The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  “Look,” I say. “I don’t mean any offense, but I don’t want you, and I reckon you’ve had too much to drink, otherwise you wouldn’t be embarrassing yourself like this. Walk away, please.”

  “Wow!” she barks. “You don’t have to be so rude! You’ve just proved how rude you are!”

  I nod, offer a smile, and then turn back to Cora Ash as the punk retreats. I was planning on getting shitfaced and passing out, but I have different plans now. I watch Cora, and I order a glass of water, and then another. I’m not sure what’s going to happen tonight, but whatever it is I want to be sober for it.

  Usually I have to force my mind away from Dad. He’s always there, right at the back of my mind, niggling. But right now, staring at Cora as she sings about a dragon called Fafnir, I don’t have to try. She steals my attention and holds it captive. She has me like nobody ever has.

  Then she looks up, and I’m sure her eyes settle on me for a moment. Right across the room, everything freezing, just me and her staring at each other, me thinking about what it’d be like to see those eyes go wide with lust, to watch an orgasm ripple through that graceful, strong body.

  Chapter Four

  Cora

  It’s always difficult to know if I’m slaying or making a fool of myself. I lose track of myself in the music, becoming something else. When I first started thinking like that, I detested myself for it; I thought I was being pretentious and was taking myself too seriously. But then I realized that the only way for me to come up here and give it my all without being disheartened by the numb faces of the crowd is to lose myself. I have to be like the famed berserkers in the Norse sagas when they lost themselves in the frenzy of battle, turning so wild that they had the strength of ten men. Well, I have to go so wild that it’s as though I’m performing to ten thousand people, not fifty.

  I wipe the sweat from my eye as “Sayings of the Low One” finishes, and then launch into “Loki’s Peril.” I’m rocking out as best I can, my body full of that cool, aching feeling as I jump around the stage, my voice sounding good, as far as I can tell. The crowd moshes, head-bangs, but nobody watches me. It’s a narcissistic thought, to expect people to stand there and gaze up at me in a dive bar like this. I push it away and focus on the performance.

  Then I look up and see him. The place is full, especially the bar area, men crowded around watching the game, women dancing just to the side of the dancefloor. There are more people at the bar and dining area than on the dancefloor, and yet I spot him right away. He’s handsome, even from here. There’s no denying that. His hair falls to his shoulders in curls, his jaw is square and tough-looking, and his body is muscular, so muscular that his bicep muscles tighten when he brings his water to his lips. But it’s his eyes I notice most of all, even from up here on the stage. They are a blue so stark and brilliant, they seem to pierce me: the blue of melting glaciers, ice-topped mountains, the blue of my dreams of snowy wastelands, a blue which is almost white.

  I draw my eyes away from him, focusing on my performance, but thoughts have been triggered which won’t settle. I promised myself when I became Cora Ash that I wouldn’t be with a man. I haven’t fucked a man in over a year, and I certainly haven’t been in a relationship with one. There are too many risks involved. The last thing I need when I’m trying to lie low is to have someone prying into the most secret places of me. I repeat that to myself as I sing, and I can hear my performance suffering for it. I grit my teeth in between the second and the third song, struggling to force the man out of my mind. But he just keeps watching me, and as he watches me my body responds, despite my mind commanding it not to. My nipples tingle and my inner thighs ache with longing.

  I launch into the fourth song, committed to focusing on Odin and his battle with the Fenris Wolf, but the man intrudes on the scene. I sing about a great battle at Ragnarok and then the man is there, blue-eyed and staring, muscles bulging, sliding between me and Odin and reaching out with his hand. In my mind, it happens, and in my mind his hand brushes against my crotch. I gasp, both in real life and in my mind. Then I shake my head and sing all the louder and more passionately, to pretend that it didn’t happen.

  I remember standing before the mirror, eyes locked on myself. “You will be invisible,” I told myself. “No one will know who you really are. You’re Cora Ash. Cora Ash is a lone wolf. Cora Ash needs nobody except for her vibrator and her microphone. Cora Ash doesn’t need a man. There will be time for men later.”

  But as much as I would like to, I don’t have complete control over my mind. Before I have a chance to prepare myself, my imagination has taken flight. Usually when my imagination flies it ends up in a made-up future where I’m a star rocking out in a stadium, the same fantasy I had when I was a little girl and would sing with my hairbrush in the mirror. Or it goes into the world of the Viking gods, and I live there for a while. But now it fixates on this man. I see myself tearing his T-shirt off, literally, with my teeth, and then running my fingernails down his bulging pectorals and his ribbed belly, feeling each mound of muscle.

  I’m glad when my set is over.

  “Thank you and goodnight!” I scream.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man rise from his stool at the same time I step off the stage. I walk quickly toward the backstage entrance. The man is almost on me, pushing through the crowd with determination, but then Charles the manager steps into his path. I pause, listening and watching without seeming to watch. At least, I’m trying to be as sneaky as I can as I lean casually against the wall.

  “You can’t go back here, buddy,” Charles says.

  I almost laugh when I see this six-foot-two muscular Thor standing opposite a puffed-up sack like Charles, and double laugh when I think of what he said to me before my set, but the man takes a small step back. There’s something deadly in his eyes, something that says he could turn this place red if he wanted to. It scares me. It excites me, too, even if I know it shouldn’t.

  He holds his hands up. “Fair enough, old man,” he says.

  “Old man!” Charles whines. “Who are you calling old man? I’m not even forty!”

  I laugh, and the man laughs. He looks over Charles’ shoulder and we share a moment of enjoyment, eyes locked, and then I duck my head and flee. I can’t become entangled with a man, no matter how badly my body aches for him, not matter how swiftly my head fills with the steamy scenes we could share together.

  I return to the green room and drop onto the couch, stretching my legs out and clicking my neck from side to side. I should leave now, considering what happened with Charles, but part of me wants to linger and see if anything happens with the man in black. It’s like there’s a little war being fought within me, a war of two parts which are both really opposite sides of the same coin. “Like the Vanir and the Aesir,” I whisper, and then smile to myself. “I brought glory to Thor, Frey, Ullr, and Odin tonight.”

  I need to kick this habit, I remind myself for the thousandth time. I picked it up when I was a weird teenager with my head buried in books, whispering to myself to better formulate my ideas, or singing to myself to hone my voice. I was my own companion even before I shed my name.

  I will myself to stand up, to let the man go. I’m not the sort of person to hang around because a stranger looked at me. I’m not some swooning, helpless thing. That’s what I tell myself. And yet, I don’t stand up. I sit here, waiting, secretly hoping that he’ll come backstage and introduce himself.

  When the door creaks open, it isn’t the strange man. It’s Charles, looking decidedly sweaty and flustered. I rise to my feet warily, watching him with the eyes of a wolf. He looks drunker than he did twenty minutes ago: the kind of drunk men get so they don’t have to feel guilt. But guilt for what he said to me, or guilt for what he’s about to do?

  “Did you see that guy?” he sneers, rubbing his hands together. He’s so sweaty they make a squelching sound. “Said I was an old man! Do I look like an old man to you, darling?”

  “I�
�m leaving,” I say.

  “Why?” He stands firmly before the door.

  “Because my set is over.”

  “I haven’t paid you yet.”

  I look him over. He’ll draw this out, use it as an opportunity to trap me here, and all for less than a hundred bucks. The twisted part is I need the cash, but what I don’t need is to be trapped in a confined space with a drooling jackass.

  “Keep it.” I take a step forward, waving a hand. “Can you move, please?”

  “What’s the rush?” Charles asks. “Are you in a mood with me?”

  “In a mood with …” I rub the bridge of my nose. “Don’t ask me stuff like that. It implies we’re even close enough that I could be in a mood with you. But we’re not. This is business. And you’ve just ruined it. I can’t come back here anymore. What is it with men like you, Charles? I didn’t come here to fuck you. I never gave you any signs in that direction. I’ve always just come here, sat in this room, and then gone out there and performed. So please get out of my way so I don’t have to look at you anymore.”

  “You’re mean and cold,” Charles says. “That’s what you are!” His voice rises to a raven’s squawk. “And I won’t put up with it anymore!”

  He leaps forward, hand reaching for my ass, already gripping in preparation. I wait until he’s almost on me and then bring my knee to his crotch. He coughs, stumbles, and then falls to the floor, gripping his belly.

  I kneel down next to him. “All the girls made fun of me when I started kickboxing. Most of the boys did, too. I didn’t do it for very long. A year, maybe less. It’s crazy what you remember, isn’t it?”

  “You bitch,” he growls. “You ungrateful whore.”

  I shake my head. “It’s men like you who make women nervous, Charles. You make us nervous to sit at a bus stop when it’s dark out, and nervous to go to the club, and nervous to go to the goddamn library. It’s men like you who give other men a bad name, who make some women think all men are slathering scumbags.” I tut, and then stand up. “It was nice knowing you.”

  I leave the green room, clenching my fists so that my hands won’t shake.

  Chapter Five

  Logan

  I sit outside the club, waiting off to the side on my bike so that I have a view of both exits. The sun has set now, but all along the street lights flash: clubs and restaurants and a game arcade. I think about smoking a cigarette and then decide against it. There are times when a man can do that, choose whether or not he wants to smoke, and there are times when he’s covered in blood and has just killed several people, and smoking is the only thing that can calm him. I force my mind from blood and focus instead on the light breeze.

  The punk emerges with her gaggle of friends, all of them tattooed with dyed hair. She spots me and then flips me the bird. “Fucking dickhead!” she roars.

  I smile, and call back, “Charming!”

  She and her friends leave in a taxi, and then Cora Ash emerges. She looks pissed off, her lips pursed, her fists clenched, her green eyes on fire. From here I can see that her tattoo is a snake, and the one on her hand is some kind of letter. She’s even sexier up close. I jump off my bike and walk across the parking lot. She looks up and an expression flits across her face—a smile, a frown, something in between—and then lowers her head and makes for her car.

  “Hello, Cora Ash,” I say, catching up with her.

  She stops in the middle of the parking lot; we’re completely surrounded by cars, as though we’re on an island and instead of water we have vehicles. “What do you want?” she snaps. “I saw you looking at me. I’ve had enough of assholes today.”

  I laugh, unfazed. “I just wanted to introduce myself. My name’s Logan Birch. I thought it was a nice coincidence, is all: Ash and Birch. Looks like we’re both named after trees.”

  “Nice coincidence,” she repeats, and the way she says it, it could mean anything. “I’m just trying to get home, all right?”

  “Then why are you standing here talking with me?” I raise my hands. “I’m not holding you hostage. And I saw you looking at me in there. I’ve gotta say, I don’t like being objectified like that. It made me feel like a piece of meat.”

  She laughs. It isn’t a giggle. There’s nothing girlish about it. She’s all woman. Then she covers her mouth as though she can force the laugh back down her throat. “I wasn’t looking at you,” she says. “You were the one staring. If I did look at you, it was only to see if you were still looking at me. Because you were freaking me out.”

  “Right … So what’re your plans for the rest of the evening?”

  “I can tell you what my plans aren’t: to stand in the middle of a parking lot until the sun rises.”

  “You set was awesome, Cora,” I say. “I really mean that. I’ve never been to this place but I come to these sorts of places every so often. Dive bars, places to get shitfaced where the music’s loud, the sort of music that makes folk angry. But your set was different. It was like, fuck … it was primal. The way you danced, too. Goddamn. You were like a water snake. I thought that exact thing when I watched you: this woman’s like a goddamn water snake—” I stop myself, hearing my own voice. I sound overexcited, which is odd because I never sound overexcited with women. “It was good, anyway.” I shrug, cursing myself for exposing too much emotion. Men like me have to be careful of that.

  “Thanks,” she says. “That really is nice to hear, Logan. But I’m going home now.”

  I hold my hand up. “Wait. Is that your rusty red Nissan over there? That’s the one you seemed to be walking toward.”

  “Uh, yeah. Why?”

  “I reckon the manager’s got some evil on his mind. Look.”

  She turns and we both watch as the manager tries to sneak through the parking lot. He’s clearly drunk. Either that or he thinks weaving side to side makes him less conspicuous. He crouches down between two cars, ducking lower when he sees us.

  “For God’s sake,” Cora mutters. “This guy just won’t give up, will he?”

  “Maybe he thinks he’s being romantic,” I offer.

  She rolls her eyes. “Since when is sneaking up on someone romantic? And he tried to grab my ass backstage …” She tells me about kneeing him in the balls.

  “There’s more to you than meets the eye, and there’s a hell of a lot that meets the eye.”

  She blushes, and for a second looks almost flirtatious. Then her face hardens. “I’m so sick of men thinking I owe them sex just because I fucking talk to them. This was a business relationship and now—I shouldn’t be unloading on you. I’m leaving, Logan Birch. It was nice meeting you and all. I’ll walk quickly. Maybe I’ll get to my car before he reaches me.”

  “Maybe.”

  But I’m not about to leave this up to chance. I’m much better at sneaking than the manager. I’ve snuck into drug dens and past security since I was barely out of high school. I crouch down low and reach into my leather pocket for my knuckleduster, and then remember that my leather is locked up on my bike. I move forward, watching Cora and watching the manager, waiting to see what’ll happen but intent on not letting the old man cause her any harm. She reaches her car and he emerges, making a gurgling noise I think is supposed to be a whistle.

  She turns, spotting me and him at the same time. She gestures at me silently, mostly with her eyes: stay away, let me handle this. I shrug and stay where I am. I’ll let a lady handle it to a certain extent, but I won’t stand by as a fully-grown man whales on a woman. That just isn’t how things are done.

  “What are you going?” Cora snaps. “You’re stalking me now?”

  “You can’t assault a man at his place of b’ness.” He coughs. “Do you really think you can get away with that? Is that really what you think? Is that how your dumb slut mind works? I’m not going to stand by while some up-her-ass cunt treats me like a dog!”

  I make to step forward. Again, Cora gestures at me. I grit my teeth. He’s getting closer every second.

  �
�I want you to leave, Charles.”

  “Or what?” Charles reaches into his pocket and takes out a boxcutter.

  I stand up and step between him and Cora. I don’t care if she thinks she can handle this herself. If she does, she’s never seen what a boxcutter can do to a person’s belly. I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve done it. It will open a person up just as easily as it opens a box up, maybe easier.

  “It’s you,” Charles murmurs.

  “It’s me,” I say, arms at my sides, watching his hand. “What’re you plannin’ on doing with that blade, old man?”

  He looks uncertain for a moment, eyes flitting between me and Cora, and then hardens his lips. He spits. “I’m planning on getting some of my pride back!” he barks. “This bitch, this cunt, this—”

  “Call her cunt again,” I say. “Go on. Do it.”

  “I have the knife.” He waves it, as if I won’t believe him.