BABY BLUES_Satan Seed MC

by Naomi West

  “Oh, no, I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’m just browsing.”

  It’s a weird thing to say in a pharmacy, considering the fact that most people go to the pharmacy with something very specific in mind to buy—not something to browse. The woman gives me a peculiar look for this fact, but she lets me go on my way without too much of an extra fuss.

  I browse more aisles, almost avoiding the one that I need before I finally buck up, take a breath, and plunge down it.

  There’s a great irony in the fact that the condoms are in the same place as the pregnancy tests. Rows and rows of magnums and pleasure sensation rubbers and special lubricant this, ribbed for her that, are right beside bright pink- and pastel-colored tests.

  It occurs to me that I’ve never had to take a pregnancy test before, and as I stare at the numerous brands and boxes, I have no idea which one I’m supposed to get. Which is the most accurate? Is cheaper still okay, or should I spring for a more expensive brand?

  I realize that I haven’t thought this through quite as thoroughly as I should have, and I spend the better part of the next ten minutes reading the backs of each brand to weigh their claims against each other and figure out what’s the most cost effective yet efficient brand.

  In the end … I buy one of each. I’ll just take all of them and average out the results if they end up being different across the board. Of course, I didn’t think to get a basket before going on my great search, and end up walking to the front counter with my arms laden down with pregnancy tests.

  The same woman that greeted me before is there. Her eyes widen a little upon seeing my spoils, but that’s the only indication of her shock before she schools the looks off her face and smiles at me.

  “Find everything you need?”

  “Oh, yeah. I think this about covers all my bases …”

  The woman gives another small smile, and starts ringing up all my tests. I’m a little glad that she isn’t bothering with asking me all the nitty gritty details. I don’t have anything remotely normal to tell her about this pregnancy-that-might-not-be, and I don’t have to tell her anything, anyway!

  Why am I so defensive with myself? Who knows. Maybe it’s pregnancy hormones.

  With my (pricy) purchase, I head home. I drive a little faster than what’s probably necessary, but not fast enough to get me into trouble. I park a little lopsided in my drive before I head inside, and go straight for my bathroom.

  Dumping out all the tests onto my counters, I stare down at them, as though they’ve all personally offended me in some sort of way—which one do I start with? The expensive ones first and work my way down? Or the cheaper ones and work my way up to potential higher accuracy?

  I grab a random one, hike up my skirt, and squat over my toilet.

  Halfway through the tests, I run out of pee. I go to my kitchen and fill up a cup of water, chug it, and then fill it a second time and do the same thing. Repeatedly. It’s probably silly, but it fills my bladder quickly enough that I can pee on a couple more sticks before I’m standing with a skirt up around my belly, with more tests than I realized I grabbed now sitting and fermenting themselves on my sink.

  Well, Lena. This is the position that you’ve gotten yourself into.

  I put my skirt in a more acceptable position and wait. Fifteen to twenty minutes is what all the tests need in order to give me a positive or a negative reading. Fifteen or twenty minutes where I spend that time going about my house and doing menial tasks just to keep myself from standing and staring at the sticks that are littered all over my counter.

  I’ve got my phone set, and when it goes off, I jump, running to the bathroom. My heart races as quickly as my feet pad against the wooden floors, and I close the door behind me—as if to get a feeling that this is my moment, my moment alone.

  I pick up the first test.

  Pregnant.

  My heart skips a beat, and I pick up another one. It’s got two little pink lines on it, and when I consult the box, that means that it’s an affirmative reading.

  The next one has a little blue plus. Pregnant.

  I go through each of the pregnancy tests, with none of them giving me a negative reading. None of them giving me even half a shadow of a doubt that this is … real. This is happening.

  Oh my god. I’m going to be a mother.

  I almost faint then and there. I can feel the air leave me and the lightheadedness settles in fast, but I grip the sink and lean over it.

  I know that we’ve been having sex a lot, but I honestly didn’t think that I would become pregnant this quickly. It’s not a bad thing, but it is surprising.

  Little by little, a grin spreads over my face. I start to giggle, and before I know it, there’s a full-blown laugh that’s rumbling up from my stomach that I can’t and don’t bother to try to contain.

  Oh my god.

  I’m going to be a mother.

  Booster’s going to be thrilled, and I shove my hand into my pocket, retrieving my phone. I’m about to dial him when I pause.

  I shouldn’t tell him this over the phone. I need to do it in person. He’s the one that came to me about having a child. He’s the one that put all of this into motion. Without him …

  Without him I would be just Lena. A schoolteacher. Living out the motions of teaching other people’s children instead of having any of her own.

  I owe it to myself, and to Booster, to do this right. It may be an unorthodox coupling, but it’s the one that we have, and I’m not about to sit here and ruin it by telling a man that he’s a father over the phone.

  I smile to myself, letting my hands settle on my belly. It’s going to be swollen big with a child in nine months.

  Truly, it’s probably insane. But I’ve never been happier in my entire life.

  I can’t wait to tell Booster.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Booster

  There’s one woman in my life right now that I want skimping herself into my office at the clubhouse, nothing but a tiny little miniskirt on and a tube top that barely holds her tits.

  And it’s not Pixie.

  I don’t know what’s gotten into the girl lately. All she does is try to hop on my dick every time she sees me. Usually that kind of thing isn’t off the table, but shit. I don’t have time to keep dodging Pixie between club business and trying to get as much free time as I can possibly manage with Lena.

  But here I am, looking over the books to make sure that everything is in order, when Pixie waltzes herself into my office, tits damn near hanging out and her skirt short enough to be a pair of denim panties.

  “Hey, Booster. You got time?”

  There was one point where that sultry little voice would have gotten my dick hard. Now, it grates my damn nerves.

  “No, I don’t.” I don’t even bother to look up after my initial glance while I keep crunching numbers left and right, making sure that anything and everything stays in order for me. This is more important than Pixie having a hole that needs filling, and while I don’t hate her, she’s about to get on my last nerve.

  “Oh, come on, Boost.”

  I hear the clack of her heels against the floor. She comes over to me, sliding her hand over my shoulders before she pulls back, moving my chair back from my desk.

  I take in a very measured breath.

  Agitated, I watch as Pixie puts herself between me and my work. Her hips sway to the motion of music that isn’t playing, and she grins at me with lipstick-stained lips. My stare isn’t interested; I know that it has to be annoyed, but it doesn’t deter her.

  She starts by sliding her top down, letting her breasts come out. Both of them are full, pierced swells of womanly flesh. She’s got a heart on the left tit that she traces with a manicured finger.

  I wish that I was interested. It would save her the embarrassment of going through with this.

  Next, she turns around, wiggling her ass in my face. I roll my eyes and huff as she slides her skirt up, and panties down. She wiggles out of the
thin, lacey things, and her bent-over position puts her pussy up and proud. She’s got nice and neatly trimmed lips, and they’re glossy and wet; she’s turned on.

  I shake my head. I guess at least one of us is.

  Pixie turns around and slips her panties into my kutte. I grimace a little; that’s not where I want those, but whatever. She slides herself into my lap, and starts rocking her hips.

  “Pixie—”

  “Come on, Booster. Don’t you want to have a little fun? All you’ve been doing is work, work, work, nonstop—”

  “Yeah, because I’m the only one around here that knows how to do work—real ass work. Now get. Off.”

  I literally put my hands on her hips and lift her off me, pushing her away from me before I slide close to my desk once more. She gives me a dejected, bitten-lip look, and I roll my eyes again.

  “I said fucking no, Pixie. I don’t know how many times I need to tell you. It’s pathetic to throw yourself at someone that’s not fucking interested in you, you understand? You get that?”

  She nods.

  “Good. Now get the fuck out of my office before I kick you out.”

  “My underwear—”

  “You can walk around without them since you want to invade my space while I’m working.”

  She doesn’t say anything to that, and that’s just as fucking fine with me. I know it’s a little mean, but shit. I’ll apologize when I’m not annoyed as hell over her constant advances.

  I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with her. It isn’t like she doesn’t have someone to give her attention. Happy’s always ready to give her his attention.

  I shake my head. Whatever. It’s not my problem as long as she stops coming on to me. There’s one person that’s on my mind right now—and one day she’s going to be the mother of my child.

  I get back into work, and it’s not half an hour later that there’s someone else at my door, knocking.

  “Boss man?”

  I groan.

  “What do you want, Happy?”

  Instead of just telling me on the other side of the door, he lets his ass into my office. I can’t remember when he got so annoying, but I’m beginning to think that regardless, it’s happening more often than not, and I don’t particularly like it. I look up at him.

  At least I know he’s not going to try and give me a goddamn striptease.

  Happy walks in, closing the door behind him. He stands in front of my desk, looking like he’s got something to say—but he doesn’t just outright say it. He kind of just stares at me, biting his lip pensively.

  After a while, I get fed up waiting.

  “What?” I ask. “I have shit to do, Happy. Between you and fucking Pixie—”

  “You still thinking about that kid thing, Boost?”

  My brow goes up.

  “What’s it to you if I am, Happy? I don’t think it’s any of your business?”

  “Well I just wanted to know, you know. How it’s gonna affect the club. You seem a little distracted lately—”

  “I haven’t been falling behind on anything, have I?”

  “No, but—”

  “And I’ve kept everyone in line when there are skirmishes and petty little fights, no?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Happy huffs.

  “You know what the problem is. You’ve been running things, but you haven’t been around. You kinda … you know …” His eyes flick away from me. “You’ve been putting most of your time into that dame of yours and all this baby stuff, and the boys—”

  “You been going around airing my business around, Happy?” I ask. “It’s nobody’s goddamn business but my own what I’m doing with my time.”

  “I haven’t been airing no business, but that doesn’t change the fact that people are noticing you’re not all that present! Now like you used to be. It’s … different. You’re obviously different. Look, Boost.”

  Happy leans onto my desk, looking me in the eye, like he’s being all serious or something. I’m not really impressed by the display, and I don’t see why he thinks I would be—there’s nothing impressive about a man that has to posture and hem and haw in order to make himself think that he’s big, bad, and tough.

  Happy is none of these things.

  “Boost. Just forget this lady, all right? It’s silly. You’re young, anyway. What do you need a kid for? If it’s a matter of getting your dick wet, there’s tons of girls around the club that would bend over for you—”

  “It’s not about getting my dick wet, Happy,” I interrupt, feeling like it’s the millionth time during this conversation that I’ve done so. “It’s about getting something that I want, which again, is none of your business. You can either deal with it or stuff it, but I don’t have to explain myself to you, and I’m not going to explain myself to you. Are we clear?”

  He looks like he’s going to protest, and I almost wish that he fucking would. It would give me an excuse to exert my power over him—put him in the place that he has so diligently forgotten up until now.

  Happy doesn’t give me that satisfaction, however. Instead, he stands up and stands back, nodding with a frown.

  “Of course, Booster. Right. You’re right.”

  Damn right, I am.

  “Well, now that we’ve cleared up the obvious, you can leave now so I can finish my work. You know, the shit that I do to keep this club running?”

  “Of course. My bad. I’m sorry.”

  There’s something bitter in his voice, but it’s not something that I really care about, either. He can be bitter all he wants. I’m doing what’s best for me. What I want. If he has a problem with that? He can grow a spine and make something of it. I have better things to worry about than him.

  ***

  Getting time to spend with Lena dwindles down until it’s almost nonexistent. She’s got exams that she has to prepare for at the school, and I have to deal with the Wylde Ones.

  I begin to realize a few things.

  With the looming idea of a family in my near future, I take the time to think about what exactly I want with my kid. When I started this with Lena, I wanted an heir. Someone to take over the Wylde Ones. Now I’m not so sure that I want a kid for that purpose—I’m not even sure how much longer I want to stay with the crew if I’m honest.

  See, there’s only so many things an MC is good for—fucking shit up, or fixing shit the old-fashioned way. Sometimes you get a hit of both. Sometimes it’s the extremes of one or the other. But it’s never anything different, and after a while … after a while that kind of lifestyle starts to stagnate, and it’s just not any fun anymore.

  It’s a damn drag to think that it’s come to that with me and the Wylde ones, but the more I try to picture me, Lena, and a baby fitting into this lifestyle that I’ve built, I find myself questioning my motivations more and more. I haven’t even brought Lena around the boys and there’s plenty of ol’ ladies that I’ve met and that are a deep-rooted part of the MC. So what’s stopping me from doing the same thing with Lena and making it official in front of them that she’s mine and that what I have going on with her is something that they’re going to have to welcome and accept?

  Is this what I actually want?

  Is this the right choice for a child?

  It has me distancing myself from the Wylde Ones more and more and giving Happy more charge—it makes him fucking tickled pink just to be told that he’s going to be in charge of doing a run, or making sure a punishment is carried out.

  Good for him.

  It’s not even that I hate the Wylde Ones. They’re my brothers. I’ve ridden with them for years, and they’ve followed me for just as long. But there comes a point … where there’s no passion for it. That’s the worst thing for an MC president to carry around. A lack of passion.

  But there are things I am passionate about.

  Lena.

  I stand waiting in the parking lot of her school for her
to come out at the end of the day. She drives home now, of course, but I’m making one of those sappy gestures that you see in the movies. I’ve been wondering if I should—after all, we’re not together, together. We’re not screwing anyone else, but we’ve never established that we’re … whatever. I told her she could tell people whatever she wanted about us, but that wasn’t setting things down between the two of us, solid.

  Anyway. I’m in the parking lot of her school, holding a few roses I bought from a side vendor while I was riding through town. It’s an assortment—red and white and pink. I don’t know shit about roses, just that women like them, and they smell halfway decent most of the time. I don’t have any cheesy poetry to spit at her, but I don’t think I’d impress her with any, anyway. She’s an English teacher that’s sharp as a whip and she’d smell the bullshit a mile away.