Fury’s Promise_A Motorcycle Club Romance_The Devil’s Kin MC Read online

  I stop outside my apartment building, not registering her at first. Lots of folks live in this building. She must be somebody’s old lady. But then I get closer and I see her, really see her. Those green eyes, those long legs, that fire-red hair, and those freckles.

  It’s Gloria, and she’s holding a baby in her arms.

  Chapter Five

  Gloria

  His apartment is almost exactly what I expected it to be: a sparsely-furnished, slightly messy place. A few beer bottles lie empty on the small wooden coffee table. The wallpaper is peeling in places. He has no rugs, no photos, nothing that would bring the place any life or comfort. He doesn’t even have a TV. It’s like a hostel. I sit on the couch and he sits on the chair.

  I look over Jimmy’s head—he’s finally sleeping—at his father. “It’s been a long time,” I say, since he isn’t showing any signs of talking.

  “Yeah,” he mutters.

  The silence stretches. Jimmy whimpers in his sleep, makes a spit bubble.

  “He talks, you know,” I tell him. “Not much, but a few words here and there. He can say Mommy.”

  His face goes white at that. He picks at the fabric of the chair, tugging thread from the arm. “Okay, then,” he says noncommittedly.

  “He can’t say Daddy though.” I hope this will get a rise out of him, but he just looks down at his boots, and then at his hand on the arm of the chair: anywhere but at us. “You’re the father, Jack. I hope that goes without saying.”

  “Okay.” His chest rises and falls slowly, but with big movements, as though he can’t suck in enough air.

  “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  He shrugs. Sighs. Clears his throat. And then goes into the kitchen, walking quickly. “Want a drink?” he calls over the room divider.

  “What are you having?”

  “Whisky.”

  “Do you have any wine?”

  He laughs shortly. “No. I’ve got beer.”

  “I’ll just have a water, please.”

  He brings through the drinks, a tall whisky for himself and a mug of water for me.

  “No clean glasses,” he says, placing the mug down in front of me. He sips his whisky, clicks his neck from side to side. It’s like everything is delayed, like the reality of us is only now starting to process. “So you’re tellin’ me that that there kid, the one you’re clutchin’ onto like he might fly away, is mine.”

  “Yes.” I repress the urge to snap at him. “That’s what I’m telling you. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t say it in that tone, implying that it could be a mistake, that the father might be somebody else.”

  “Well, couldn’t it?” There’s more than a little hope in his voice.

  “No,” I say firmly. “You’re the only man I’ve been with in two years. That’s the God-honest truth.”

  “I …” He stands up, paces to the window, looks down onto the street.

  “It hasn’t been easy for me, you know, going through all of this alone. The pregnancy, the birth, all of it without the father there. It really hasn’t been easy.”

  “Sure,” he says. “I’m sure it hasn’t—been easy, I mean.” He sounds like he might be sick. “But this ain’t easy either, Gloria. Half an hour ago you were a memory I thought about every now and then. And now you’re here, sitting in my apartment, and that there’s my kid—you’re telling me that’s my kid—and all I can think about is climbing down the fire escape and calling my landlord and tellin’ him I’m done with this place.”

  “Wow.” I place Jimmy on the couch and then reach into my carry-all and take out my portable crib, a mesh structure which is wonderfully simple to set up. Jack glances around to see what I’m doing, sighs, and then turns back to the window. Once Jimmy is set up, still asleep, I go to the window, standing close to him. The memory of our encounter washes over me with his scent. “Don’t you want to look at him?” I ask.

  “I’ve looked at him,” he says shortly. “What’s your last name, Gloria? I reckon I ought to know that, at least.”

  “Griffiths,” I say, stung. “I never forgot yours, Jack Wilson.”

  “Well, it seems to me you’ve had more motivation to remember mine, truth be told. He’s mine, then. You’re one hundred percent sure of that?”

  I bite my lip. I can’t shout; I’ll wake Jimmy. “Look at his hair, the same black as yours. And look at his eyes, Jack. They’re just as blue as yours. It’d be clear to you if you’d just look at him.”

  “I’ve looked,” he whispers, voice sharp. “What do you want me to do, sit on the floor and stare at him for an hour? Do you take that crib thing with you wherever you go?”

  “No. But I brought it here because I thought I’d be here a while.”

  “Seems to me like you’re presuming a whole lot, darling.”

  I take a step back, clench my fists, unclench them. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. “Don’t call me that again, please. It makes me want to hit you.”

  He growls out a laugh, drinks his whisky. “Honest,” he says, returning to the kitchen for a refill.

  “We should be honest, shouldn’t we, seeing as we have a child together?” I follow him into the kitchen.

  “Why do you have to say it like that?” I can tell he wants to shout. His veins stand out on his forearms. His hands tremble as he pours himself another whisky.

  “Like what?” I do the same; my voice is near-eruption, but I manage to keep it level.

  “Like you’re makin’ a point; like you expect me to do something about it.”

  “Well—” I cover my face with my hands, composing myself. “Isn’t a man supposed to be happy about seeing his child? Isn’t that the point?”

  “You can’t just pop into someone’s life like a goddamn jack-in-the-box and expect them to change their entire personality for you, Gloria. That ain’t how life works. I don’t know that kid. I don’t know you. I don’t know anythin’ about any of this. How did you find me, anyway?”

  I take the carving from my pocket. “This, and a freelance private investigator.”

  He paces over to me and snatches the carving from my hand. “I wondered where this went.” He clutches it tightly and then pockets it. “I damn near destroyed this place looking for it. But that means you’ve had this since day one. Why wait until now?”

  I could tell him, I suppose, but it would set the wrong tone. It’s not the only reason I’m here. “That doesn’t matter right now.”

  “Says you.” He narrows his eyes, seeing into me the way he did at the hotel. “I reckon I can guess. But fine. You say it don’t matter …” He stands up straight, nods shortly, a soldier taking instruction. “Then it don’t matter.”

  “You don’t have to be a jerk about this, you know. You can just talk to me.”

  “Sure I can. Let’s set up a therapist’s couch and I’ll lie down and you can tell me how you understand what I’m goin’ through and you’ll be there for me and then I’ll become a father and I’m sure I’ll try real damn hard not to mess that kid’s life up, sure I will, and then sooner or later somethin’ll happen which will mess him up forever. No, Gloria. I’m not playing this game.”

  “This isn’t a game.” I pace over to him, hands shaking. I want to slap him, to rake my nails down his face. “Why do you have to be such a jerk about it? It wasn’t easy for me to come here, you know. I stood out there for half an hour, pacing up and down, waiting for you. I got in my car twice. I was going to leave. But then I guess you would’ve preferred that.”

  “Do you want me to say no? Is that it? Am I meant to tell you that I want you to be here?” He pushes past me into the living room, avoiding looking at the crib at all costs. “I didn’t expect you. And tonight would’ve be a fine night just sittin’ here with my whisky and listening to the radio.”

  “What do you listen to?” I ask, hoping to soften him a little.

  He makes a snorting sound. “Music, what else?”

  “You don’t have to fight me on
every little thing.”

  “I ain’t fighting you.” He returns to the window.

  “You can stand there all you want, but we’re still going to be here when you turn around. We’re not just going to disappear.”

  His dark chuckle lets me know that that’s exactly what he’s been wishing for. “I’ve thought about you every now and then, that’s the truth of it, but when I thought about you, you were bent over and moaning and all that shit. You weren’t standing in front of me with a goddamn baby. I can honestly say that never entered my mind. Family—the fuck is a family, anyway? That kid don’t need me. He needs one of those fellas you see at the park or the mall with the sensible shoes and the fanny pack.”

  “Could you not swear, please?”

  “Fuck’s sake!” He trundles past me, past the coffee table, into a room I assume is his bedroom. The door slams behind him. The room is close; I can hear his muttering and heavy breathing just on the other side.

  I go to Jimmy, kneel down, and stroke his jet-black hair. “It’s okay. I’ll just be in the next room, all right?” First I go to the window with fire-escape access and close and lock it, and then double-lock the door. “You’re safe,” I whisper, leaning down and kissing him on the forehead. “Mommy will be just through there.” I smile. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to let me know if you need me.” He smiles in his sleep.

  I go into the bedroom, leaving it slightly ajar just in case, and walk across to Jack. He sits on the edge of the bed, nursing his whisky. He glances up at me. I’m wearing a pink T-shirt and shorts and sneakers. It took six months to get my body back to what it was pre-Jimmy, but I did it. And now I see for sure that all that exercise and dieting worked. His eyes lock onto my legs. He suddenly leaps to his feet, stopping my next words with an aggressive kiss. I mean to push him away, but I end up wrapping my hands around his neck instead, pulling him closer to me. He’s so warm, rough, strong.

  He yanks down my shorts, my panties with them, and then unbuckles his belt, one-handed. I break off the kiss, look down. His massive cock is out, all ten inches of it. He raises his eyebrow, a silent question. I answer it by stepping out of my panties and my shorts, my anger forgotten for a moment, which is what he wanted, I’m sure. But I don’t care right now. I’m suddenly hot, too hot to take, and my pussy screams at me to just go with it.

  He lifts me off my feet and then lowers me down onto his cock. I’m panting, but it’s far away, as though it’s another woman’s panting. All I know right now is the mass of his cock, sliding directly up inside of me, and his bulging shoulder muscles which I hold onto, digging my fingernails in. I sit down heavily on his cock, my ass cheeks pressing against his balls, and then we fuck madly standing right there, him lifting me up and down, and me throwing myself with his movements, slamming myself repeatedly against him.

  I lean forward, bite down on his shoulder, his impossibly rock-solid shoulder, as the shotgun-fast orgasm fires through me, my nipples going hard, my clit aching like it could explode. It twists my insides, my belly turning over and over, my toes curling, my entire body thrumming with the pleasure. And then he is coming, too, a hand clutching onto my ass cheeks. I lean back, look into his face; we come gazing into each other’s eyes.

  But then it is over and he throws me down on the bed, pulls up his pants, and makes for the door.

  Chapter Six

  Fury

  The train trundles by, a mere five feet away. A man ought not to come to a train track when he’s not feeling sure about himself, ’cause a man who ain’t sure about himself might see something in that train he shouldn’t. But I won’t. I never have, and I’ve been coming to train tracks since I was a kid. We sit on our bikes, sharing a bottle of whisky, though I drink a hell of a lot more’n Butcher. He sips slowly, watching me with caution. The sun is setting. The sky is orange-red, ablaze.

  “So you’re a father,” Butcher says after a long pause.

  I spit, sip, spit. I look at the sky. I look down at my handlebars. Then I sigh. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Damn,” Butcher mutters. “That’s—holy shit, Jack. Holy shit.”

  “This must be serious.” I rub my forehead, trying to get rid of this tension. It’s like there’s a rubber band wrapped around my head. “You never call me Jack.”

  “Well—shit.” He laughs, but without humor. “I don’t know what to say. Give me a second, will ya?” He takes the whisky bottle from me.

  “This is the last thing I need. That seems pretty fuckin’ clear to me. The fuck I need a kid for, especially right now, with Big Loco breathing down our necks every second of every goddamn day? Remember the day we went to the bar—that was a legit business, remember—and it was burnt to the fuckin’ ground just like he’d burnt the clubhouse to the ground? Or when we found three of our boys pinned to the wall like they were sticky notes. Or we found another one of our boys with his hands and feet cut off, tryin’ to crawl to the exit. He bled out, Butch; the poor bastard bled out.”

  “I know,” Butcher says quietly. “I was there.”

  “I know you were there.” I get off my bike, pace up and down, over the train track and back again. “I’m just saying … it ain’t no place for a kid, is it? A man don’t go to war with a goddamn kid.”

  “I have,” he says, still in that same quiet voice.

  “Yeah, well, you’re a freak of nature.” I smile at him. “No offense, Butch, but I really do think there’s somethin’ different about you. You’re not like other folks. It takes something special to be able to go out and do some killin’ and then go home and fry up the bacon for your kid before a soccer game.”

  “I wouldn’t give him bacon before a soccer game,” Butcher says. “He’d get a bellyache.”

  I laugh at that, howling at the sky. “I reckon you just proved my point,” I say once I’ve calmed down.

  He grins. “Might be you have. I never used to say that before, you know: might be. That’s you, rubbing off on me.”

  “Okay …” I shrug.

  “I’m just saying. We must be pretty good friends. Otherwise why’d I start using phrases you use without realizing it until years later?”

  “Yeah, Butch. We’re good friends.”

  “So you’ll let your good friend give you some advice, then.”

  I sink down onto my haunches on the track, staring the way the train’ll come. The track’s empty as far as the eye can see, for now, but soon it’ll come barreling toward me. No part of me wants to sit here, wait, and that’s curious to me. After all the shit that’s happened to me in my life, I’d think there’d be that urge, just a little bit.

  “Go ahead,” I say. He’s staring at me, an accuser at my periphery vision.

  “I love my children more than life itself.”

  “I know. You’re a good man.”

  “But that’s not the point. I don’t love my children more’n life itself because I’m a good man. I love ’em because that’s what a man does. He loves his children. He don’t have any say over it. It’s not his choice. It’s just the way things are. When I found out Kaylee was pregnant, I went crazy, really crazy. I was asking all the same questions you are now. I screamed at her, said it was her fault, told her to go and get rid of it. I said some pretty mean shit to my wife, Fury, some shit a man should never say to his old lady. But then I settled down, stopped my ranting, and I looked the reality square in the face and I knew, fuckin’ knew, bone-deep, that I couldn’t run out on this. It was my responsibility now. But then somethin’ amazing happened. After a while, it stopped being a responsibility and started being the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “That’s great, Butch. But I don’t see how that relates to me. You were married, and back then we weren’t at war with the Lady’s Death. You had your kids during the Golden Age.”

  “Sure, but a Golden Age is never a Golden Age when you have punks gunning for you damn-near every week.”

  “I guess so.” A train rumbles the tracks. I stand up and watc
h its approach. “But it don’t change the fact that you had as close to stability as an outlaw ever knows. You didn’t have to worry about Big Loco coming after you every day when you were going to those damn birthing classes.”

  “All right, Fury, I hear what you’re saying. But it sounds to me like you’re just lookin’ for an excuse.”

  I step off the tracks as the train fills the horizon, walk over to Butcher and take the whisky bottle from him, take a long swig, and then hand it back. “I don’t see nothing wrong with making excuses.”