by Devney Perry
Dash and I needed to continue the conversation we’d started in the clubhouse. Our relationship needed some definition, but neither of us had brought it up over the past five days. I was too nervous to ask. And I suspected Dash was in uncharted waters.
Covering another yawn, I collected my things from my desk and shoved them into my tote. “So, six tonight?”
Mom nodded. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Just tired.”
She leaned forward, taking my cheeks in her hands, then pressed her palm to my forehead. She’d been testing my temperature that way since I was a toddler. I closed my eyes and smiled. No matter my age, she was always Mom, there to comfort and care. “You don’t have a temperature.”
“I’m not sick,” I promised. “It’s been one of those weeks. I’m drained.”
“Ahh. I used to get tired when it was that week of the month too. I don’t miss the tampons but”—she fanned her face—“these hot flashes every ten damn minutes are a pain in the ass.”
I giggled. “I’m not on my per—”
My heart dropped. When was the last time I had my period?
Mom said something else, but my mind was whirling, counting the weeks of June and calculating when I’d last bought tampons at the grocery store. The last time I could remember had been sometime in May. I remembered because we’d gotten a heavy and wet spring snow. I’d gotten all weepy and hormonal because a bunch of trees in town had begun to bloom but the weight of the snow had broken their branches.
Oh. Fuck. I shot out of my chair, grabbing my purse.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” I lied, not making eye contact with her or Dad. “I just realized I need to run a quick errand and want to make sure I get there before they close. See you guys at dinner.”
Without another word, I left the newspaper, driving immediately to the grocery store.
I bought things I didn’t need—toothpicks, limes, Cheez Whiz—filling my basket as I passed the entrance to the feminine products aisle over and over. Each time, I’d stared down the shelves only to chicken out and walk away. Finally, after grabbing a gallon of orange juice, my basket was getting heavy and my purpose for this trip couldn’t be avoided any longer.
I sucked in a deep breath and marched down the aisle. When I got to the pregnancy tests, I quickly scanned for brands I recognized and shoved three different types into my basket. Then I practically ran to checkout, hoping no one spotted me.
The cashier made no comment as she scanned my items, thank God, and when all my things were safely hidden in paper bags, I hefted them to my car and drove home.
The sinking feeling in my stomach was unbearable. The anxiety, crushing. Was I pregnant? I’d been in such a rush to buy the tests, I hadn’t really thought of what would happen after I took them. But as my house, and toilet, drew nearer, a panicked chill settled into my bones.
A month ago, the idea of being pregnant would have sent me into joyful hysterics. But now? If I had a baby, would I lose Dash? Was I enough to raise a child on my own? Would I be heartbroken if the tests were negative?
Three positive pregnancy tests later, I didn’t have to worry about that last question.
“Hey, babe.” Dash walked through my front door without knocking.
I was in the kitchen, sitting at the island, staring blankly at the striations and granules in my gray granite counter. I’d canceled dinner with my parents and texted Dash to come over. “Hey.”
“Got some news.” He took the stool by my side, leaning over to kiss my temple. “Dad met with Tucker today.”
“Yeah?” I faked some excitement about the meeting with the Warriors’ president. “What did he say?”
“Dad says Tucker swears it wasn’t the Warriors. He took a look at the photo and get this.” Dash leaned to the side to fish out his wallet. Then he slipped out a copy of the photo Emmett had printed from the surveillance video, flattening it on the counter.
I leaned in close. “What am I looking at?”
“See this right here?” He pointed to the stitched Warriors logo on the man’s cut. “See at the bottom of the arrowhead, where it flares?”
“Yeah.”
“Tucker said they changed the patch a few years ago, cleaned up some of the edges and got rid of that flare. Everyone in the club got new cuts.”
“Did they confiscate the old ones?”
“Nope. Which means whoever has an old cut has been a Warrior for a while. And that confirms it wasn’t one of the former Gypsies who joined them this past year.”
So a Warrior was trying to restart an old war. “Can we get a list of names?”
“Not from Tucker. He’ll never give up his men. But Dad is going to start putting names on paper. He’s with Emmett and Leo at the garage, doing it now. Told them I’d be over soon. Thought you might want to come along.”
“No, thanks.” I wasn’t feeling up to a trip to the garage. And I had a feeling after I told Dash I was pregnant, he wouldn’t want me along either.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“And, um . . . Genevieve?” He struggled to say her name. Dash hadn’t thawed to the notion of his sister.
“Her flight gets in late tonight. She’s staying in Bozeman and will drive over tomorrow. She thinks she’ll be in town midmorning. She promised to call and I’ll go meet her at the cemetery.”
“Call me when she leaves. Tell me how she takes it.”
“I will.”
I didn’t have a clue how I was going to tell Genevieve that she was Draven’s daughter. And as if that weren’t hard enough, I was also going to try and convince her that he hadn’t killed her mother. That fledgling friendship we’d forged over chocolate chip cookies was guaranteed a crushing.
Dash stood and went to the cupboards for a glass, filling it with water from the fridge. He was itching to get to the garage.
“So, before you go . . .” God, how did I say this? I busied my hands by folding up the photo and reaching for his wallet to put it away. I opened the bifold, ready to stuff it inside, but another folded page caught my attention.
I lifted it out, recognizing a black and white photo. The trophy case behind the kids was familiar. It had been the backdrop for numerous pictures in the Clifton Forge High yearbooks.
“What is this?”
Dash lowered the water glass from his lips and closed his eyes. “I, uh . . . shit.”
Unfolding the page, I scanned the photos, only seeing school photos with no one recognizable. But I turned it over and spotted Amina’s youthful face. She stood smiling with another girl.
It was the younger version of a face I’d seen in an obituary.
Chrissy Slater.
“Dash. What’s this?”
He had the decency to look guilty. “A page I found at the high school when we were looking at yearbooks.”
“You found this and never showed me.” I fought the urge to crumple the photo into a ball and throw it at his face.
“I was going to. Swear. But then it didn’t seem that important after you learned Mom and Amina were friends.”
“It didn’t seem important?” I gaped at him, sliding off my stool. “You promised that you’d tell me everything. You pretended not to know your mom and Amina were friends. I asked you, straight up, if you knew and you lied to me. What else have you lied about?”
“Nothing.”
“I trusted you. How could you do this to me? After everything? I trusted you.” Against my better judgment, I’d believed Dash. I’d believed in him.
“Bryce, come on.” Dash took a step toward me. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“No. It is a big deal.” I backed away. “Is this why you called the cops that day? So I wouldn’t find out you tore the page from the yearbook?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry. But we were in a different place then. We weren’t together.”
“No, we were only fucking, right? I was just another woman
to use until you had your fill. Do you still feel like that?”
His jaw clenched as it tightened. “You know I don’t.”
I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to cry. How could I trust him? After all our time together, he could have told me, but he’d kept the secret.
It was a nothing secret too. Nothing. Something so small that, by keeping it from me, he’d actually made it worse. Bigger than it had to be.
Or maybe I was blowing this out of proportion. Maybe this pregnancy was making me overthink everything. How were we ever going to be together if he didn’t confide in me? How were we going to have a child?
He crossed the distance between us. “Baby, you’re overreacting.”
“Maybe I am,” I whispered. “But something about this feels . . . off. Like we have a fundamental problem here.”
“A fundamental problem? It’s a goddamn picture. Yeah, I should have told you, but it stopped being important.”
“You promised no secrets. You wouldn’t hide anything from me. Otherwise I’d write it all.”
“Wait.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is about? Your story?”
My story? What was he talking about? “Huh?”
“It is, isn’t it? Fuck. I’m so fucking stupid. I actually thought we had something here. But you’ve just been playing me from the start. Waiting until I did something that would justify you writing the tell-all you’ve been dying to write.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’ve already got it written, haven’t you?” He pointed to my laptop still in the tote on the counter. “It’s all done, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I wrote it,” I admitted. “In case you betrayed me. But it was only for backup. I’m not going to print it.”
“How do I know that?”
I threw up my hands. “Because I’m telling you this isn’t about the story. And I haven’t made it a habit of lying to you.”
“It’s always been the story. From the beginning. And I was stupid enough to think you didn’t want it anymore because you wanted me instead.”
“I do want—wait. How am I now the villain? You’re the one who held something back. You’re the one who lied about that stupid picture.” Why did I feel guilty?
“That picture means nothing. We both know that. You have a story written that could ruin the lives of people I love. Not an apples-to-apples deal here, babe.”
I opened my mouth to argue but closed it shut. My shoulders fell, weighed down by a hopelessness that might topple me to the floor.
“It’s not about the photo or the story,” I whispered. “We don’t trust each other. How can this work if we don’t trust each other?”
Dash’s anger evaporated and he shook his head. “Hell if I know. When you figure it out, do me a favor and clue me in. Because right now, it’s looking to me like this is over before it really got started. I’m gonna take off.”
He swiped up his wallet, shoving it into his jeans. And then without another word, he stalked out of the kitchen.
“Wait.” While we were dealing with the heavy stuff, I had to add on one more thing. He deserved to know before he walked out the door. “I have to tell you something.”
Dash turned, putting his hands on his hips. “Can it wait?”
“No.” I swallowed the burn in my throat. Tell him. “I’m pregnant.”
A terrifying silence filled the room. Seconds ticked by like hours. A minute felt like a day. Dash stood so still, it looked like he wasn’t even breathing.
It was how I knew he’d heard me.
My heart thudded, painfully so, as I waited and waited and waited. Until finally, he blinked, shaking his head just slightly. “Not possible. I always use a condom.”
His precious condoms.
“One of them didn’t work.”
It was hard to tell when, but the timing suggested it was soon after we got together. Maybe on the Mustang. But guessing was futile. Other than our two-week hiatus after Draven had threatened me, Dash and I had been having sex constantly.
The silence returned. Tears welled in my eyes and no amount of blinking could keep my vision from turning glassy.
I’d had a friend at the TV station in Seattle who’d made a big deal out of telling her husband she was pregnant by staging baby foods at home next to a onesie with Daddy stamped on the front. The morning after her announcement, she’d come to work and reported that he’d been overjoyed.
And I’d been jealous. I wanted the laughter. The excitement. The kiss after my husband learned we were making a family.
“Say something,” I whispered. The silence was breaking my heart. At this point, I’d take yelling if that meant he’d speak.
His eyes drifted up from the floor, and it was then that I saw true fear.
Dash spun on his boot. He ripped open the door, not bothering to close it behind him as he rushed to his bike. The sound of his motorcycle engine didn’t linger because he was gone in a flash.
“Goddamn it.” I walked to the door, blinking away the tears as I closed it and flipped the lock. If he did come back, he’d have to ring the doorbell.
Eventually, he had to come back. Didn’t he? He wouldn’t leave me forever. Right? The idea of doing this alone, of not having Dash to lean on, made my entire body ache. Would we get through this? Together?
We had to. We were better together. Didn’t he see that? Sure, I could do this alone. But I didn’t want to. I wanted Dash.
He couldn’t avoid me forever. Us forever. We lived in the same town. We were having this baby whether he was ready for it or not. Because maybe he’d pegged himself as the fun uncle, but I’d be damned if I let my kid grow up not knowing his or her father.
I wouldn’t let Dash turn into Draven, missing out on his child’s life until it was too late.
Walking to the counter, I pounded a fist on the granite. “Damn him.”
We’d have words. And soon. Before this baby came, Dash was going to man up.
I’d make sure of it.
Determined not to sit here and wallow, I picked up my phone and sent Mom a text, telling her I’d be over for dinner after all; I was feeling better. She replied with a string of happy-face emojis and confetti.
I shut off the lights in my house, taking my purse and a bottle of wine for Mom—I wouldn’t need it for a solid year. Then I went to my parents’ house, enjoying some time with them alone and doing my best not to think about Dash and the baby.
When I got home, I was exhausted and ready to collapse. I was so tired, I barely had my eyes open as I shuffled inside.
The house was dark, but I didn’t need the lights on to find my way to the bedroom. I liked the dark because it hid the basket of laundry on the couch. It hid the glass Dash had left by the sink.
It also hid the figure, cloaked in black, who’d been waiting for me to get home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dash
“Morning.” Isaiah came into the garage, running a hand through his short hair. “You’ve been at it for a while. Stay all night?”
“Yep.” I slammed the door of the Mustang, a cleaning cloth in my hand.
After leaving Bryce’s place yesterday evening, I’d taken a long ride. Miles and miles had flown by as I’d tried to wrap my head around the bomb she’d dropped. She’d changed my world with one word. Turned the whole damn thing upside down.
Pregnant.
I couldn’t make that idea stick. We’d been careful. Condoms were required when I was with a woman, no exceptions. And though I would have loved to go bare with Bryce, there was a reason I’d kept us safe.
Some men were designed to be good fathers. Nick was one. But I’d done too many things, violent and vile things, to be a decent dad. No matter what Bryce said, how much I wanted to believe her, I wasn’t good.
I’d fuck up a kid of my own.
All my precautions, my strict rules for condoms, were pointless now.
Within months, I was going to be a father.
&
nbsp; And it scared me to death. I didn’t know how to be a father. Look at the example I had to go by. A man who’d led murderers to his wife’s doorstep and kidnappers to his daughter-in-law’s bedroom.
I didn’t want to become my father. Which was a mindfuck since I’d spent thirty-five years following in his footsteps.
I’d joined his club. I’d sat in his chair. I’d taken over his garage when he’d retired. In thirty-five years, would my own kid look at me and wish he or she had forged their own path too?
After the long ride, I’d come back to the garage. It was dark, but Dad and Emmett had still been here, talking over Warrior names. I’d come in, not saying a word, and gotten to work on the Mustang.
Eventually, they’d realized I wasn’t here for talk and they’d left me alone.
The hours flew by as I’d finished the final tasks on the car. Then I’d detailed the inside. I’d do the same to the exterior next and call the client to arrange for pickup.
I needed this car out of my garage. I had this gut feeling that the night I’d fucked Bryce on this Mustang, I’d also gotten her pregnant.
“Got it finished?” Isaiah asked, running his hand over the hood.
“Almost. Sorry if I kept you up last night.” I hadn’t really thought much about Isaiah in his apartment above the garage as I’d been working. The guy had probably heard me crashing around down here all night.
“No worries. I don’t sleep much anyway.”
“Insomnia?”
He shook his head. “Prison.”
Isaiah hadn’t told me much about why he’d been locked up, only that he’d been convicted of manslaughter and spent three years in prison. I hadn’t asked for details. That was how it went here because that was how it had been in the club.
We asked enough to know what kind of man we were dealing with. Then we judged based on character, not past mistakes.
This garage was its own sort of brotherhood—though brother wasn’t the right word, considering Presley was as much a part of this family as Emmett or Leo or Isaiah.
“So, are you, uh . . . you doing all right?” Isaiah asked.
