings twice.

  I put my hands up to guard my face. Time to kick some ass. The world narrows to nothing and everything. My opponent does her usual. Within seconds, she’s thrown three jabs toward my face, kidneys, and stomach.

  Dip, duck, dodge.

  I stay a step ahead, playing good defense as my heart beats hard and high in my throat. My opponent is known for coming on strong at the beginning and waning in the later rounds. It’s just a matter of wearing the woman down and conserving energy.

  That’s what I think, but apparently not tonight.

  I’m sure I pivoted to the left enough to avoid her next blow, but as I throw out a right hand and deliver a good hit to her cheek, her long arm catches me beside my mouth. I lift up my hand up to cover my face and watch as she stumbles back. The steady roar of the crowd makes my head pound, and my fists shake inside my gloves. My vision warps and wobbles as I swallow down a mouthful of blood from the shot to my face.

  I decide it’s time to take a risk. I can’t let her gain the upper hand so fast. Not with strength and speed obviously in he
r corner. I duck behind her, pivot, and try to play follow the leader to get the girl back on the ropes. She plays along. But I’m not strong enough. Even when I succeed at getting in a hit, the impact of my blow does more damage to me than it does to her. Every punch rocks all the way past my wrist and up my arm. And when she gets me, I’m lucky to stay on my feet. She catches me in the ribs. This one knocks the wind out of me and demolishes my balance.

  At this rate, making it to the end of round one will be enough for me to feel like a win.

  My opponent smiles as I stumble. Her bright show of teeth and all the confidence in her eyes cause my knees to go weak at first, but I start to hate that smug look on her face. I strike with a blind blow and catch her jaw. It isn’t a solid hit, but she staggers backward, giving me a few seconds of breathing room. I’m going on adrenaline alone.

  So close. So damn close.

  I’m praying for the end of round one buzzer to go off when she strikes me out of nowhere. My world tilts sideways as sharp, excruciating pain licks up my face. Shit, that’s going to leave a bad bruise tomorrow. I can barely think past the fire spreading across my whole head. All the air goes out of my lungs in a whoosh that hurts as much as the fist flinging past my head. Another blow catches me in the stomach and knocks me back a few steps. Panic fills me when I feel the ropes hit my back. If she corners me here, I’m done for. I might as well tap out and avoid the hospital stay.

  But I don’t give up.

  It’s not an option.

  I need to get it together and fast.

  Except I’m too late.

  The other woman doles out a sharp uppercut that sends me sprawling into the ropes, which bounce me back into her awaiting fist. It feels like my whole jaw is broken. Tears burn hot behind my shut eyelids. I struggle to stand, but my knees buckle under me. My vision swims. Nausea rips through my torso.

  I hear the bell go off. Once. Twice. I muscle my way up to straighten my legs, shakily drawing my hands back up to my face.

  “I’m…not…done,” I say, but no sound comes out from my mouth.

  I hear a deafening shout from my right. The voice doesn’t belong to the referee or my opponent.

  “Touch her again and I’ll rip out your throat.”

  Tate.

  He grabs me by the waist and carries me fighting and screaming from the ring.

  “Jesus, Tate. I got this! Get out of the ring!”

  I idly wonder what the referee will say to announce that I’m disqualified. All that prize money, gone. I mean, I was losing already, but Tate’s move is a big, fat dent on my record, a stain on my reputation.

  “We’re leaving right now.” Tate carries me as we pass through the opening in the crowd. He doesn’t let me down until we’re in front of the first aid room. Rage pools in my belly and all I can think of is to push him into the bank of lockers against the wall and wail on him until I have no energy left.

  “Who the hell do you think you are!” I scream. “You had no right to do that!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, and takes a seat on the nearby bench meant for injured fighters.

  My jaw clenches. “It’s none of your business if I choose to get in that ring.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you about Jett, but hiring you to protect me from him isn’t the same thing as deciding not to fight.”

  “Moll…” His face drains of all color. “I’m not asking you about that fucker. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “About what? That I fight at all? That I get hurt sometimes? Of course, I get banged up a bit. That was a serious fight for serious money.”

  “No. Not that…I saw something just now. The bag you asked me to get for you…it tipped over and this fell out.”

  He pulls something out of his back pocket and thrusts it into my hand.

  Oh. This.

  Fuck.

  “You’re…Jesus, I saw the fucking pregnancy test, Molly. You’re pregnant, and you never told me?” He chokes out the words as if they physically hurt as they pass his lips.

  I stare at him in disbelief. There’s no way he can know that. Even I don’t know that. I bought a test a couple of weeks back as a spur of the moment thing, but only because I felt ill. I peed on the stick but got called in to take care of a fighter, and I honestly forgot all about it. The thing must’ve fallen to the bottom of my bag. And I felt better the next day and didn’t give it a second thought.

  I take a closer look at the indicator section.

  Two pink lines.

  It’s positive?

  Jesus.

  My mind is numb enough as it is, dealing with the possible concussion I just got in the ring. I’m just learning that I. May. Be. Fucking. Pregnant? And he wants me to explain the results? He saw the results before I did, for Christ’s sake. But hell, I don’t want to confess that. It doesn’t sound believable. Not even to me.

  “Um, no. This has to be a mistake. A false positive,” I sputter, licking my lips and wincing as I taste blood.

  “The test says your pregnant.”

  “It has to be contaminated. Look, I’ll prove it. We can buy another test on the way to the clubhouse. And once you see for yourself, you’d better have a proper apology for taking me out of that fight!”

  I’m mad all over again.

  “Forget the damn fight. You had enough doubt in your mind to take the fucking test. And now you’re questioning the results?”

  “This is bullshit. I’m on the pill… I can’t be knocked up. I’ll buy another test.”

  “Fine. You’ll have to believe it then.”

  “Fine, but as soon as this is over with and you see I’m not pregnant, I want you to admit you’re out of your fucking mind. I would know if I was carrying a kid around. I would know!”

  I would…right?

  Chapter 12

  Tate

  “I want to do this now, but I expect you to wait outside. I don’t pee on command. And definitely not with an audience.”

  I frown and roll my eyes, stepping back when I realize I’ve followed her into the restroom stall of the grungy gas station bathroom. Molly still doesn’t believe the test results in her bag. I’m not an expert on women, but who in hell takes a pregnancy test and forgets about checking the results for two weeks? That’s her explanation? And when it turns up positive, who the hell believes it’s wrong and drops the issue? Molly has never lied to me. She didn’t come out and tell me about Jett, but I have to set aside her recent pattern of keeping secrets and trust her. It the only reason I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt right now.

  This gas station is the first store on the way home. She demanded that we stop here to buy a test. Inside, she bought two, and now, she’s ready to pee on a stick so she can prove me wrong. Dammit. Part of me wants to be wrong too. She’s on the pill, but we’ve fucked bareback for months. Something tells me that I knocked her up. I just know it in my hard-as-nails, sinful, kinky soul. Or maybe that’s just the caveman in me, looking to feel virile for spawning my seed in her.

  If she is, the kid is definitely mine.

  I know it for a fact, and although she’ll never admit it, Molly has only been sleeping with me all this time. She believes I’ve been whoring myself out enough for the two of us.

  Of course, she’d think that.

  That’s been my line.

  My lie.

  My ego.

  I’m the asshole who preferred to downplay how important she is to me. I’m the prick who waited this long to tell her she’s mine. I’m the fucker who wants to run like hell and leave her in that bathroom stall.

  The same way everyone who mattered to me left. Or died.

  I won’t do something so heinous to her, or to my unborn child. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the urge to run is strong.

  My thoughts return to Molly. She’s dead silent in the stall.

  Unbelievable.

  Un-fucking-believ
able.

  How long would it have been before she figured out she was carrying a kid?

  My kid.

  If I didn’t spot the discarded test, would she be busting at the seams with a baby bump the size of a basketball before she admits it?

  This is it for sure. Life as I know it is done. Everything will change as soon as this baby comes. I’ll have to step up and be a father. Fuck…a father? Daddy? Papa? Dad? Christ, no child should ever have me as a parent. The kid can easily be fucked up with mental problems out the ass just from my genes, never mind from being around me.

  Will. Not can. The kid will…

  I kick the trashcan in the corner outside the bathroom stall. Crouching to the floor with my head in my hands, I watch as pieces of garbage spill all over the ground as the round can rolls around me.

  Molly makes a noise on the other side of the stall door. “I can’t do this… I can’t look.”

  She can’t look? How will she handle carrying a baby and raising one if she won’t open her eyes? Is this how it went down with the first test too? I hang my head between my knees, slowly letting my ass hit the disgusting floor. My life is over. No more fun, no more living it up. I’ll be switching my little black book to keeping a little black onesie and a spare diaper in case of accidents. My lack of sleep now won’t be due to too much partying. Eight or however many months from now, it’ll be on account of too much pooping and teething and night feedings.

  It’s too late to have an out, but I want one.

  As I think it, I wonder if this is how my biological father felt when he found out about me. I have no idea who he is. No fucking clue. He could be the fucking owner of this gas station for all I know. Or that douchebag organizer at the fight club. Or Dean fucking Roman, President of the Mongols MC, just like Axe likes to suggest.

  A kid deserves to at least know the people behind the last name he’s given.

  Behind me, Molly steps out of the stall and makes a painful groaning noise, somewhere between a strangled sob and a gasp. I get to my feet. My fingers clench into fists at my sides.