A Good Girl's BIKER Baby_A Forbidden Baby Romance

by Cherise West

  “Please, Tony, you don’t have to do this,” I whisper. “I can call—”

  “Yes I do. I have to protect you,” he mumbles. “I have to protect our baby.”

  “What was that?” Pete asks, holding the gun towards us.

  “You heard me,” Tony doesn’t stand down for even a second. “I have to protect Mara. And our baby.”

  “Ahah! I knew it,” Billy guffaws.

  “Boss was right,” Butcher shakes his head.

  “He knocked her up!” one of the other brothers exclaims.

  “Bastard turned his back on the ‘dogs!” Another cries out.

  “I didn’t turn my back on my brothers, my brothers turned on me,” Tony roars in response. “Billy Boy set me up, and you’re all going to turn guns on a brother for him? For a fucking coward who runs to the police when he can’t face his problems like a real Wardog? The man who killed his blood brother, Quentin Hill, to try to take command. The man who’d set you all up in a heartbeat, brothers.”

  “I wasn’t banging any prosecutors,” Billy wryly replies, turning a pistol in Tony’s direction. “And if Q saw what you’ve been trying to do with the Wardogs since the day your plane landed from fuckin’ sissyville out west, he’d be the one pointing this gun at you himself. What do you think, boys?” From the look on Billy’s face, he expected a resounding Wardogs howl of support. Butcher and Lefty Pete cock their guns, black paint gleaming in the headlights, barrels pointed clear at Tony. He doesn’t flinch. Silence follows. Billy’s expression cracks for the first time in as long as I’ve known - the grin fades. Anger creases his brow.

  “I asked the Wardogs what they thought!” he exclaims. Still, a stiff silence. Butcher and Lefty falter, glancing back at the rest of the gang.

  “I’m not turnin’ a gun on a brother, Billy,” a voice rings out. Stepping from the shadows, I see Wingman, pistol held back. He holsters the weapon, shaking his head. “’Specially not the man who saved my life. You can call Tony what you want. He’s still a brother to me.”

  “Wing! What the fuck are you doing?!” Another man - tough-built Rough-House, interjects angrily. “Tony cashed out! He’s not a brother no more, ‘specially not when he’s sleeping with the law.”

  “A Wardogs brother who saves my ass the way Tony did is a brother for life, Rough,” Wingman says. A quiet chorus of grunts follows, and in the shadows I see men laying down their weapons, some marching back to their bikes.

  “Billy, you’ve got a lot to answer for. You answer for it at the clubhouse, brother,” Scare warns, looming tall over the rest. “We’re not killing Tony on your say-so.”

  “They’re right,” Roadrat adds, shaking his head in disgust. “Wings, Rough, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “You fucking cowards!” Billy exclaims. “I don’t need your approval, or your held. I brought half of you disrespectful bastards into the club! I brought you up! You’d be doping on the streets if I didn’t save you,” Billy screams. “No, forget the Wardogs. Cowards. Every one of you. Time to do what I shoulda done when you was a teenager,” he scowls, pulling back the hammer on his pistol. My eyes widen and I wince, fearing the sound of a shot ringing through the night.

  Instead, I hear the scream of sirens piercing the air. The Wardogs scramble as at least half-dozen police cruisers round the corner and surround the gang from all sides. Bikes jump to life; a few stragglers rocket past in a blur of chrome, but through the bright lights and the engines and the shouting I can see Billy Boy dropping his gun, hands held high. Tony stands strong in front of me, watching it go down - his brothers, in cuffs, face down against the driveway. Where they belong.

  “Jesus! Mara,” I hear a familiar voice - Renee Bruno pushes through the commotion, approaching Tony and I. “Mara, w— isn’t that Tony St. James?” she asks, glaring at the boss, hand on her weapon, about to draw.

  “Hi,” Tony responds, nonplussed.

  “N-n-no, Renee, don’t— you don’t need to draw on him, he’s not armed,” I shout, “he’s f— he’s with me!”

  “He’s with— what?” Renee blinks.

  “Actually, I am armed. Here, officer,” Tony murmurs, drawing a pistol from his waistband. My eyes widen.

  “You— you had a gun? The whole time?” I ask, voice shivering.

  “I couldn’t use it,” he shakes his head. “Not with you here. You were right. We’re past all that shit, Mara. I’m out of the Wardogs, and I’m out of the life.”

  “Okay, wh— what just happened, here?” Renee blinks.

  “Mara, you should’ve let me send a detective by your house, we’re lucky that old woman neighbor of yours called us when she did—” Greg approaches through the madness, a dozen officers muscling Butcher, Pete, Billy, and a few others into the cruisers. “—is that St. James? Figures, he gets out on bail, he comes over here to try to get at you. I’ll cuff the son of a bitch—”

  “No,” Renee stops Greg in mid-step. “They’re together. I… guess. Somehow.”

  “…What,” comes Greg’s flat response.

  “Look, look, I know there’s a lot to tell,” I stammer, stepping out from behind Tony. He holds his hand across my stomach defensively; I squeeze his fingers, letting him know we can trust these two. “…let’s just… you guys book the scumbags and we can talk at the station, okay?”

  “I sure hope so,” Greg answers, confused.

  “It’ll all make sense,” I nod, confident. “I promise.”

  Chapter 21

  Monday morning at the Jersey City prosecutor’s office. Usually a day I dread. The day Scott Stone sets our ‘agenda’ for the week - which, generally means, he assigns how much of his workload Shapiro deals with, how much I deal with, and how many hours this week he’ll be spending golfing with the state office and drinking coffee while pretending to listen to our briefs and arguments in the courthouse.

  Today, though, I stride confidently into the conference room, coffee in hand, smirk on my face. Scott hasn’t arrived yet - probably still screwing around in his office, flirting with some disinterested intern through LinkedIn. Andrew Shapiro shuffles through a stack of paper nearly as tall as the table, tie on tight, cardboard-looking black and white suit swaying against his skinny frame, eyes beneath his thick-framed glasses perking in anxious excitement at seeing me. Then, of course, the expression changes quick on seeing I’m not carrying anything except my coffee.

  “Hey, Mara, we’ve got the briefs to sort for tomorrow, Scott asked— you’re looking awfully calm for a Monday,” he comments, laughing, though his voice stays frantic. “Uhm, did you. Did you have the briefs for the cases for today? And tomorrow? It’s a big deal, remember. St. James’s first hearings start tomorrow, and Scott is going to nail you to a wall over those, especially after last week,” Shapiro cautions.

  “I’ll be fine, I think, Andy,” I comment calmly.

  “Fine? You’re not freaking out or anything?” panic-stricken, his eyes widen. “I mean, there’s a lot— this kind of your life work, isn’t it? Scott’s going to really put you through the ringer on the Wardogs thing, I heard the state office—”

  “Really, Andy, it’s fine,” I laugh.

  “It’s fine? I mean— and who’s Andy?” he raises a brow.

  “You?” I answer with a chuckle.

  “I mean, it’s not that I don’t like it, you’re just… well, you’re not acting like yourself?” he shrugs. “I’m glad you’re looking and feeling zen, and all, but we’ve got a lot to take care of this week, and you know Stone’s never helpful in getting—”

  “Not helpful?” Scott finally decides to wander in from his office; Shapiro quickly falls silent. “You were saying something, Mr. Shapiro?”

  “I mean, I was, just—” Shapiro smiles.

  “I think he was saying you’re sometimes more of a pain than a pleasure to work with, Scott,” I interject.

  “Ms. Lewis. I’m glad you’ve decided to join us, after the fun we had last week, and in general over the last fe
w weeks,” Scott scolds. “You think you might be able to stick with us on the cases we’ve got put together this week? They’re your messes after all. You ought to be cleaning them up.”

  “Actually, I figured you’d want to hear this from me, before you hear it from someone else - probably the state prosecutor, or the state bar association’s ethics officers, or something,” I shrug. “I’m going to be formally recusing myself from prosecution in the Anthony St. James case.”

  “What?!” Shapiro and Scott both exclaim in unison. I must look terribly smug, hands in the pockets of my jacket, shrugging.

  “Like I said. It’s better you hear it from me than get half of the story from someone dragged in off the street,” I respond casually. “Especially from one of the men pulled in last night.”

  “Last night?” Scott asks, thumbing through the pages of his briefcase.

  “You might actually have to look at some of the arrest reports from the precinct sometime today, Scott,” I state calmly. “Either way, Tony St. James’s prelim is tomorrow and I can’t be a part of it. I’m invoking the importance of holding oneself to ethical standards and avoiding conflicts of interest.”

  “Conflict of interest? Your issue with the Wardogs isn’t really a conflict of interest,” Shapiro protests. “I’d say it’s a pretty legitimate reason to be a part of the process. It’s how justice gets done.” Scott just shakes his head.

  “You choose to do that now, years into the investigation of the Wardogs? I’ve been telling you from the beginning,” Scott grumbles.

  “It’s not about my mother, or anything related to that incident, that’s leading me to recuse myself,” I admit, no shame in my voice. “Tony St. James and I have a relationship outside the bounds of my professional capacity that could jeopardize my ability to adequately represent the people of this state in this case.”

  “Did something happen?” Shapiro asks, worried. “Wardogs grouse and threaten, but did St. James actually show up at your door or something? Is that who they dragged in this morning?”

  “She’s probably sleeping with him,” Scott mutters in disdain.

  “Yep,” I chirp with a sigh.

  “Very funny,” Shapiro rolls his eyes.

  “What’s funny about it?” I ask deadpan. With a grin on his lips, Shapiro’s expression tilts to confusion.

  “…You’re not kidding are you?” he says in disbelief. “You’re not. You’re not kidding.” Scott looks up from his coffee and his papers with a brow raised.

  “She’s not kidding?” he echoes.

  “I don’t think she is,” Shapiro comments flat.

  “Why would I be?” I ask, incredulous. “Do you know me to be the joking type?”

  “I mean, you certainly have a smart mouth,” Scott sneers, “but— you’re really not kidding? You’re sleeping with the leader of the Roarin’ Wardogs?”

  “Former leader. And yes,” I correct him diligently. “We’re in a close, personal relationship. I’m pregnant with his child.”

  “Preg-pregnant,” Scott mouths the words.

  “You’re pr— pregnant? And you didn’t say anything?!” Shapiro asks, voice harried. “Mara, that’s— well, now I guess I can see why you’re recusing yourself. It’s a good thing you let us know. You know, that you’re PREGNANT.”

  “What do you mean, former leader?” Scott shakes his head. “What, are you an expert on gang politics now?” he asks skeptically.

  “Did you miss the part about, me being in an intimate relationship with Tony St. James?” I sigh. “Is it really all that hard to believe? We had chemistry. He kissed me. Or I kissed him… I don’t really remember. Either way, it happened, and though I’ve been trying to forget about it and keep the case against the Wardogs moving, I realized I loved him.”

  “And you realized what was it, two weeks ago? That all the nausea and the sick days were signs of pregnancy, did you?” Scott’s eye twitches. “What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking, Scott,” I shrug. “I think a lot. Too much, sometimes. I thought too much about Tony St. James, and the things I presumed to know about him - about what he did. I assumed he’d carry on Quentin Hill’s traditions. The kind of work we knew the Wardogs for. Sometimes it helps not to think so much, but to feel, instead,” I state boldly. “You should try it.”

  “So you feel that Tony St. James isn’t the leader of the Wardogs, is that it?” he opines, scolding. “Excuse me if I don’t take a biker ganger at his word.”

  “You don’t have to. In fact, you shouldn’t now, should you? Being as I’d imagine you’ll be taking on the case against the Wardogs, what with me recusing myself and all,” I chime, cheerily.

  “Shapiro, we’ve got work to do, I guess,” Scott sighs. “I should’ve expected this much, honestly. It’s the kind of trouble you run in to, dealing with women on your team. Angry women, with vendettas, and fire in their stomachs, fresh law degrees in their hands. And they fall in love, they move on to children and they move out of the office, leaving their messes for the lifers.”

  “You know, Scott, you should honestly be thanking me,” I stay sarcastically, painfully chipper. “I’ve just dumped into your lap the opportunity to take credit, single-handedly - because we know you won’t give Andy any credit - for the biggest case against the Roarin’ Wardogs this court has seen, one of the sweetest, slam-dunkiest victories you’ll ever have in your career. You can play golf and have coffee with the entire state office after this case, as often as you want, I’d bet,” my face wrinkles briefly in anger, though I keep the cheer bright on my face. “Just think about it. Taking a case from that annoying, incompetent coworker, with her silly family vendettas and her baby-crazy head, and claiming it was your work the whole time! Not that you don’t do that every week in this office, Scott,” I huff, “but now you don’t even have to deal with me fighting you on it. It’s my gift to you, Scott.”

  “So you think I’m supposed to be happy about this?” he grunts. “How gracious of you, putting my office in a potentially compromising position because you had to go and sleep with a perp, and then burying me under a pile of paperwork. I’m so much happier for it!” he exclaims sarcastically.

  “Maybe if you worried less about liking everything on Laura the secretary’s Facebook, and more about putting away hardened criminals, you’d be better off,” I snipe back at him. Andy cracks up, but stifles the laugh quickly. His face twisting in rage, Scott stares me down hard. I refuse to flinch.

  “I’m glad you’re recusing yourself. That way, you can watch from the gallery while your new boyfriend gets led off to jail,” he grumbles.

  “If that’s what justice requires, I look forward to seeing it,” I quip back to him. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” God, I look so smug. I feel so smug. But shouldn’t I? Who gets to tell their boss off like that, knowing she’s right the whole time? I flick my phone to life to check my text messages - Greg’s name glows on the screen, and I pull open our conversation as I stride down the hallway, hearing Scott’s peels of soaring rage echo down the hallway. Poor Shapiro. I feel sorry for piling Scott’s ire onto his back, but maybe after this is all over he and I can both tell Scott off together, for good.

  Are we good? I ask Greg.

  Better than good. Confessions. Wardogs in cuffs or on the run. Should be fine for St. James. Still not sure. Hope you’re right about him, Greg types back.

  I am, I reply. I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes, emerging from the office, morning sun hot on my face. The temperatures and streaking sunshine remind me that summertime rolls closer every day.

  “Who are you trying to hide from in those ridiculous sunglasses?” His Harley pulled up to the curb, Tony waits for me, leather jacket and tight leather pants clung to his muscles.

  “Who are you trying to look cool for, in that leather? It’s hot as hell out here,” I smirk. “You must be sweating bullets.”

  “Hush,” he scowls, “I might not be a Wardog anymore, but I’ll be
damned if I let Billy Boy hijack the look or the patch. I look good in leather, anyway.”

  “I guess you do,” I admit coyly, stepping down the curb with a sassy sway in my hips. “Maybe I just look good in sunglasses, too, then?”

  “You don’t,” he responds nonchalantly. I scoff, slapping his shoulder.

  “Rude,” I growl.

  “Just honest,” he retorts. “You like honesty, right? I’m trying it on for a while. Feels good.”

  “So you’re being honest in admitting I look terrible? Good to know, I guess,” I joke. He takes me into his arms, squeezing my against his chest, kissing my forehead.

  “Just honest that sunglasses look terrible on you. They cover up your eyes. I like your eyes,” he purrs, voice sultry as he presses his lips against mine, claiming them with the same feral hunger - the hunger he had as a Wardog, a passion always renewed for me. I’ll never get enough of him. “I like your eyes a lot.”

  “I… I love you, Tony,” I shake in his arms.

  “That, and when you wear those big sunglasses you look like you’re very poorly trying to hide who you are and fooling nobody,” he adds, smirking against my lips. “You’d be the worst criminal ever.”

  “Ah!” I sigh, incredulous, slapping his shoulder again. “I guess it’s a good thing I don’t need to be, then, isn’t it?”

  “With the things you said you were going to tell your boss, you might need to start,” Tony mutters. “You sure you’re going to have a career after this?”