by Rie Warren
And that little marriage joke I’d said last night—couldn’t believe it was only last night since I’d had her in my bed. The marriage thing wasn’t all hahaha for me. But as it was, I had jack-shit to offer Honoré.
She’d told me a bit about her fuck-head ex. She definitely didn’t need a guy like me with a past like mine darkening her door.
Yeah, Angel had every right to take my patch and kick me the fuck out.
And if Honoré found out the truth, I reckoned that’d be the end of whatever this fledgling thing between us was.
Blood Legion might’ve heard tales about the Death Dealers, but as far as I knew they’d never tangled with the insane outlaw crew.
Sure, Blood Legion had run-ins with a cartel—so I’d heard.
They’d come up against terrorists—or so the story went.
We’d taken apart an entire Klan and saved Grace from a revolting motherfucker.
But Death Dealers were next level apocalyptic bad. Lock your women up, hide your babies away . . . move to another country evil shits.
I probably walked around all day Sunday with a hangdog look.
I was a cunt for thinking I could run from my past.
I was a dick-tool for putting Blood Legion and everyone involved with the crew in danger.
By Monday—when I hadn’t called or texted Honoré once since our night together—I began to feel like a different kind of douchebag.
That guy who got his rocks off then ghosted the woman.
Midday, I was begging off from Tit for Tat so I could track down Honoré. My misgivings didn’t matter anymore. The pull toward her was just too damn powerful to resist.
She probably thought I’d pursued her so hard just to get into her sexy-as-hell panties.
Couldn’t believe I’d let Ripper get all up inside my head like that.
One day without seeing Honoré, touching her, talking to her and I was jonesing bad. I’d figure out all the other shit at a later date.
Hopefully before Ripper resurfaced again.
When I located her, my steps faltered. She was with a quartet that time, at least I thought that was what it was called. Four folks on instruments. It was the first time I’d watched her with others, and I stuck to the back of the crowd gathered around.
She was gorgeous, that nimbus of blonde hair so pale—paler than a moon’s glow—and her eyes so blue—like glacial waters. She wore a buttoned-up suede vest with what appeared to be nothing underneath except bare skin and tits, and another of those soft flowy skirts that hit her mid thigh as she perched on a stool. She swayed as she sawed her bow across the cello propped between her legs, and now I knew the sounds she made not only when she played and when she sang, but when she came.
I’d caressed her entire body.
I’d kissed her breathless.
I’d been deep inside her, but I thought she’d probably struck even deeper into me.
Downright gorgeous, until she looked up, spotted me, and glared so fearsomely I bet she’d have liked nothing better than to give me the Bobbitt treatment.
Yep. The doghouse it was. Definitely glacial waters.
The group disbanded after splitting a nice wad of cash, and Honoré gave me more ice-cold treatment while packing up her huge instrument.
“Can I help?” I asked.
Glare glare glare.
Yeah, she definitely wanted to separate my body from my huge instrument, PA piercing and all.
“How’s about I apologize then?”
One of her fair eyebrows arched up.
I scooped her hand into mine, awed again when that hot spike of desire flowed straight through my marrow.
“So I fucked up,” I started.
“You fucked me,” she hissed.
Okay, not the time to gloat about that.
“Then a couple things happened. Stuff I had to take care of.” Squeezing her fingers, I drew her closer. “And I don’t deserve your forgiveness, not a single goddamn ounce of it. I’ve been wanting to see you and talk to you. Damn, I just wanted to hear your voice.”
She sniffed, pointing her nose up in the air. “Hmm. Are you as good at humping a cello case as you are at saying sorry?”
“Humping?”
“Carrying it. You are terrible.”
“Guilty as charged, but am I forgiven?”
Sudden vulnerability made her appear small and easily hurt—not the bold strong force of nature I was used to.
“I don’t like feeling this way, Saint.”
“If your heart’s beating as fast as mine, and your pulse is out of control like mine . . . I get it.” Smoothing a few tendrils of hair from her temples, I clasped her pretty face between my broad palms. “Didn’t mean to be a dick. ’Specially not to you, baby.”
“You were a dick.” She zipped up the soft-sided cello case. “But you have an amazing dick. So I forgive you.”
I snorted, running an arm through the case’s straps. “Is that all I am to you?”
“We’ll see.” She twined her fingers through mine.
We hadn’t made it half a block before my phone rang. I fished the thing out of my pocket and found an SOS text on the screen.
Halting in my steps, I stared at the message.
“Something up?” Honoré asked.
“Holy. Shit.”
Something was definitely up. And for once, the timing was perfect.
Chapter Twelve
HONORÉ
SAINT SCARED ME FOR a second before jumping up with a whoop-holler. He pocketed the phone then began towing me along like I was one of the pull toys Caleb used to have as a toddler.
“What’s going on?”
“Grace. She’s having the baby!” He grinned down at me. “Good old MC grapevine. She’s at the hospital.”
“That’s great. But where are we going in such a hurry?”
“To the hospital. It’s the first Blood Legion baby!” His excitement as contagious as much as it was surprising, he kept hauling me after him with my cello bouncing on his shoulder.
He only halted long enough to ask, “Where’s your car? Is it close?”
I pointed down the block, and he surged into action again.
If Saint kept surprising me and showing up out of the blue, one of these days he was going to find me with Caleb, and I didn’t know what I’d do in that scenario.
I’d been on the verge of lighting into him—like some jealous cherry—for not contacting me after getting his cock serviced when he’d hit me with those meltingly sexy green eyes and the most sincere apology. I just didn’t have it in me to stay angry.
Plus, he made me laugh like no other man.
Especially right now. The big goateed biker almost bounded in his steps. For a moment he reminded me of Caleb, skipping down the road on the way to get ice cream.
I hurried to keep up with him lest he yank my shoulder straight from the socket. “I’m not sure it would be right for me to be there when Grace is giving birth, Saint.”
Barely slowing his pace, he hit me with a puppy dog look he somehow managed to pull off even with the fierce handsomeness of his face and the arms full of ink. “Come on. All the guys are there. And Mercy.”
I couldn’t imagine any woman wanting a hospital full of MC dudes when she was in the middle of labor.
I certainly hadn’t told Reggie when it was my time. I’d wanted him nowhere near me.
Yet I relented and steered Saint toward my Honda.
He practically tore the keys from my hands, slid the cello into the trunk, then opened the passenger door for me.
So I guessed this time he was driving.
I stifled a laugh when he tried to cram himself in behind the wheel. “Sorry it’s not a Chevelle.”
“Don’t matter as long as it has an engine and runs, right?” But his knees busted up against the steering column, and he looked like one of those clowns smushed into a miniature car.
While he cranked the seat waaaay back, I reached behind and surrepti
tiously shoved a snack bag of Goldfish Caleb had left and several of his Fidget widget things beneath the seat.
On route, Saint jabbered away about babies and how cool it was gonna be.
I said very little.
Becoming a mom had been the most amazing experience of my life. But then again . . . the recovery from the birth, the fears of being a new momma, the sleepless nights and the feeling of utter helplessness with such a tiny human being relying on me for every little thing . . . that was the reality of babies I couldn’t share with Saint.
At the hospital, he threw the car into park and loped around to help me out before I’d even unsnapped my seatbelt.
“Eager much?” I asked.
He laced his fingers through mine. “Yup.”
Once inside, he made a beeline for the giftshop, and I held back, again chuckling as he wandered around the baby section. A frown on his face, he inspected everything as if his choice of one present was the most important thing ever.
His thoughtfulness toward Grace touched me anew.
Finally, he lined up a tiny little stuffed giraffe attached to a pacifier, an adorable pair of booties, and a package of soft burp cloths on top of a shelf and pointed at the items. “Which one?”
“You want me to choose?”
“You’re a woman.”
I was also a mother.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” I asked.
Eagerness pulsed from him, making his cheeks ruddy with color. “A surprise. They didn’t find out.”
I faintly wondered what it would’ve been like if Saint had been Caleb’s dad. A thought that was far too dangerous to contemplate.
I picked the burp cloths.
He wrinkled his nose. “Kind of boring. What’s a burp cloth for anyway?”
“When the baby spits up. And trust me, he or she will . . . often.”
“Like in The Exorcist movies?”
I laughed outright. He wasn’t wrong.
“Fine.” But then he swiped up all three of his choices and headed to the cash register. He picked out a pastel-colored Congratulations bag too.
And he whistled under his breath all the way up to the right floor in the elevator, one of his hands clutching mine, the other toting his giftbag.
When we reached the maternity ward, I was not prepared for the sight that greeted us.
Giant bundles of balloons everywhere. Lots of pretty giftbags. Vases and vases of flowers. All held by these tall burly men . . . all gathered here for Grace.
It seemed the entire MC had the same idea, and the scene was as ludicrous as it was heartwarming, especially with Mercy the only woman among them.
“Oh my lord.” I pressed my hand to my mouth. “It’s like Bike Week at the maternity ward. Y’all are going to scare the nurses!”
“Bullshit. We’re pussycats.” Saint grinned widely.
There were fist bumps for Saint and greetings for me—the air of anticipation infectious.
I listened in on the various conversations with an ever-growing smile:
“When did the contractions start?”
“Did her water break or what?”
“If it did, for damn sure we’re sending the prospect over to clean up the mess if it happened at their house.”
“How far apart are the contractions? That’s the important thing.”
It almost sounded like they’d done a group read of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. And it was completely adorable.
Sol came up to us, beaming like he too was the father-to-be.
“Well, old man juju. Got any predictions for us? Boy or girl?” Saint asked.
Scratching a patch of white stubble on his dark face, Sol squinted off into the distance. “Bin thinkin’ ’bout that. Seems ta me the pretty mamzelle be blessed to be havin’ a girl.”
“Hey, y’all!” Saint shouted. “Sol here says it’s a girl. We placing bets on this or what?”
I rolled my eyes as money was handed over and wagers were placed on the baby’s gender.
Then a flask was passed around.
At one point—half an hour after we’d arrived—Slade came striding down the hall toward the waiting room.
Everyone went silent with expectation.
“Is the baby here?” Mercy asked.
“No, not yet.” Wearing a deep frown, the man raked his fingers through his dark hair. “I keep asking how long this is gonna take, but all the OB will say is nature is taking its course, and Grace’s body knows what to do.”
He paced between his MC brethren, shaking his head. “Grace’s body might know what to do, but I damn sure don’t. Not sure I can watch her in pain anymore . . . fucking contractions about to kill me.”
Oh dear.
I’d heard that this stony hard man had one weakness, and that became apparent now. Grace was his soft spot, and the pain she had to be going through seemed to be tearing him apart.
I wanted to say something to him but couldn’t.
“Grace is a force of nature, man.” Angel clasped both hands onto Slade’s shoulders. “All you have to do is be there for her, and I know you got that.”
Slade nodded.
Then Mercy hugged her arms right around his middle. “You’ll take care of her, Killian. And Angel’s right. She’s strong. She’s so, so strong.”
His jaw clenched, and he nodded again.
Then, sucking in a deep breath, he headed back to the birthing room.
Saint watched him retreat then muttered, “Holy hell. Never thought I’d see cool-as-they-come Killian Slade lose his shit. He looked like he was about to toss his cookies.”
Mercy and I turned on him as one, and I said, “That’s not nice.”
Then Mercy glanced at me before her gaze found Saint again. “Imagine when it’s your turn.”
Awkward.
“Hey. I have no doubt I’m gonna be a freakin’ mess when it’s mine.” Saint’s eyes landed on me, sending off delicious friction but also heavy foreboding. “I was just sayin’.”
Thank goodness for the entrance of a tall slim man dressed in a very swanky suit.
His appearance immediately shredded the tense atmosphere, especially when he boomed out, “Did I miss the big show?”
“Who’s that?” I stared at the flamboyant newcomer.
Saint drew me to him with an arm around my shoulder. “That’s Mistress Bunny. Well, he’s just Paul right now.”
“Oh!” I’d seen Mistress Bunny at the wedding reception.
I’d never met the other side of her. Or him.
“Heard that, Man Called Saint. Callin’ me Just Paul.” The drag queen minced over to us. “That’s exactly what I said to my momma as soon as I could talk. I wanted to be called something ravishing and exotic. Like Saint.”
Paul winked.
Saint by-god blushed.
Then I was ensnared by the gregarious man as he held me at arm’s length then looked me all over.
“And who might this ethereal beauty be?”
“I’m Honoré.”
“Oooh, honey, yes. Yes, you are.” He fanned the flat of his palm in front of his face. “Honoré and Saint. Slade and Grace. Angel and Mercy? Mmmm . . . I still got the feelin’ ain’t a single one of you as pure as you sound. Nuh uhn.”
“She’s a singer,” Saint interjected. “Well, I mean she’s an all-around amazing musician.”
“Is she now? Maybe she wants to take part in my show?”
“Well, I’m more classically trained,” I hedged.
“What now? You sayin’ I ain’t classy?” Paul pulled such a shocked face, the entire MC laughed at the absurdity.
In the absence of any more updates from Slade, everyone settled in for the long haul. Sol and Chase found snacks and coffee for everybody. Angel kept getting up and checking the corridor. Saint sat next to me and began toying with a loose tendril of my hair, sending perpetual shivers down my spine.
At one point, I swatted his hand away.
His mouth popped open bu
t, before he could hit me with another inappropriate comment, Slade rushed in.
He skidded to a stop, eyes alight and his face flushed above the heavy beard. “It’s a girl!”
“It’s a girl!” The resounding chorus came from everyone as the waiting room erupted into MC mayhem.
Saint yanked me to my feet then surrounded me in a bone-cracking bearhug.
Everyone hooted and hollered and congratulated Slade at the same time.
Mercy dashed tears from her eyes, and hers wasn’t the only damp gaze either.
“Shut up for a damn minute?” Slade’s shout cut through the chaos, but his proud grin was heartwarming and unmistakable.
“Grace is doing just fine. She’s fucking remarkable.” His voice cracked at the end then he seemed to get really choked up.
Blinking rapidly, he thumbed beneath his eyes.
Then he cleared his throat and said, “Grace says we’re naming her Haven Elizabeth Slade.”
Angel grabbed him roughly, and as the two men embraced, I could tell the new father was breaking down.
Even my throat felt thick as I remembered the absolute euphoria of those first moments as a new mom.
Saint’s hand kept clenching mine, and I saw his Adam’s apple shift up and down a few times.
In fact, all the guys looked overwhelmed even though Mercy was the only one who openly wept for joy.
“Damn.” Slade slapped Angel on the back a final time then drew a sleeve across his face. “If you promise to behave you can all come back in a few minutes for a peek at Haven.”
The men clamped their lips together in comical unison.
It wasn’t long later that I was swept along in the black leather tide toward the big nursery windows.
Moments after, Slade entered. His grin said it all as he walked toward one specific baby bin right in front of us. He lifted Haven—swaddled and with a pink knit cap on her head—first to his chest. Then he shifted her around a bit, and my heart melted.
She was chubby and dark-haired and just absolutely cute as a button.
“No red hair,” Angel mumbled, and I sensed relief all around.
I slanted a look at Saint, and he whispered, “Roark Finnegan.”
