by Skyla Madi
EIGHT
J U D G E
In the darkened room, Liv moved against me. I kept my hands on the armrests of my deep, velvet chair, and tried hard to focus on the task at hand, but I couldn’t. I saw Liv, semi-naked, her firm, fit body draped in black leather and lace, but I didn’t see her. She was there, a gentle flurry of sensual movement, I just couldn’t keep my attention on her. Music played, one of my favorite tracks by Santana, the lighting was just right, and there was no one else in the room…still, I found my mind drifting to Yasmine Garcia—if that was her real fucking name. I dreamed of her frequently. Sometimes, they were awful dreams. I had my hands around her throat, and I squeezed the life out of her for betraying me. And sometimes, the dreams were sexy and sensual—romantic even. I didn’t know what to make of it, but what I did know was that I was abetting a goddamn liar—a con-woman—and as president, I knew better. When I confronted her, she gave me no explanation, but I’d get it out of her as soon as she could speak without pain.
Liv’s weight on my lap dragged me from my thoughts and I peered into her volcanic glass eyes. She used to be a brunette. Once Blondie started hanging around more often, she dyed her hair platinum blonde. It didn’t suit her, but it was a fun change since I’d never have Blondie again. It bored me now. She bored me.
“Where’s your head tonight?” Liv asked me, rolling her torso against mine, pushing our hips together.
Her pleasant, minty breath blew across my face and her warmth grew in my lap. Any other night, I’d be well aroused and ready to go. Tonight, burying myself deep inside Liv was yet to cross my mind. If I was being honest, I didn’t want it.
“All over the place,” I said to her. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About the random Latina woman?” She dipped her head to my neck and kissed me. “You get rid of her.”
Get rid of her. If only it was that easy. Liv slid her hands underneath my shirt and rubbed my torso up and down, massaging me, coaxing me into accepting what she was trying to give. I closed my eyes and thought about her small, slender hands and how she touched me with them. Liv was eager—desperate, almost. Tonight was the first night in weeks I was giving her any attention—if you could call this that.
“Did she sleep in your bed?”
I opened my eyes. There it was—the motive behind her telling me to get rid of Yasmine. She was jealous, but that wasn’t news to me. Liv was always jealous. She was jealous of Blondie and that I was her benefactor in the event of Creed’s death. She was jealous when I spent too much time with the men, and jealous when I spoke to other women. Liv was jealous of every part of my life that didn’t involve her, and I hated that Minnie was on her radar. Liv could be cruel and cunning. She knew better than to fuck with Blondie since she was Creed’s property, but Yasmine was fair game.
“Did she?” she pressed.
To be honest, the night I put Yasmine in my bed, I forgot I put her there. It was the first time I shared a bed in years, and I had a shit sleep. Yasmine didn’t, though. She slept soundly, softly snoring, until the sun was up.
“Yes.”
Liv tensed. My answer bothered her. She’d barely been in my room and had never spent the night. In a way, she was exclusive to me and she felt it gave her leverage over the other women. It also boosted her ego, made her feel like I owed her something. She wasn’t better than any other woman we employed. I didn’t prefer her over anyone, I just wasn’t in the habit of sharing with every patch member in the club.
Sighing, Liv moved her cheek against mine and searched in the dark for my lips. She got close, but I turned my head, not giving her what she wanted. Tonight, her lips weren’t warranted north of my belt.
Her body tightened against mine and she pulled back, no longer moving to the music. “You don’t kiss me anymore?”
“Not in the mood.”
In my defense, I barely kissed her. I could count on one hand the amount of times I’d willingly pressed my lips to hers in the last four years. I was certain the only times I did kiss her, I was drunk off my ass. If I was being honest with myself, kissing Liv drained me. It didn’t fill me with adrenaline or excitement. It was a fucking chore, something I did to keep her from bitching at me.
“I guess I’ll have to get you in the mood, huh?” Liv sat back and peeled off her little black bralette. Her fake breasts sat high and proud and I looked at them. My dick barely twitched. Liv took my hands in hers and placed them on her breasts. I palmed them, squeezed them in my hands until Liv was moving against me once more, acting like my touch was better than crack, as if it breathed life into her.
“You don’t love me anymore?”
I stilled and frowned. Liv and I weren’t friends. I never thought about her. Never wondered where she was or who she was with. I didn’t even care if she didn’t show up to club parties.
The problem with Liv was, although I’d been careful when setting the boundaries of our casual-sex relationship, she allowed herself to fall in love with me. I knew it years ago, but she never said the “L” word aloud until now. Over the years I was careful never to confuse her, never to make her feel that I felt the same way. I didn’t. There was no chance she’d ever be my old lady.
“I never loved you,” I told her, and in the distance, there was a knock on the door. “Not even a little bit.”
Hurt cracked her pretty, mature features and she pulled away from me, crossing her arms over her chest, hiding her breasts from view.
“Never?”
I looked her dead in the eyes so there was no confusion. “Never.”
“Well…” She scratched her cheek as the door to the room opened, letting in a sliver of light. “That fucking hurts, Judge.”
With exceptional timing, Casino approached from the left and cleared his throat. “Prez?”
I flicked my chin at Liv, and she slid off my lap. With her head hung low, and her tail between her legs, she sauntered off. I exhaled in relief. Thank God I didn’t have to talk my way out of that.
“I found her kid.”
My heart stopped and I stared at the small, white paper he held in his hand. She wasn’t lying?
“Turn the lights up,” I demanded, correcting my posture in my armchair.
Casino did as he was told, and I squinted as the bright lights lit up the seedy room.
“I couldn’t find anything on Yasmine, as you know, but I did find something on a Camilla Degas.”
I frowned. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“No, of course not. It took Rah ages, but he found out Yasmine went under a different name while married to Elias.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Fuck knows. Camilla’s records say her son, Nicolás Vergara, died at birth,” he said, crossing the room toward me. “I’d bet my life savings Elias faked the papers. Her son goes by Nicolás Garcia officially.”
I flicked my head toward the paper he held in his hand. “That a photo?”
Casino nodded, then scratched at his forehead. “Did she mention anything about Nicolás? Any medical conditions or—”
“No. Why?”
“The kid is, well, he’s…” He frowned. “He’s different.”
I held out my hand and he gave me the photograph. I stared at the white back of it for a beat, then flipped it over. My lips parted at the sight of her son. Casino spoke, but it went in one ear and out the other. I flickered my stare over Nicolás’s tuft of dark hair, his upward slanting eyelids and the shiniest irises I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help the adoring curl in my lips as I surveyed his short, flat, and wide nose, and his cheeky tongue poking out of his irregularly shaped mouth. He wasn’t what I was expecting at all. He was Down Syndrome.
“I want to know why she had another name. See what you can find out,” I said to Casino and he left me alone with the photograph.
As I sat there looking at the photo, it all fell into place. Minnie was his protector, his only protector, like I was for Nila. The things she said about Elias�
�he couldn’t stomach Nicolás because he wasn’t what he was expecting. No doubt he wanted a strong heir, someone he could pass the family business off to. I guess he felt he felt he couldn’t do that with Nicolás.
Nausea inducing guilt wormed its way through my chest, spreading its anxious roots through my limbs. I lifted myself out of the chair and left the room. It was quiet in the main bar. A member I didn’t know the name of was sleeping against the far wall, his dirty boots propped on a chair. I made a mental note to have Kace hose him off if he was still here when the sun came up.
I moved over to the bar and placed the photograph face down on the oak surface, then I grabbed a glass, put some ice in it, and poured myself a drink. Minnie was telling the truth.
And I treated her like shit.
I took a swig and gritted my teeth.
“I thought you were too important to pour your own drinks?”
I smirked and turned my head to watch Iris as she approached from the right. She stuffed her small hands into the front pocket of her over-sized Devil’s Cartel hoodie. It looked like she stole it. It didn’t suit her. Her features were gentle, and she was so young and pure, but I knew better than to file her in the “little girl” drawer. She could outshoot all the men here and she could kick the fuck out of a heavy bag. I’d seen it with my own eyes. I felt sorry for those who had to go up against her when her initiation came around. If her initiation came around. It was likely her dad would come for us once he found her here. Yakuza—just to add to the list of dangerous men that were gonna descend on the clubhouse in the future.
Iris slipped onto a stool across from me and flicked her chin toward my bottle of whiskey. Her straight, black hair swung around her shoulders and she drummed her finger against the bar. I pondered it. At the tender age of twenty, she was too young for alcohol, but fuck it. I could use her company. I grabbed ice from the ice drawer and put it in a new glass. Then I poured a little whiskey into it and slid it across the bar to her. She caught it in her hand and lifted it to her lips. She sipped it and hissed as she swallowed, making me laugh. Iris had a long way to go before she was a certified biker bitch.
Iris lifted the picture of Nicolás and flipped it over. Her dark eyes lit up the second she saw his smiley face. “Cute kid. Is it hers?”
I nodded.
She lowered the photo and tilted her head. “Why don’t you help her, Judge?”
I downed another mouthful of whiskey and swallow hard. “Because it’s none of my business.”
“I was none of your business.” She glanced around. “I’m pretty sure most of us are here because you made us your business. Because you helped us.”
I leaned on the bar. Iris didn’t know what she was talking about. I turned my back on more people than I helped. If it was too much of a risk, bye. I could count on two hands the members I went out of my way for.
“Yasmine’s ex-husband is a dangerous man,” I told her.
“My father is worse, and you took the risk for me.” Iris pushed Nicolás’s little black and white photograph closer to me. “If you didn’t think you could beat Elias Vergara, you wouldn’t have let her step foot in the clubhouse.”
I stared at the photo. Poor kid was probably scared shitless without his mom…but this was a conversation I needed to have with my main men, not a twenty-year-old prospect. If Creed knew I was consulting with Iris instead of him, I’d never hear the end of it.
“It’s past curfew for you,” I said, taking her glass. “Go to bed.”
Smiling, she slipped from the stool and sauntered back toward the hall where her quarters were.
“Iris,” I called after her and she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “Put the rifle back in the armory before Armi notices it’s missing. You know it drives him up the wall when they’re not where they’re supposed to be.”
Her lips quirked. “Yes, Prez.”
Iris disappeared down the hall and I was left alone with the photo again. It called out to me, to my soul. There was a sparkle in Nicolás’s eyes that begged for help. If the roles were reversed and it was my daughter…what would I do? I knew the answer.
“Fuck,” I swore, lifting my glass to my mouth.
I had to help Yasmine get her son back.
NINE
Y A S M I N E
Harlei was in the room applying new dressings to my burns when Judge entered the infirmary two days later. I don’t look directly at him, but I listen to his heavy boots as he walks, and I see his large, intimidating body as he moves closer to where I’m sitting. I fear what he wants to say and what he’s going to do. Perhaps today’s the day he tosses me out—or worse, he’s found out my darkest secrets. I turn my head and his eyes crinkle at the corners when our gazes meet, as if fighting a wince. I must look awful, but he doesn’t. He looks amazing, as always. Smooth, tan skin with a stubbly jaw of dark hair. I notice he’s not wearing his cut, or his chains, so whatever he wants can’t be club business. Harlei gave me some tips on club life while I’ve been laying here and if a brother isn’t wearing his cut, then it isn’t official club business.
Judge stops a few feet in front of me. “You didn’t tell me your son was D—”
“Judge.” I cut him off, not wanting to hear those words fall from his lips. “Don’t.”
How deep did he have to dig to find out about Nicolás? Not too deep, I assume since he hasn’t shot me dead.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
I swallow hard. He’s referring to Nicolás’s condition and it bothers me that putting a label on my son had the power to change Judge’s mind.
“What difference does it make?” I snap. “Girl, boy, black, white, Down syndrome, or not. A child is a child and you still refused to help me.”
Judge turns his dark, ocean blue eyes on Harlei and she nods. With her slender, subtly tattooed fingers, she finishes dressing the burn on my forearm and leaves the room. With her gone, the tense barrier between Judge and I dissolves. There’s no hiding, no holding back, now there’s no one else in the room. It’s me and him.
“If you’re here to tell me you’ve changed your mind because you found out Nicolás is Down syndrome, save your breath.” I lick my lower lip, hating my voice for getting so thick and raspy. I clear my throat. “I’d rather face my ex-husband alone than bring a bunch of people who only want to help because they pity my son.”
“Pity,” Judge utters, slipping his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. “I don’t pity Nicolás.”
My heart stutters at his name said aloud. I feel like I haven’t heard it in so long in a voice other than my own. Elias didn’t call him by his first name. He opted for horrible nicknames and insults instead. I love the name Nicolás. It’s been at the top of my baby name list since I was nineteen.
“And I did change my mind,” he continues, pulling something out of his pocket—a small, rectangular piece of paper. He looks at it, focusing on whatever is on the other side. “Because I saw him…and I saw my daughter in his face. It reminded me that, although my girl is gone, I’m still a parent. I’m still a dad.”
My lungs tremble with every breath and my sore throat vibrates. I squeeze my teeth together and take deeper breaths through my nose as I stare at him. Judge steps closer and I straighten my spine, cautious. My vision blurs.
“Casino printed this photo off.” He taps a thick finger against the corner, damaging it ever so slightly, and I hold my breath. “I thought you’d want to have it.”
I move for it, but Judge keeps it just out of my reach.
“I’m going to get him back, Minnie. I promise,” he says, and I can’t bring myself to look at him in fear of seeing lies in his eyes or waking up from this dream. “But we go when I say we go.”
I’m ready to go now, injuries be damned. I sniffle. “H-how long?”
“It’ll be weeks before—”
I flick my wide stare to his face. “Weeks? Damon—”
“I have to locate him first, figure out how many me
n he’s got, and work out how to get Nicolás out alive. I’ll be risking the whole chapter, Minnie. The whole club, even. I don’t take that shit lightly.” He takes a step, closing the distance between us. “You have to trust me.”
A lot can happen in a few weeks. Elias thinks I’m dead. What’s stopping him from hurting Nicolás? Or taking him to the other side of the world? The only comfort I have is in the belief he hasn’t already hurt Nicolás.
He holds out the photo. “Do you trust me?”
Do I trust him? I look at his hand, then his face. The deep, woodsy smell of his cologne wafts over me, an anesthetic to my wounds. Damon Judge is a bad man and the list of his infractions is undoubtedly long…but I trust him. I nod my head.
Judge extends the photo of Nicolás, white side up. It’s been so long since I’ve seen his face. I lost what little I had in the motel blast—my phone included. I’m not sure I want to see him, or that I’m ready to see him. I’ve held myself up as best I can, careful not to self-destruct under the pressure. I reach out, ignoring the shake in my hand, and take the piece of paper from Judge’s grasp. It’s not paper at all. It’s smooth and thick, like a photograph. I let out the breath I was holding and turn the picture over. My heart stutters painfully and sinks into the pit of my stomach. Sorrow and grief squeeze through my bones and constricts my chest. Even so, I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips. He’s a good-looking kid, my Nicolás. He has dark, chocolate cotton candy-like hair that sits in a wind-whipped tuft on the top of his head. His big, brown eyes glisten like diamonds in the sun. His bright orbs are nestled under the longest lashes I’ve ever seen and above the cutest button nose. I look at his smile and the sliver of tongue that pokes between his lips. Nicolás has a lopsided smile that could melt even the coldest hearts.
Well, almost.
A choked sob cramps my throat and I clamp my hand over my mouth. Crying for Nicolás feels like something I should do alone, but…I’m tired of being alone, of doing things alone. Since I escaped Elias, Nicolás had been my only companion—and he’s enough, he’s more than enough—but I couldn’t hold adult conversations with him. I couldn’t vent, or cry, or shout. In his presence, I had to put on a brave, happy front, even though I was falling part inside.