Filthy Daddy (Satan's Saints MC #2)

by Bella Love-Wins

  “Take your time. Don’t rush into any decisions. Weigh all your options. I’m off to brunch with the girls. You’ll be okay here without me, right?”

  “Yes, I can handle a couple hours by myself without you watching me like a hawk.”

  “I know. Call me if you need anything.” She presses a light kiss on my forehead and snatches her purse off the counter.

  “I will.” I hold up my smartphone. “You’re on speed dial.”

  Seeming satisfied, she flashes me a sympathetic smile and her usual regal wave and leaves. Unfortunately, she isn’t the only woman I have to deal with today. Not if I want answers. If I’m going to have Tate’s baby, I need to start preparing for the fact that the Satan’s Saints MC will be in my life. That means I have to give Cindy a callback.

  I imagine it going over really badly. Still, this is something I need to do for the baby. Sabrina and Jenny are the only two women I have a fair enough relationship with at the clubhouse. They’re both younger though, and neither of them has faced motherhood yet.

  Mustering up the courage, I find Cindy’s number on my phone and hit the call button. I’m about to hang up on the third ring when there’s a cough on the other end of the line.

  “Yeah? Who’s this?”

  “Hi. Cindy?”

  “Yeah. Who the hell wants to know? Hurry up, I don’t have all day, sweetheart.”

  “It’s Molly.”

  “Oh. The booty call, womb-still-fucking-fertile, man-trapping bitch. Why the hell are you calling my phone, hussy?”

  Hmmm. I start to think maybe I’d have been better off asking Silas or Cole. Hell, I’m ready to ask Tate.

  “You sent me a text, Cindy. But it’s okay. Never mind. Take care.”

  “You can’t get off this easily, missy. I sent you a text but don’t expect me to be all sweet on you. When can you meet me?”

  Maternal much?

  Nurturing much?

  Not Cindy. Maybe when Silas was two, but definitely not now.

  “I’m free whenever.” I take a breath and spit it out. “I also want to ask a few questions about what the club will expect of me if and when I have this baby. So, after you let me in on why you want me to meet with you, can we put aside our differences for an hour and help each other out, woman to woman?”

  “I’m obligated to help you out whether I like it or not. Which I don’t like by the way, but you already know that. If you’re carrying Tate’s child, that makes you family. I prefer to come to you, though. Give me the directions. I’ll head out in ten minutes. Does that work?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great,” I choke out. I give her directions to a diner near me and end the call. Knowing Cindy, this meeting isn’t for idle chit-chat.

  An hour later, I discover that I’m right on the money about Cindy’s intentions. I walk into the diner we agreed on, and approach the table where she waits for me. The angry looking woman has a cup of coffee, a piece of pie, and a crumpled paper bag that makes my stomach do a nervous flip-flop. Is that a gun? Did she really bring a concealed weapon to a diner?

  “Any day now,” Cindy whines.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Are you going to sit down or do you expect me to bow and acknowledge your presence first?” She rolls her eyes and shoves the bag in my direction. “Actually, before you get comfortable, take this into the bathroom and make me a liar, would you? I need to know this is the real deal. Here.”

  I gingerly open the bag, reaching inside with shaking fingers even after I see what’s in there.

  Yes. One pregnancy test.

  “Is this why you texted me?”

  She nods.

  This bitch knows how to get on my last nerve. Why didn’t the woman just ask Tate? He’d tell her that he’s seen the results of three of these damn tests already. Maybe she’s just putting me through this to be difficult. In the spirit of keeping everything low key, I paste a fake smile on my face.

  “Not a problem. It’s only the fourth pregnancy test I’m taking. Trust me, I’m all trained up. It’d be my pleasure,” I grit my teeth. “Good thing I drank a large bottle of water on the way here.”

  “Well, would you look at that. It’s almost like you knew!” Cindy throws up her hands with an equally fake laugh. “Go do your business. I’ll be waiting right here.”

  “What? You’re not worried I’ll fake it with some pregnant lady pee I snagged from some stranger? Are you sure you don’t want to follow me inside and watch?”

  “Nah, you’re not that deranged.” Cindy leans back in the booth and waves her hand in dismissal. “Go on, get your bony ass going. Chop, chop!”

  I roll my eyes but navigate my way toward the restrooms. I suppose in the grand scheme of things it’s a small price to pay for answers. After a good ten minutes of stage fright, I’m able to get down to business. I wait the token three minutes, shove the stick back in the brown paper bag and wash my hands, heading back out to deliver the news.

  “The goods are in there. See for yourself.” I slide the bag across the table and snatch up a fork, jabbing a big piece of pie off of her plate. “That was a lot of work. I got hungry.”

  She squeezes her lips together, not saying a word. She slides the plate across the tabletop until it’s in front of me. The skeptical woman digs through the bag. It’s almost worth the hassle of taking the test to watch the woman’s facial expression go from cocky to pure confusion. Her gaze flicks from me to the pregnancy test and back again. I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes move so fast.

  “So…we good now?”

  I take another huge chunk of the pie, relishing the soothing taste of putting Cindy in her place. She doesn’t answer. I hold my arm out, palm facing up, with a forkful of pie held out to her. “Here, have a bite before I finish it all. And by the way, do I get an apology for the way you tried to choke the life out of me?”

  Her head snaps up from looking at my hand. She blinks. All the color drains out of her face. Yes, I figure the older woman has forgotten all about our almost-catfight at the clubhouse which could have cost me the baby if the men didn’t pull the older woman off me.

  “Wait.” She snatches my hand and holds on like a vulture while staring at my wrist with wide, shocked eyes. “Jesus. I didn’t know that was you. I didn’t click…”

  “Are you kidding me right now? You didn’t know it was my neck you decided to clamp your hands onto?” I thought I could be polite and diplomatic with her. Clearly that’s not possible. Her grip on my arm isn’t helping.

  “I said wait. There’s something else.”

  “What? Something else like what?”

  “Did you forget to clean the wax out of your ears this morning. I just said wait, dammit. I’m trying to remember something.”

  Cindy lets go of my hand and pulls out her phone. “I need to make a quick call,” she says and scrolls through her phone screen.

  “Do you need some privacy?”

  “No. Hang on. It’s ringing.” She has her eye on my arm the entire time, until someone answers. “Debbie? Hey, it’s Cindy. Got a minute?”

  I can only hear Cindy’s side of the conversation. But I’m curious. This call is about me, or more accurately, about my wrist.

  “Great,” she continues. “Do you remember that Mongols branding incident from say, twenty-odd years back? Yes, I know it was only two of them… What were their names? Did you hang on to the photos? Good. If you find them, snap a couple of shots with your phone and send it to me, will you? Thanks, Debbie. Take care.”

  I rub my temples to stop the pounding against the spot. Yes, she’s giving me a headache with all this suspense. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” I demand. “What do I have to do with Mongols, branding, and photographs from twenty years ago? Unless you and this Debbie character had jobs in marketing or advertising two decades ago, and are feeling like walking down memory lane with me to make nice.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “What is it, then?”

&
nbsp; “That thing on your wrist.”

  I look at my wrist and back at her. “My birthmark?” I reply. It’s a small, weird spot on my wrist. It’s faded and blends into my skin color. No one has ever noticed it before. “What about it?”

  “That’s not a birthmark.”

  “Of course, it is. It’s been there since before I can remember.”

  Cindy eyes the spot again. She’s being so strange about it that I cover it up with my other hand. “You need to talk to your parents, young lady.”

  “What?”

  “Q-Tips. That’s what I’m getting for your scrawny ass if we ever hold you a fucking baby shower. I said you need to talk to your parents.”

  “I heard that, Cindy. But why? What the hell does a stupid birthmark have to do with our conversation or this baby?”

  “I’m not talking about your baby. I’m talking about you.”

  “What about me? It’s just birthmark. It’s not like a skin tag that can turn cancerous or something. Nothing is wrong with me.”

  “Well you and I already know something’s wrong with you, but you’ve got some extra drama going on from your past.” She leans forward and whispers, “That’s not a birthmark.”

  “How would you know? What do you think it is?”

  “It’s not my place to share that.”

  “But you can scare the crap out of me with all this secrecy?”

  “Talk to your parents. If they don’t answer your questions, my friend Debbie knows all about it. She’ll tell you if they won’t.”

  “Do you realize how weird this all sounds?”

  “You need to talk to your parents.”

  “About what specifically?”

  “Are you deaf or hard headed? I just told you. Go talk to your family and find out what that thing is on your arm. Ask them about the Mongols. I’m done talking about it.” She groans when she sees my confused face hasn’t changed. I clearly don’t get it. “Does your mother have any connection to the Mongols?”

  “No.”

  ‘Then it’s your father.”

  “But he’s been dead for years.”

  “I can’t help you. Talk to your mother.”

  Cindy is making no sense. Neither of my parents was ever a part of a biker gang. “Okay. I’ll ask my mother. I just don’t get why this has anything to do with my baby.”

  “Jeez, do I look like a walking ultrasound machine? I told you it doesn’t have anything to do with your child. But I’ll be damned if we get all cozied up with you if the Mongols have some kind of past claim on someone in your family. Talk to your mother. I’ll make sure the club helps you when the baby’s born.”

  For the sake of getting the hell out of there, I nod. “Thanks for meeting me, Cindy.”

  “No problem. And I’m sorry for getting in your face before.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Right.”

  “Cut the bullshit, honey. I shouldn’t have come at you. That’s a fact. I got a little territorial. It wasn’t my call to make, though at the time it seemed damned important to shut down what I thought was happening.”

  She seems sincere. That kind of honesty makes me a little uncomfortable. “I apologize.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you have any other questions? You said you did over the phone.”

  “I think I’m good,” I tell her. She’s freaked me out enough.

  “No. I don’t plan to have another chat with you anytime soon.” She points to my belly and meets my eyes. “You wanted to know how involved we’ll be in your child’s life. Is that it?

  “Sure,” I admit.

  “You’ll be fine. Just know that Tate’s not your child’s only family now.”

  “What does that mean? Is some stranger going to show up at my door thinking they have a right to see my baby?”

  “First of all, in our community, we don’t pull crap like that. Tate would be aware. He’d tell you beforehand. Your little bundle of joy is part of something bigger. You’ll just have to deal. That’s really all you’ve got in this life. You deal with babies the same way you deal with life…one thing at a time.” Cindy taps her fingernails against the table. “Do you love him?”

  Isn’t that the million-dollar question? But I don’t say a word. I won’t have this particular discussion with the woman Tate and I had a threesome with.

  “You need to ask yourself some questions and answer it honestly. Do you want to keep Tate in the baby’s life? If you do, then figure out what works best for you. He’ll respect whatever you decide, and the MC will be there with anything you need. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. It’s just better when you have friends.”

  Chapter 22

  Molly

  I unlock my phone the second I sit in my Jeep.

  I need to talk to Mom.

  Pulling up her number on speed dial, I hit the call button. The damn thing goes to voicemail. I blow up the woman’s phone, dialing over and over. She answers on the tenth call.

  There’s no hi, and I don’t wait for the woman to say hello either. “Come home now, Mom. We need to talk.”

  “Honey is everything okay?” she asks. She’s probably at the country club in North Las Vegas. The sound of her friends all babbling in the background already infuriates me.

  “I’m fine. But no, everything is not okay. How soon can you be here?”

  “Not until tonight. Can this wait?”

  I start the car. “I’m coming to you now. Don’t leave the country club. That’s where you are, right?”

  “Yes, but what in the world has gotten into you?”

  I’m tempted to blurt out the question, but if Cindy isn’t completely crazy, I want to look my mother in the eye to find out why she’s been keeping secrets from me for all these years. “See you in an hour, Mom. Oh, and get us a suite. This has to be a private talk.”

  “Molly, why are you—”

  I hang up and drive out of the diner’s parking lot, leaving a trail of desert dust in my wake until I turn onto the I-15 highway. My mind is racing, and my stomach is churning for the entire ride. One of my parents was involved with the Mongols MC? In deep enough for Cindy to have seen my birthmark before and remember it after all this time? And if it’s not a birthmark, what the hell is it? I have no memory of stepping foot in a clubhouse during my childhood or adolescent years, or even for most of my adulthood. I’d only been in two. While I was with Jett back in Louisiana, and here in town with Tate. I had to have been really young, or a baby. The fact that Cindy spotted my faded little birthmark that she says isn’t a birthmark, and remembered it, well, I still can’t wrap my mind around it at all.

  Just a little over an hour later I’m in North Las Vegas. I take the winding turns on the road flanked by the lush manicured golf green of the country club where my mother has a membership. Getting to the parking lot of the main building, I grab my purse and hop out of the Jeep. I hurry inside. Thank goodness, I dressed decently before I left the house, or they’d never let me in, family of a member or not. The dress code is strictly enforced. I don’t bother to text my mother and announce I’m here. I walk right into the dining hall. Even in my haste, I draw in a breath when I enter the hall. The place is breathtaking. It’s the one major project my late father was hired to design before he moved the family to Louisiana. Mom always used to say he was one of the most talented architects in the region. The main reason she comes down to the country club so often is to feel connected to him again.

  I’ve never seen any architecture anywhere else that’s so awe-inspiring. The room is vast, like walking into an English castle. It has a soaring cathedral ceiling made of some type of light-colored wood, probably maple or oak. Four gothic-like chandeliers light up the ceiling even more. There’s timeless wall paneling down the rounded sides. They straighten out and meet the all-glass walls on either side of the structure. At the far corner is a massive wood burning fireplace, large enough to dwarf Tate if he stood next to it. It looks like something out of a Viking movie, comp
lete with a hand-carved crest on the mantle. After I take in the space, I scan the room for Mom, who’s sitting at a table with four ladies her age, blabbering.

  “Good afternoon,” I say to the old biddies, remembering my manners and nodding to each one. “Mom, can we have a word?”

  She places her napkin beside her plate and grabs her purse. “Sure, dear.” She turns to her friends. “I’ll be back, ladies. Don’t wait for me if dessert arrives.”

  “Did you get us a private meeting room or suite to speak?”

  “Yes, honey. Follow me.” Mom is smart enough not to ask what this is about until she steps into the private day room on the main floor that’s available to members. She turns to me. “What’s going on, honey? Is it the baby?”

  I fold my arms and look at my mother in her conservative clothes and neat blonde bob haircut. I shake my head. “You and Dad lied to me for years.”

  “What?” Mom tries to come across as innocent. I see right through it. Her eyes always dart all over the place when she’s hiding something.

  “Stop it, Mom. You and Daddy lied. Now tell me which of you was involved with the Mongols MC so I can let you get back to your tea and crumpets.”

  Mom walks over to the nearest chair and sits at the edge. Her hands are shaking. “I’m sorry we never told you.”

  “You’re sorry? You’re sorry! I had to find this out from Silas’s mother when I could’ve heard it from you and Dad? You let me get to my twenties without knowing this kind of life-altering information! Wait a minute. Which one of you was it? Or is it? This is so confusing. I don’t even know what it’s about.” Mom says nothing. She just sits there looking down at her hands. “Mom, are you a part of the Mongols?”

  Finally, she shakes her head. “No, baby. It was your father. Not exactly, but it was him.”

  Now it’s me who needs a seat. My father lied to me all my life? The man who I adored and who loved me dearly? He took this kind of secret to his grave without telling me? I can’t even fathom the betrayal. And I can’t wait to get to the part about my birthmark that’s not a birthmark.

  “But…how?”