A Good Girl's BIKER Baby_A Forbidden Baby Romance

by Cherise West

  “Is there any relevance here? Are we discussing family vacations? My wife and I took a pleasant trip to Barbados last summer, but I don’t see the point in bringing it up in court,” Yance barks.

  “Mr. St. James, you left in—” Lukas continues undeterred.

  “August, three years ago,” Tony says.

  “And, Mr. St. James, you spent the next three years, outside of the state of New Jersey, correct?” Lukas questions. “And yet, somehow, your Facebook account - the one that lays at the heart of the prosecution’s case against you for the charges at hand - continued to post pictures, of New Jersey; pictures dated after your departure. Would you maybe wonder why that is, Mr. St. James?” Lukas grins like a stupidly giddy kid, looking back into the gallery at me. I nod, expression stony. We’re not through yet.

  “I haven’t been in control of that account for years. It’s active for club business,” Tony answers, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Do we have any proof of that?” Scott interrupts. Yance glares at him, causing the weaselly attorney to recoil.

  “It’s a reasonable question. A question a jury may be interested in answering,” Yance responds. “Though, Mr. Stone, you’ll correct me if I’m wrong - you did go to law school, after all, but the burden of proof in criminal cases, including the gathering of evidence to convince both a jury - and myself - lays with the state, does it not?” Yance crows with searing sarcasm. “What other evidence do you have, Mr. Stone?”

  “I’m not done yet,” Lukas insists, “in fact, Mr. St. James, who is in charge of that particular account? Anyone you know? Did you leave the information to someone?”

  “Yeah. Bill Nonniwicz,” Tony answers. Scott and Andrew shuffle wildly through the papers scattered on their table, shouting in hushed tones at one another. “Left it to Bill when I left. He took care of club meetings, business, and social stuff. Made sure I still looked to be taking care of business in Jersey. For the club’s sake, and to deter law enforcement investigations into club activities.” A quiet sea of surprise gasps whispers its way through the gallery. I smile softly.

  “Your honor, there’s no proof—” Scott blurts.

  “What other evidence do you have, here, Mr. Stone?” I can see snark in Lukas’s eyes, sassing across the front of the courtroom while the murmurs and the shocked surprise worsen. “Mr. Stone?”

  “Your honor, we have—”

  Scott’s protest falls silent beneath the creak of the courtroom doors. My heart fills warm as I shoot out of my chair, and when my Greg and Renee step through the doors, fulfilling my hopes, I feel almost ready to faint.

  “Can we help you?” Yance asks Greg, voice booming. “Mr. Porter, I did insist on no circuses. What is this?”

  “Your honor, Greg Valence, detective, Jersey City PD,” Greg nods, hustling towards the front of the court.

  “Renee Bruno, patrol officer, aaaand…” behind her, in their orange jumpsuits and shackles from wrists to ankles, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see cops flanking Billy Boy, Lefty Pete, and Butcher, who struggles indignantly against the direction of the officers leading him. Billy Boy’s eyes scan the gallery. He finds me. I grin to him.

  For the first time since I saw Billy Boy, right here in the courtroom, he scowls. No toothy, yellowed grin from Billy Boy this time. I’m the one grinning.

  “Officers, I believe the county jail is that way,” Yance points back out the door.

  “These are members of the Roarin’ Wardogs, your honor, and I find it critically important that I get to conference for a moment with Mr. Stone regarding the state’s case against Anthony St. James,” Greg announces. Yance sighs, irritated.

  “Another circus,” he says in disdain. “As you are the arresting officer, though, and the only witness we have to this critical evidence Mr. Stone is relying on, I’ll allow it. Make it quick, please.”

  Whispers quiet across the courtroom. Hands held to ears, the crowd gathered in the gallery waits beneath air strung thick with tension. I can see Scott silently raging; Shapiro sighs, dropping a stack of papers onto the table and reclining in his chair, abandoning whatever line of madness Scott attempts in hushed murmurs to salvage the case. Tony looks to Lukas, and then back across the gallery to me. I smile. He smiles back, with an earnest warmth in his eyes. He’s ready to put this all behind him, and so am I.

  One more series of quiet hissing, and Scott’s eyes shoot back into the gallery. The dirtiest look I’ve ever seen on his face twists across his eyes and mouth, and I just keep my stupid, stupid grin wide and bright. There’s no more satisfying an expression I could give him right now.

  “Your honor,” Scott speaks, full of grudging distaste, “on account of recent evidence regarding the three men in the courtroom behind me, the state would like to move to dismiss all charges against Mr. St. James.” Surprise sweeps through the crowd, shocked gasps giving way to furious muttered conversations. My hands shaking, tears spring free from both eyes, flowing down across rosy cheeks and past my sunny smile.

  “You what?” Yance demands, confused. “Why are you wasting my time today, Mr. Stone? Do I need to censure you to get the point across here?”

  “No, your honor,” Scott grumbles. I push through the crowd, hearing applause and quiet cheers from the corner of the courtroom. Rushing past Billy Boy, whose broken scowl persists, his eyes following me, I force my way through the half-wall and into the front of the courtroom, Tony rising to embrace me. I kiss his chin and he strokes my hair, murmuring soft sounds into my ear.

  “Who’s making a fuss in my courtroom— Ms. Lewis?!” Yance exclaims in surprise. “Well, I suppose I know why I’ve had to deal with Mr. Stone all morning. I should censure you instead,” he jokes. I look up to the bench, Tony’s arm across my shoulders, nodding.

  “You won’t need to, Judge Yance. I think it’s time for Tony and I both to take a pretty long break.”

  “Where are you going? Cancun? Cozumel? And I’m not invited?” Lukas scoffs. “I guess the spring break chicks are back in school, so I’m probably not missing much anyway,” he grouses.

  “It’ll be a vacation to somewhere better than all those,” Tony murmurs. “Somewhere peaceful, alone. Without irritating lawyers.”

  “Anywhere alone is perfect with you,” I whisper to Tony.

  Chapter 24

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  I slam my hand against my phone, groaning and shifting between the sea of blankets and sheets swaddled around me. Two months away from the office, and I still haven’t turned off my early-morning alarm; it still blares the nuclear attack sound, every single morning. I haven’t forgotten about it. No, at this point, I think I just want to slap the phone silent each morning as a reminder that I have another day here with him.

  I roll over to sling my arm across his strong chest, only to find an empty space where he ought to be laying with me. A frown fills my face and I groggily gaze around me in search of him. Most days we sleep in until ten, and spend the rest of the morning in bed together, talking and kissing and hug one another until we feel ready to face whatever the day has to bring our way. Sometimes we ride until late into the night, his jacket on my back, the wind whipping through my wild auburn locks as I cling tight to his waist. He takes me places, anywhere he can think of - parks, gardens, anywhere he can remember from his youth; beautiful places, fun places.

  But any place we could go is beautiful when he’s there with me.

  I told Scott he gets to deal with putting Billy Boy and his lieutenants away. I’d rather never see Bill Nonniwicz again, unless it’s locked up for a long time; Greg told me they’d been putting together a case against Billy for years stemming from a murder they thought they could link him to, and that the arrest in my driveway gave them a perfect opportunity. For now, the Wardogs are at the mercy of the people of New Jersey, and while I fought my whole life to see the moment a jury puts Billy Boy away, something is different now that I love Tony. I see people not by the patch they wear or the bike t
hey ride, but by the stories in their past - some sculpted in ink onto their arms, but some more subtle. I had a story haunting me for so long, but I kept it a secret, and some secrets need to be told. In the end, though, I greedily got it both ways - the Wardogs crumbling, and their handsome leader in bed with me, living a new, free life with me.

  My nose catches the scent of searing oil; butter heated far past the point it ought to be. Exhaling softly, I smile as I rise out of the bed, yawning through my simper and pulling my bathrobe over my shoulders. My approach through the hall leads to a quick rustling in the kitchen up ahead; I hear footsteps creaking and quick movements, followed by a quiet ping and an angrily-huffed ow, fuck! kept under his breath. I can smell everything… well, burning. Rounding the corner with a yawn I shake my head in jest.

  “What’d you burn yourself on?” I ask, throwing my tangled tossle of hair over one shoulder, rubbing the sleep away from my eyes. Two frying pans laid out across my flat range, he looks up, brow knitted in embarrassed anger.

  “The damn frying pan,” he says with a scowl. He wears only boxer shorts - and, bringing a giggle to my lips, an oven mitt. (Apparently not on the hand he burned, of course.) “This whole counter is flat, including the… stovetop part. I don’t know how you can tell where the burners end and the counter begins. How do you not burn yourself cooking breakfast on this every day,” he asks.

  “Mmhmm? Is the flat range also the reason you’re burning butter and eggs and bacon, too?” I glance with a coy nod down at the food laid out in the pans in front of him, the edges of the bacon beginning to blacken; the splayed-out whites of the fried eggs beginning to crisp an ashy black, the butter swirling and staining the pans black-brown.

  “What? What’s burned about that?” he grunts, awkwardly flipping strips of cured meat over in the pan, exposing their opposed side - even more burned, nearly black. “…Okay. Your stove just burns. A lot hotter than mine, I guess.”

  “There’re heat controls, on the burners, you know,” I sigh playfully.

  “Yes, I know that, and I thought I set it to low. Low in your kitchen is apparently fireball-hot in any other kitchen,” he grunts. “I can cook bacon, okay. It’s not hard. I”m not that incompetent.”

  “What’s your excuse for the eggs, then?” I tease, sitting at one of the stools on the other side of the kitchen counters.

  “Eggs are harder. Unless they’re scrambled, but I didn’t think you liked scrambled eggs,” he shrugs, poking at the eggs. He pokes too hard at one of the yolks, spilling it across the burning butter. “Fuck,” he mouths.

  “Do you need help?” I ask.

  “No, I can do it,” he growls. “What, you really think I can’t cook eggs and bacon?” he looks up at me, disappointed. “Who do you think grew up having kitchen duty, when all those Wardogs idiots would demand breakfast after rambling into the clubhouse at 4 in the morning, drunk? Me,” he answers his own question with a grimace. “Quentin always wanted ten eggs and ten strips of bacon. Just for himself. The stove at the clubhouse clearly just… well, sucked,” he scowls.

  “I believe you! I swear,” I grin. “I’m just… you know, hungry, and want something edible, so— how about this, you deal with the toast, okay? That’s pretty fool-proof.”

  “Are you sure? Sure your toaster isn’t powered by cosmic rays and a nuclear reactor?” he scoffs.

  “Think it’s just the same as every other toaster,” I sass.

  “We’ll see about that,” he answers, gutteral and indignant. He’s adorable when he gets that way to me. Pulling eggs and bacon fresh from the fridge, I throw them out onto the counter, clearing the pan of the charred remains of Tony’s attempt, and loading them up with my own ingredients. I hear him behind me, collecting his own ingredients.

  “See, working together,” I announce pedantically, “always so much better than working apart. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. St. James?”

  “I get a lot done when I rough it alone,” he answers.

  “Still playing the tough guy?” I joke.

  “Somebody has to, now that all the other tough guys are on their way to the jailhouse, right?” he retorts.

  “They will be. Hopefully. If Scott doesn’t somehow, phenomenally, screw up cases that I practically handed to him on a silver platter,” I sigh.

  “With all the dirt on Bill Nonniwicz’s soul, you could screw up a hundred cases and still have plenty more crimes to pin him to the wall over,” Tony fires back without missing a beat.

  “They might ask you to testify, you know,” I warn him, flipping the bacon. “Nobody knows Billy’s crimes better than you. Except maybe Quentin Hill, anyway.” My voice grows soft. “Do you think you could… you know, do that? Stare Billy in the face… confront him with what you know about his crimes?”

  “Do I think I could work with lawmen? No,” he responds resoundingly. “At last. That’s what I thought, months ago. I think I’ve made a little bit of progress in that area,” he admits grudgingly. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but you can teach him to pretend, I guess.”

  “An old dog,” I roll my eyes.

  “I’ve seen a lot, babe,” Tony laments with a sigh. “I’ve seen guilty men walk; I’ve seen good men die. I’ve seen a woman sell her daughter to a skeevy dealer for a hit of meth. I saw my parents die. I didn’t want to believe the world had any good in it, Mara, and for a long time I didn’t. For a long time I thought I’d die without having done a single good thing in this world. But now I have you, and I have our son, Tyler—”

  “Marcus,” I interrupt coyly. He wants our child to be Tyler, after his dad. I want him to be Marcus, after my mother, Marcy. We’ll figure something out, I’m sure.

  “…Tyler Marcus,” he says. “…I have our son. I think that’s a good start.”

  “That’s beautiful, Tony,” I admit, sighing peacefully. “There’s just one thing, though.”

  “Huh?…” he raises a brow.

  “You’re letting the toast burn.”

  “Ah, fuck!” he exclaims, turning to the toaster over and flicking it open, pulling the tray out. He burns himself again on it, pulling his finger back in pain, nearly dumping the tray and the bread onto the floor. “Damn it!”

  “You need my help with that, too?” I smirk, stepping over to him to kiss his finger.

  “No! I’ve got it, I swear,” he sneers.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “Not sure I want to even let you hold our son when he’s born.”

  “Cheeky,” he sighs. “I’m trying my best, Mara. I really am,” he shakes his head, wrapping his arms around me. I slip into his strong grasp, laying my head back against his shoulder, breathing slow; breathing happy. I run my fingers along his arms; his palms press gently against my stomach, feeling the bump that’s already begun to show. Less than five months, and we’ll have the argument about the name, and remember everything that made us fall in love. “I’m trying my best,” he repeats.

  “I know, Tony,” I kiss his cheek. “And your best will be just fine. Just fine.”

  Excerpt from "His PERFECT Medicine"

  "He's coming in riiight now," she nods towards the ER double-doors behind me; I spin in a flurry and see him strolling through, black coat pulled tight across his clothes, dotted with glistening raindrops. It rains an awful lot here in Florida, I've noticed.

  "I didn't know he-- is he just here for s-something, like to check up on something, or--"

  "Dr. Steward went home early to take care of his wife, poor thing," Lynne frowns. "She's got a brain tumor. She's a sweetheart. Dr. Ryan agreed to come in and cover graveyard for the night."

  "You didn't-- you didn't tell me!" I whisper anxiously.

  "Well up until a minute ago I didn't know you had reason to worry about seeing him!" Lynne exasperatedly exclaims.

  "I don't-- don't really know what to say to him, I've never really had to apologize for something like this before," I stammer. "I'm not the... I'm the responsible one, Mel's supposed to be the drunken foo
l, I'm..."

  "Just tell him it was the alcohol talking, sweetie, I'm sure he understands," Lynne speaks with a comforting warmth to her countenance.

  "You think-- think that'll work?" I try to steel myself for the slow, awkward walk over to the empty nurse station; his coat thrown over the desk, a stack of papers in front of him, he scribbles away while I take my first hesitant step his way.

  "You'll be fine, Katie," Lynne murmurs, going back to her own paperwork. "Just apologize. No big deal."

  "No big deal," I repeat quietly, turning the sound into a mantra as I take stilted, nervous steps across the hall. The words a whisper I keep them to myself as I get closer; he shuffles a handful of paperwork, groaning, a sound that stops me dead in my tracks. Was he groaning at me? Maybe at something in the mess of papers? Maybe...

  "Can I help you, Dr. Blankenship?" comes an annoyed question from over Dr. Ryan's shoulder.

  "Oh, I'm s-sorry! I didn't... I didn't mean to interrupt you at all," I squeak, surprised.

  "You're not," he responds curtly. "Not this evening, anyway." I deflate quickly.

  "Ye.. yes, about last evening, Dr. Ryan, I'm--"

  "Do you know who I was on a date with last night, Dr. Blankenship?" he asks, his eyes never glancing back at me.

  "Y-yes, I do," I whimper.

  "You do?" Dr. Ryan retorts. "Interesting. I don't. She was a bore. Not the first, far from the last," he adds. Stunned, I remain silent. "I don't know much about her, or about you. I don't rightly care. And I don't want your apology," he bristles.

  "Dr. Ryan, I didn't mean--"

  "--To drink too much, and embarrass yourself in front of your attending? I'm sure you didn't mean to, but you did, and it's past and done with," Dr. Ryan's words bite at me. "Refrain from making a habit of it, please."

  "I'm sorr--"

  "I told you I didn't want to hear sorry, or that you apologize," Dr. Ryan finally gives a halfhearted glare over one shoulder. His emerald eyes and his wild swathe of hair... he looks so great, but I just can't get over how much of a rude, condescending, patronizing, self-absorbed-