A Good Girl's BIKER Baby_A Forbidden Baby Romance

by Cherise West

  “Those lackeys are my brothers,” he growls through the glass. I wrench the key forward, my car revving to life. “What the hell is your problem with the Wardogs?” his knuckles rapping on my passenger-side window, I sigh, laying my head against the steering wheel. God. Please, just go away.

  “Good NIGHT, Mr. St. James,” I repeat through the glass. He knocks a few more times.

  “About what I would have expected from you,” he shouts against the window. He lurks for a few more seconds, grunting in frustration, before I sigh in relief at hearing the throaty roar of his Harley starting up. Curiosity gets the best of me and I lift my head up, watching him through my window. Wind whipping through his mess of hair, the moon along his strong jaw, his arms glistening with sweat as the night begins to cool the blare of a scorching evening sun, he looks my way; our eyes meet. In that moment I swallow hard, time freezing. I don’t know if I should be scared; I don’t know if I should feel this painful, nagging attraction to him that I feel, strangling me.

  “Bye,” he sneers, rolling his eyes as he kicks the bike and hauls off into the night. With a shout, I flip my middle finger out at him. He watches, cocky and amused.

  “Bye!” I shout behind him. Asshole.

  Chapter 5

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  Yes, okay, fine, I get it. Slamming my hand against the face of my phone, I silence the blaring, obnoxious nuclear launch alarm sound set to rouse me at 8am for yet another day slogging away at the docket of cases laid out for Scott and I for the day. No Wardogs to deal with today, thankfully… it’s really not my day to deal with them, especially not after my fun conversation with Tony St. James in the parking lot a few nights ago.

  My hair still damp from the late-night shower yesterday… or I guess, this morning? Buried in briefs and clacking away, scribing notes on my laptop, I lost track of time last night. I got… maybe five hours of sleep? Not enough, regardless, but it’s going to have to be enough to carry me through another day of public urinations and indecent exposures and teenagers filing petty theft charges against one another for borrowing video games a week too long.

  I drag myself out of bed, black underwear from the night prior still clinging to my curves. Looking in the mirror, I frown; that asshole was maybe partially right. My body looks drained; the winter stole all my color from my skin, leaving me pale save for a few patches of rosy blushes, my fiery hair clinging to my back, maybe overdue for a trim and a style. I’ve let the Wardogs case distract me from the ordinary life routine, and the bags beneath my eyes show it. Maybe Josh had a good reason for leaving me. I wrinkle my nose, grabbing my brush and handful of bobby pins and hair ties and get to work, combing my hair into straight, long locks and then wrapping it into a bun. My attempt at professionalism; plus, it can get annoying, swiping bangs away while giving an argument to a jury or a judge. Judge Yance is on today, and given the assortment of half-baked cases crowding out the list for today, I’m sure he’ll be extra grumpy.

  Another yawn passes my lips while I buckle my long pencil skirt onto my waist; navy with faint pinstripes, and a light material, a little more comfortable than my usual outfit. I throw on an undershirt and as I reach for my usual jacket, I huff quietly, remembering that insulting remark from Tony the other night. My suit jacket, looking bad on me?

  Indignant or no, maybe it’s my subconscious, but my hand searches through the closet until I get a grasp on my smaller jacket. A chip on my shoulder I pull it on, resenting that smartass remark the whole time. Okay, I’ll admit, he’s right. I look a lot better with a jacket that fits my slimmer frame. Jerk.

  A glance at my phone tells me I need to be out the door quick. Preoccupied with the moonlit conversation I absentmindedly slip papers into my briefcase; they might be the right ones, they might not. I hope they are. Whatever. He called me ugly. No, this isn’t all I’ve thought about for the last few days, but it sticks with you. How dare he. I make my way to the coffee machine; slipping my mug under the spout I stick a cup in and plunk the button, waiting impatiently for the three minutes the water needs to warm up. Another yawn dulls the annoying BEEP BEEP BEEP nuclear warning-honking of my backup alarm, which I quickly silence. As the machine brews, I glance into my living room mirror, a free-standing antique among cream-colored couches and a mess of pillows and comforters thrown atop one another in the disaster that is my house.

  I’m not ugly. What an insufferable jerk. I smooth out my skirt, letting it cling clean to my legs, accentuating my form. Maybe he’ll show up again today. Maybe not. I hope not. What’s he going to do, insult me again? I straighten my jacket and tuck my undershirt tighter, just to keep it fitted well to my body. So I can look professional. I don’t need fashion advice. Least of all, from him.

  The coffee machine pings and, startled, I reach to grab the mug. Throwing back a gulp of caffeine I exhale deep, the warmth of the liquid helping my drooping eyelids. Throwing my phone in my briefcase, I grab my keys, lain atop the scattered stack of papers on my kitchen table, the whole room looking like a hurricane had just made its way through. Keyring jingling and hands loaded up, I make for the door, throwing it open, locking it up, and treating myself to another sobering shot of coffee before the springtime sunlight blinds my still-waking eyes.

  Birds chirp and I yawn again, the scent of fresh-cut grass and morning dew refreshing after another late night spent walking through industrial wastelands and breathing in stale courtroom air. A lawnmower rumbles down the street; my neighborhood isn’t particularly idyllic - we are in New Jersey, after all, and any houses not crumbling to pieces likely still look worn and ragged - but the sounds and the smells at 8 in the morning remind one of the picturesque ideal of good, suburban American life.

  That’s why the next sound I hear terrifies me to my core.

  I take a gulp of coffee and try to ignore the slow, sputtering rumble making its way through the street. I know Mr. Joseph down the street works on old muscle cars, and my first assumption is that he’s tuning up a V8 or something. But when the sound continues, growing bolder each second, I hustle my walk towards the Honda sitting quiet in my narrow driveway. It’s not just one voice, but many; at least six roaring in unison, spitting smog and backfiring heat into the air. Swallowing hard, I keep myself together. Maybe I’m imagining things. Clicking my doors unlocked, the sound grows louder; deafening. Birds chirping, a sprinkler perking up the browning grass on the lawns next to me; all of it, the volume falls silent as those motors pound and churn their way around the bend, right past my house in a slow, deliberate roll.

  I glance their way. I know he wants me to. He gets what he wants.

  At the head of a pack of Roarin’ Wardogs, the engines rambling loud but their voices deathly silent, sits Billy Boy Nonniwicz, the only one of the gang not stone-faced glaring my way. Instead, he wears the sick, sick smile; that toothy, yellowed one he flashed me in court. The crew crawls at a painfully slow pace through the empty roadway, a place you’d never expect to see or hear the bark and growl of custom-built motorcycles. Flanking Billy Boy I recognize Butcher and Lefty Pete, their eyes glassy. I look away, pretending I didn’t see them; that nothing about them shakes me. I bury my face in my coffee mug, swallowing a deep gulp. They know I saw, and each rolls by watching me. They’re letting me know Billy Boy hadn’t been bluffing.

  I count the bikes in my periphery. Eight in total; behind Lefty Pete I notice Wingman and Donnie Z, right next to Big Bear and Rough-House, some of the scariest muscle the Wardogs have. Rough-House is even bigger than Bart the bailiff, and three times as nasty. His nickname is rather considerate, given his reputation.

  I gulp down my coffee, and by now I’ve finished almost the entire mug, burying myself in my fear. Then, they stop. At Billy Boy’s command, the whole crew of them stop dead in the streets. He watches me. His grin never fades; I can practically smell the cheap whiskey on his breath, the cigarette smoke clinging to his vest. Reflexively I set my briefcase down, thumbing my keys into that punching-dagg
er position again. Eight pairs of eyes, eight messes of muscle and leather and patches set upon roaring chromed steel, begging for one of the others to make the first move. I shake in terror, but keep my head high. They stare at me; I refuse to look. The tension lifts; their bikes quiet, I grip my mug, ready to swing and shatter the porcelain onto an attacker’s head. My makeshift weapons tight in my hands, I slowly pull at the door handle of my Honda.

  VROOM! VROOOM!

  Billy Boy jerks on his bike’s accelerator, revving the engine loud and hard. The sound beats me; I immediately flinch, dropping my coffee mug. It shatters, fragments scattering across the driveway, the splash of coffee left at the bottom sloshing against my leg. Even as the hot liquid gushes against my skin, and my whole torso shudders, I don’t look their way. My eyes close, and I hear Billy Boy laugh, loud and mocking.

  With another chorus of revs, the gang follows suit, jeering at my fear.

  “Wardogs, roll,” Billy barks; a chorus of doggish grunts follows, and as quickly as they had rolled into view, the Wardogs are gone, amid a cascading tide of sputtering, bellowing engine gasps.

  I leave the pieces of mug along the driveway, kicking them far enough that my tires won’t roll across any.I pick up my briefcase, setting it calmly in the passenger seat. I pretend nothing’s happened. Composure startled, I pretend I’m perfectly fine.

  The instant I settle into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut, I break down, tears staining my cheeks rosy-pink. I gasp desperately for breath, laying my forehead against the steering wheel, the tears cascading down my face, dripping onto my skirt. I sob, audibly, letting weeks of this pent-up fear flow out. Emotions take my every thought and I wonder for a second, the same question so many have been asking me since the day I stepped foot into the prosecutor’s office and made it my intention to get every Wardog criminal behind bars.

  “Why am I doing this?”

  My voice weak I speak the words aloud, my chest hurting. Is it worth this? Is Scott right? Am I crazy for having determination? I know in my heart I’m right, but every time one of the Wardogs stares at me, just like Lefty Pete’s glare across the courtroom, I want to wince. I want to run away. I want to leave New Jersey; I want to hide somewhere along the coast, under a different name, with a new life. I want to forget about the Wardogs and put all of this behind me.

  Tears still flowing, I grab my phone from my briefcase’s front pocket. I can’t go in to court like this, eyes stained with tears and my mind a complete wreck. I have to call Scott, get somebody to cover the courtroom. Maybe for good. I don’t know if I can continue like this, afraid of being in my own house; afraid I’ll hear that traumatic roar of an engine coming around the bend, waking me up from a deep sleep in sweat-coated fear.

  I flick my finger across the screen, bringing my phone to life. A Facebook message catches my attention - god, of course, it’s from Lukas. He’s been sending me bad come-ons and goofy videos since that night at Muriel’s, hoping maybe one of them will convince me to sleep with him.

  Hey, boo! Smile more! the message announces, linking to a picture. I click through the thumbnail and there’s Lukas, wearing a goofy pair of comically-huge sunglasses, duckfacing proudly at the camera.

  “What an idiot,” I warble weakly, pushing tears out of my burning-red eyes. I click out, landing me on my homepage. I thumb idly through the feed, sighing at another round of silly politics posts, images from a college friend’s networking mixer… a news article about the Wardogs, me tagged in it by a friend. Check this out, Mara Lewis.

  Then that damn feeling starts to nag at me again. Curiosity. I should be steaming-angry, right now, at him; I have no doubt in my mind he sent Billy Boy over here to intimidate me, but… I wonder…

  Tony St. James, my fingers click out the letters into the search bar. I blush, quietly embarrassed, writing off the redness as stains from the tears. I just want to see what I’m up against. A few dozen results… none of them look like my guy.

  Anthony St. James, I try instead. In an instant I see a new set of results - and there, right at the top, from Jersey City, his profile picture an image of the Wardogs MC patch stitched onto a leather vest. There he is. Hastily I tap on the result, scouring the profile for anything interesting.

  Protected. Most of the information hidden, I click the photos. A page full of pictures of his Harley, his vest, his patches… and, oh, okay. A picture of Mr. St. James at the gym, heavy dumbbells in hand, his shirt off, revealing the sweat-sheened, tight abdomen and the light veins striated through his delicious physique, thorny ink patterns tattooed all along the sides of his torso. I linger on the picture for a good long moment, my breath quivering, before flicking over to the next. Of course it would be another gym picture, taken proudly in the locker room, his bicep flexing into the mirror, his body chiseled like a classical god carved in marble, but tinged with dark color and wicked intent. My legs shift, just the sight of him like that making the temperature in the car a little hotter.

  I flick to the next; him standing next to Billy Boy at… some kind of family event, swim trunks wet and clung to his sculpted legs. God, again, shirtless, hard body gleaming wet in the glow of the sun. He must be some kind of egotist, or something, posting all these pictures, shirtless, strong, sexy like that. My eyes trace along the rough expression, the stubble on his chin, up to his deep, powerful eyes and messy hair. I suddenly get that sinking feeling in my stomach, like I should be getting to work.

  I flick forward to the next picture instead. Him with… two children? His? I couldn’t believe an arrogant criminal like him would ever dream of having a kid. He smiles next to them. Sure. Next picture, he’s holding… a baby? So proud to be an uncle. Coolest kid EVER, reads the caption. My nose wrinkles. Don’t humanize him, Mara. He’s just another criminal. The next picture—

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

  I almost jump right through the roof of the car, my nerves erupting in terror, hearing knuckles rapping on my window. (Am I more worried it’s a Wardog, or that someone might see me thumbing through pictures of Tony St. James?) For a second I think Billy Boy’s come back to complete the job, but instead the wrinkled face of my nosy octogenarian neighbor, Yvonne Crest, smiles through the window at me.

  “Hey neighbor!” Ugh, I should’ve expected her to grill me over the bikers and the coffee mug. I should’ve pulled out of the driveway right away. “What happened here, huh? Drop your morning pick me up?”

  “Hi, Yvonne,” I chirp cheerily, rolling the window down. “Yeah, I guess it just— just, you know, slipped out of my hand.”

  “Well, with all that commotion I heard earlier, I can’t blame you!” she exclaims with a chortle. “I swear, I was back in my garden, heard the sound of Satan himself belching, or leastways what I best imagine that sorta thing would sound like. Didja get a look at who mighta been making all that noise?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” I answer anxiously, “just some— some neighborhood kids, I guess, maybe on their dirtbikes. Maybe Mr. Joseph and one of his old muscle cars again, you know?”

  “Ooooh, I don’t know about that, Mara,” she puts her hands on her hips. “Was a lot louder than any of that.”

  “Excuse me, please, Yvonne, I’m gonna be late for work,” I stammer, “I just need—”

  “Hey, ya know, Mara, I saw you on the TV the other night!” Yvonne exclaims. I sigh.

  “Yeah, channel seven really did a number on me, didn’t they,” I joke nervously.

  “You were talking about your job… prosecutor, right?” she says, her voice his nasally nag. I nod. “And the Roarin’ Wardogs. That’s Quentin Hill’s old gang, isn’t it?” she hums.

  “The same,” I answer impatiently, plunging the keys into my ignition and starting the car up.

  “Oooh, dangerous boys. Quentin was always a trouble man,” she frowns. “My son went to school with him. Jersey City Boys, that’s what he and William… old William what’s his name,” she ponders.

  “Nonniwicz?”
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br />   “Oh, that’s him, old Willy,” she recalls. I snort a laugh. Willy. That helps with the anxiety some. “He and Willy got in a lot of trouble. Then they got on the motorcycles, and it just got worse. Mara, you’re not dealing with them, are you?”

  “I’m trying to put them in jail, in fact, Mrs. Crest,” I respond, throwing my car into reverse.

  “Oh,” she answers warily. “Well, you be careful, okay? That’s a dangerous game to play. Willy always had a lot of trouble. Be careful, be careful,” she repeats. I let my foot off the gas, the car drifting backwards before she can interject something else into the conversation and hold me here for another twenty minutes.

  “I’ll watch out for myself, okay, Yvonne?” I promise her with a smile.

  I wish I was telling the truth. After this morning, though, who knows. Maybe I can’t watch out for myself. Not when I don’t know how Tony St. James will come after me.

  Chapter 6

  “Good night, Rita,” I sigh, pushing towards the front door. Another late night at court, the bags under my eyes deeper; the fear of leaving the building worsening. I’d probably be terrified, if I wasn’t so tired I could collapse.

  “You be careful out there, Ms. Lewis,” Rita nods when I brush past the security desk. I’ve lost count of how many people have told me that over the last few weeks. Things have been quiet on that front since Billy Boy and his crew rode past by house a few days ago; they haven’t even shown themselves at their brothers’ indictments or hearings. Yesterday Lefty Pete came in for an evidence hearing; Maury, a hopelessly-overworked public defender and a friend of mine, said the same thing after the hearing.

  “Watch out for yourself, okay, Mara?” he warned. With all the people pleading with me to be careful - people who probably know better than I do about this whole mess - maybe I should start listening to them.