by Forgy, M. N.
“I stand by my statement, only a stupid bitch would come in here thinking I wouldn’t expect it.”
She doesn’t respond, her chest rising and falling. Opening her mouth, she closes it thinking better not to speak. Smart considering there’s a gun to her head.
“Say it,” I press on, wanting to hear what she has to say.
“I am not a whore. I was a virgin before I got pregnant!” Her voice cracks with emotion, her sad eyes tugging at the armor I wear from day to day.
Using the barrel of my gun, I push the hair from her round face wanting to see all of her sadness. She’s so beautiful. Her misplaced strength breathtaking, and the weight of her sins sewn into her shoulders like a pair of dark wings.
“You don’t have to fight anymore,” I whisper, my softness taking me aback. Her throat bobs as she swallows my words. Why I feel the need to say that, I don’t know. I can just tell this woman has been fighting fear with fear for far too long. Lifting my fist away from the mattress, allowing her to get up, I place the gun in my waistband.
Shifting off the bed, she stands. She’s wearing a t-shirt that tickles the tops of her thighs, her dark green panties contrasting amongst her dark skin. Even with a pregnant belly, she’s a fucking looker. The pressing of my dick in my pants agreeing.
Her eyes glance over her shoulder at me, and I see confusion and courage battling on what to think of me. She doesn’t know whether to like me or hate me.
“Simone.” I overstepped my boundaries telling her she was safe. “Simone!” She keeps walking, ignoring me. Jumping from the bed, I grab her by the shoulder, but she shakes me off.
“Goddamn it, stop for a second!” I demand. I need to clear the air, be mean to her or something.
“Why? We’re not friends, you made that clear. So… don’t be nice to me.” Her voice cracks with emotion, and I feel like an ass. I can’t force myself to be a dick to her. Why? Because she’s pregnant?
Giving me a once-over, she walks across the suite back to her room, slamming the door.
“Bitch!” I growl under my breath, slamming my own door. This is why I’d rather talk to computers than a woman. They’re fucking complicated!
Chapter 9
Simone
A week goes by, and Mac and I haven’t said so much as a word to each other. Just silent stares, and glares from across the room. We take turns coming into the main room, and then retreating back to our bedrooms. I’m seven months pregnant today, I wish I knew if it was a boy or girl. On the dresser I tap the horns of the dragon Gatz gave me. I’m so ready to give it to the baby.
Heading into the main room, I sit on the couch and turn the TV on. There’s an ER program on, and someone pregnant is in distress. She’s crying and weeping for the baby’s care, and I can’t help but tear up. Fucking hormones.
The other day a woman dropped an egg on a cooking show and I cried for her. She would have won that competition if she didn’t drop that egg.
Mac’s bedroom door opens, and he struts out wearing a low-slung pair of jeans, and nothing else. His strong chest displays the slightest bit of hair, and hard nipples. Stopping, he scratches his chest, eyeballing the TV.
“What the hell are you watching?” he asks with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
“It’s the miracle of life.” Gesturing my hand toward the TV, just as the woman’s water breaks all over her and two nurses.
Mac sits down on the edge of the couch, smoke swirling around me.
He glances at the TV, and then me.
“Are you crying?”
I wipe my cheeks, they’re wet. Fuck, I swear my crying has no bounds. “No,” I snap, snatching the cigarette from his lips and plopping it in an empty beer bottle on the coffee table.
His brows furrow inward, his jaw ticking.
“Second-hand smoke?” I point to my belly. “It’s very dangerous for the baby.”
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. Collapsing fully into the couch, he throws his arm on the back of it and looks at the TV focusing on the woman giving birth.
The woman screams, and they show a vaginal shot. I can’t help but wince, that’s just scary.
“That’s fucking terrifying! How does a chick come back from that?” He leans forward clutching the remote and turning the channel to Mad Max. I’ve seen it before, and like it but I was in the middle of that show!
“Hey!” I try and grab the remote, but he shoves it down his pants like a child.
“Come and get it, Pocahontas.” His hand slung across the back of the couch, a smug smile on his handsome face I don’t know whether to take him seriously or hit him in the head with the ashtray again. Games. It’s all games.
“Oh, don’t get all pissy with me, Pocahontas,” he laughs. Standing, I’m pissed he keeps calling me a fucking princess.
Grabbing the beer bottle from the coffee table, I tilt it slowly and spill it on his crotch. The smell of ash and stale beer filling the air. He jumps up, droplets of liquid staining the floor.
“Fucking hell!” He quickly brushes the stale beer off his jeans before furiously glaring at me.
I turn, trying my hardest to waddle to my room, but of course he’s faster than me. He grabs me by the wrist and halts me in my attempt to escape.
“If you wanted me to take my jeans off, you could have just asked, not fucking douse them in piss warm beer.”
“Would you prefer cold beer? Not that your dick could get any smaller.” I look down at the outline of his cock. It’s not lacking in size, but I’m not about to feed his ego.
He shakes his head, a smile hidden under his grimace. I almost think he likes to hate me.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Simone.”
“This is the only game I know how to play.” A sinister smile crosses my face. Leaning in, invading my space, I suck in a tight breath. I haven’t had a man this close to me in months.
“Then let’s play. I play John Smith, and you’re my Pocahontas.” His teeth nip my ear, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “Where I fuck the respect into you and the defiant little bitch out.”
“You have no idea how much bitch I have inside of me,” I fire back, my tone of voice huskier than I want to let on.
“Is that right?” Amusement thick in his voice.
“Let’s just say, I have your name on my list in bright red marker,” I threaten. He quiets, taking a step back. He flicks his chin with his thumb, his forest eyes burning with intrigued interest rather than anger.
“You know, I’d almost believe you were a bad ass if you didn’t have such sadness swimming in your eyes, Princess.” I swallow hard, his words hitting home.
“I’m- I’m not sad.” I shrug. Am I?
“You don’t sound so sure.” His hair falls into his face when he tilts his head to the side.
Opening my mouth to defend myself, nothing comes out. My empty chest feels cold and I suddenly feel sad. As if I’ve been suppressing how I really feel for a long time.
Looking at the floor, my hand twirls a piece of hair next to my face. I’ve been sad, I’ve mourned but I’ve never really moved forward from being forlorn.
He did it, Mac broke my exterior shell and I suddenly feel exposed. I roll my eyes, and turn my back, sauntering back to my room. This conversation is over.
Chapter 10
Simone
Two days pass, and we say nothing to one another again. Back to silent glances and avoiding one another as I sit on the floor. I pull my toes up trying to paint them dark blue, but my belly is in the way.
I kick my leg sideways trying to reach and I knock the bottle over onto the rug.
“FUCK!” I grab the bottle, but it’s too late, polish soaks into the carpet. “Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.
“You say fuck a lot.” Mac startles me from the kitchen. His eyes judgmental, as if me being pregnant I can’t say the f-word.
I scowl in his direction. “I’m a drop the f-bomb kind of mom.”
He l
aughs and sits next to me on the floor. Crossing his legs, he grabs the fingernail polish.
“What are you doing?”
He grabs my foot, and the soft contact causes tingles to shoot up my legs. His hands are warm, and my feet are ticklish to the touch. His greedy stare drinks me in, and a shiver bumps its way up my spine.
“I can do that,” I insist, his touch unraveling me.
“No, you can’t,” he rebuttals calmly, focusing on my toe.
He swipes the paintbrush across my toenail perfectly before going to the next toe. Leaning back on my hands, I watch him paint every nail on my left foot. Cradling my foot, he blows gently across my toes, and goosebumps pepper along my skin. His hooded eyes set on mine, dark eyelashes framing his forest eyes. He’s so handsome and ruggedly good-looking at the same time. Every nerve ending I have is alive and thirsty for his touch.
“Is this your favorite color or something?” he questions.
“No, I love dark green. Like forest green.” His eyes meet mine and I hold my breath. Dark green like the flecks in his eyes, but I don’t say that.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
He ignores me, he does that a lot. Especially if I’m asking a question.
“You have to like a certain color,” I press.
“Black,” his tone dry. I like the color black for clothes, but that’s about it. It’s dark and bleak of any emotion. Then again, Mac is hard at showing what he’s feeling exactly too. So, it’s rather perfect I suppose.
Moving his hand to the next foot he caresses my ankle, and I melt into his hold. I don’t know if I want to be pissed at this man or ravish him. Damn hormones.
He paints each toenail and blows across them again. I’ve never understood people with foot fetishes, but Mac holding my foot, and blowing hot breaths across my sensitive skin… I’m starting to understand it now.
He knowingly smirks as he screws the lid on the nail polish. I look away, wetting my lips.
Standing up, he chuckles. He knows what he’s doing to me. “Better clean that mess up, Pocahontas.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the polish… or me.
* * *
Eating a bowl of soup, I watch Mac do push-ups in the living room. His arms bulge, his back is sweaty, and his hair sways in his face. We’ve been cordial with each other for the last few days, which is a step in a better direction.
“Enjoying your soup?” he asks between push-ups.
“Mmhmm.” I can’t take my eyes off him. If I look hard enough, I swear I can see his pack sweep across the floor when he thrusts upwards.
A knock on the hotel door catches my attention. Waddling across my room, I open the door and find a man with black shaggy hair standing in the doorway of the suite.
“Hey Simone!” he nods with his chin. He’s the president of the club, I saw him briefly before Kane swept me up here. He’s tall and makes me shrink where I stand. Him standing so close to me, I swear I can hear the cries of his victims crying in my ear. He’s dangerous. I’ve heard of this man from many clubs in the area but never had the pleasure to meet the Reaper himself.
“Mac, you got a second?” Stepping past me, one hand in his pocket, he heads to Mac.
Mac jumps to his feet, his chest puffed out and falling and rising with each breath. Man, he makes me feel like a woman.
Zeek talks to Mac in a hushed voice. Mac finally glances my way, his face ashen. I suck in a tight breath knowing what he’s going to tell me… I’m not going to like.
Zeek sighs and runs his hand on the back of his neck, before turning my way. Every passing second they hold their tongues, I deprive myself of air.
“Simone, I was just informed Kane was found dead this morning. His motel room was blown up.”
My knees grow weak, and I have to grab onto the counter to keep myself up.
“W-what?”
My head lowers as my heart beat drums out my hearing. The hotel room was blown up? He’s dead. Just like Gatz. Both blown up. My head snaps up, both Mac and Zeek looking at me with concerned eyes.
“Does both of them being killed the same way sound like coincidence to you?” My voice wavers. “Does it?” I ask louder, my heart needing some fucking answers for once. I won’t turn around and be ignored on this.
Mac and Zeek look at each other before Zeek crosses his arms.
“We used to think a rival enemy killed Gatz but seeing how Kane was just killed the same way, I’m rethinking our target,” Zeek confides, telling me what I was afraid of.
“It’s Veer. It has to be.” Pressing my hand to my head, I try and fight back the tears threatening to fall. This is all my fault, the never-ending domino effect continues to curse me and anyone I know.
“I should go home before anyone else gets hurt,” I murmur to myself.
Zeek sucks in a breath, catching my attention.
“What?” I side-eye him.
“I had a close contact check on your family, and your father was murdered some time ago, but your mother got away; nobody has seen her.” Mac and Zeek’s face etch with sympathy, but I can’t accept it, I can’t fucking do a thing but crumble piece by piece.
My world spins, my stomach threatening to upchuck the soup I just had. This is too much.
Looking at the floor, a single warm tear slides down my cheek. If it weren’t for this child, I would just hand my heart and soul over to Veer. He’s taking everything away from me, soon enough it will just be me and the baby standing in the wake of corpses and ash.
“That’s enough for today, man.” Mac steps in front of Zeek. His protective act would be heartwarming if my heart wasn’t splintered all over the floor.
The thud of Zeek’s boots sound as he whispers to Mac before leaving the suite. The sound of the door shutting and locking causing a choke to rip up my throat.
“Simone?” Mac’s voice is lathered in sympathy, and I hate it. I need him to be a dick to me, make me clam up and not feel. Hand over my mouth, I rush to my room, but before I can shut my door, concealing myself from the world, Mac shoves his foot in the door jamb.
“Go away, Mac!” I try and shut the door, but he keeps pressing against it. He’s strong.
Reaching through the door he grasps my wrist, his hand warm and caring, forces me to stop my fighting. Glossy eyes feast on his dilated pupils. His thumb drawing circles on my wrist.
“You’re safe,” he whispers, but it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s everyone around me.
“Please, just let me go,” I plead, my vulnerability making me want to hide. He exhales a ragged breath and reluctantly, lets go. I shut my door, my head leaning against it. Needing to process what’s going on in my head; in my heart.
Why didn’t Gatz and Kane tell me about my dad?
Where is my mother?
Where is Veer?
Chapter 11
Mac
Staring at the door, I chew on the pad of my thumb. She’s been in there for almost a day. She hasn’t eaten, showered or gotten out of bed as far as I know. This can’t be healthy, not that I’m the man to judge anyone.
I run my hands through my hair and blow out a breath, not sure what to do. Do I try and talk to her? Why is it bothering me so much that she’s not out here annoying me?
This is fucking frustrating.
Grabbing my phone, I hit up Jillian. She’ll know how to deal with this.
“Mac?” Jillian answers.
“Hey, so Simone has been in her room for over a day, and I don’t know what to fucking do.” Concern is heavier in my voice than I’d like.
“Did Zeek tell her the news about her dad and Kane?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what to do… or why I fucking care.” I throw my hand in the air, this entire situation out of my bounds and making me uncomfortable. I’d rather fight and argue with her than this shit.
“Maybe I should come over there?” Jillian offers.
“No!” I answer a little too quickly. Zeek doesn’t ask
much of me, and this is my responsibility. Plus, if I’m being completely honest, I want Simone to trust me. I don’t dig into that thought too deeply, it’s scary.
“Well then, be nice for one,” she scolds.
“I’m always nice,” I defend, and she scoffs. “You’re an outlaw, you’re all assholes.” Eh, she has a point. “Maybe make her something to eat and offer it to her. She probably feels alone, everyone around her is dying.”
“Feed her? What the fuck am I, a housekeeper now?” Be nice, feed her? Does she know who the fuck she’s talking to?
“Do you want help or not?” Sass high in her voice.
I growl into the phone, not liking this one bit.
“Thanks,” I say and hang up. Looking at the door, I tap my foot anxiously. Maybe I should have Jillian come here and fix this for me.