The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  “Miss O’Neill,” he says.

  “Call me Nancy.”

  “Okay, Nancy. Call me Sal.”

  “It’s a good job.” I smile, hoping to make this a modicum less uncomfortable than it will inevitably be. “The sign only has your first name on it.”

  He laughs good-naturedly, though I can tell he didn’t find it funny. Which is understandable because I didn’t, either.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks.

  I want to flee this room. Not because I dislike confrontation, but because I dislike confrontation not of my choosing. I work in a law office, it’s true, but I’m not a courtroom lawyer like Dad insists on believing. I spend most of my time combing over documents. I never learned how to shut off my feelings and argue the point no matter what. So I cannot help but sound awkward when I say, “The price . . .”

  He flinches as though I just slapped him. The look on his face makes me want to flee from the office, but I’ve committed to this now and I won’t retreat. “Miss . . . Nancy.” His shoulders sag. “Your father was in here trying to negotiate the price a few minutes ago.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I say. I stand up straight with my shoulders back, looking confident even if I don’t feel it. I’m horribly aware of how I must look right now: tight-lipped, tight-muscled, tensed-up, and vaguely angry. “I was just wondering if there was any leeway.”

  “Not really,” Sal says. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I know your dad’s a big deal with some folks in this town. I get that. But I can’t lower my prices for every big deal who comes through here. What if word gets out that Sal’s garage is a one-stop shop for bullying and cheap prices? How long will my business survive if that’s the message I send?”

  “I understand that,” I say. “But . . .” His eyes flit to the desk. There’s a defeated look about him and I know, truly know, that if I keep pushing I’ll get him to lower the price. He’s big and strong but I imagine he’s been pushed around many times in his life. He has the look in his eyes I often saw in myself growing up. He’s just waiting to be nudged. And I could nudge him, but then I’d be no better than Dad nudging me to come in here.

  “Don’t change the price,” I tell him. “Even if Dad comes in here again. It’s a fair price, cheaper than most places. You don’t need to change it.”

  He smiles at me gratefully. “Sorry if this seems out of line, Nancy, but why . . .” He cuts short. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”

  “What is a girl like me doing with a father like that?” I laugh, a little erratically. “I guess I’m a loyal person, or a stupid person. Or I’m loyally stupid, or stupidly loyal.”

  I leave the office, walking across the garage toward the waiting room. The mechanic looks at me again, his bleached-blond hair flecked with black dots of oil. “Nice dress,” he says.

  I’m wearing a pencil skirt with heels and jet-black opaque tights. “Uh, thanks,” I say. I wave at his chest. “Nice . . .” I immediately regret it, and walk away without saying anything else. He has my heart thumping like crazy. I wish he’d put his shirt on even as I pray that he never does.

  “So?” Dad barks.

  “He won’t change it,” I say. “It’s a fair price.”

  “A fair price,” Dad whispers, massaging his jaw. “That’s what he calls a fair price, is it? That’s how this works? A man works twenty years keeping a place safe and gets spit on for asking for some goddamn respect. I ought to go home and get my gun and—”

  “Stop that right now!” I hiss, marching up to him and aiming my forefinger at his face. “I won’t hear that sort of talk! I’m nice enough to come down here on a Tuesday afternoon, to risk making my boss angry, and that’s how you talk?”

  “Don’t you point at me like that!” he breaks out, pushing past me and kicking a chair. “Who exactly do you think you are? I’ve already had all that nonsense from your mother. I don’t need it from you!”

  “Just sit down.” I massage the bridge of my eyebrows. “Just stop, Dad. I’m tired and I have a headache.”

  “How hard it must be for you,” he says bitterly. “Working in a big fancy law office and lording it over your father like you’re some kind of queen! Are you forgetting who checked under the bed all those years, or who made sure there was food on the table every night while your mother was messing around with her goddamn collages, or who took you to the hospital every day for half a year when you had that immune system problem? Have you forgotten everything I’ve done for you, Nancy?”

  He’s exaggerating. It was once a week for a few months. But something strange happens within me as he talks. Even being aware of it doesn’t stop it from happening. I’m thrown back a decade and a half to when I was nine years old and this always-drunk, ranting man was a hero to me in that confused childhood way adults can be heroes even when they’re cruel and scary. I remember thinking he was essentially good even if he was blackout drunk every night and shouted more than he spoke. I remember thinking that it was my fault, and Mom’s fault, if he broke a glass on the wall. I remember feeling lucky that he never hit either of us.

  I battle those emotions—they are irrational, I know that—but they have all the power of childhood behind them.

  “Well?” he says, taking a step forward. “Don’t you have anything to say? I usually can’t shut you up!”

  I turn away from him, tears forming, unbidden and unstoppable. I choke them back and that’s when I see him, sitting on the chair with his leather slung over it, watching me with his hard green eyes. He runs a hand through his hair and stares at me, his jaw muscle working. I don’t know what’s going on inside of him but it looks like something dark, and intriguing, and oddly attractive. I want to place my hand on his chest, run it down onto his flat, muscled belly, and down . . .

  “Well?” Dad snarls. “Are you a statue now?”

  I jolt out of the spell.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I turn to him. “Everything I say seems to make you angry, which is confusing to me because I feel as though I am always reasonable with you. At least I try to be reasonable with you. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve tried to be reasonable with you. But you still find things to pick at.” My lips are trembling. I don’t want to cry. Sometimes I hate my emotions; the way they’ll run along their own track without me seems like a betrayal.

  “The only reason you’re almost crying right now is because you know that’s no way to talk to your father, the man that raised you. You’re just a silly, pathetic girl, Nancy. I hate to say it!” He waved his hand wildly. “But it’s the truth and we can’t shy away from it!”

  The door creaks open and the mechanic steps in, watching Dad as though watching a wild dog, utterly attentive, and ready for anything. “You need to show your daughter some respect.”

  Chapter Two

  Nancy

  Everything stops for a few moments. I’ve heard people describe time as freezing before. I never knew what they meant until now. Time has frozen. Dad stands completely still, looking at the younger bleached-blond man like he can’t compute his words, and the mechanic returns the gaze without flinching. That’s a wonder in itself. Usually people can’t stand up to Dad like this. I’ve seen him bully countless people, especially at restaurants or in cabs or any other service-person scenario. He’ll bluster and bark until the person crumbles to his will. But this man is carved from ice.

  “What did you just say?” Dad whispers, his tone leaden with disbelief so that he has to drag each word out.

  “I think you know what I just said.” The man steps forward. “I think you heard me clearly. I reckon there’s a pretty big chance the only reason you’re askin’ me what I said is ’cause you think I’m gonna change it. So I’ll say it again. Show your daughter some goddamn respect.”

  “You think I’m about to take advice from a pretty boy mechanic?” Dad snarls.

  I almost laugh. Maybe I would laugh if things weren’t so tense. Whatever this man is, he’s not a pretty
boy. His blond hair is jagged, his muscles wild and strong. He looks more dangerous than pretty.

  “I don’t care how you make yourself okay with it. But I’ve been listening to you rant and rave at this woman for twenty minutes now and it’s starting to piss me the hell off. I don’t know what sort of father you call yourself. Maybe you’re like every other bullshit father but you didn’t have the decency to run out.” He pauses here, and I intuit that he’s talking about his own father. The pain flits across his face like an impossibly quick eclipse. Then the light returns. “I don’t know if it makes you feel big and strong, or what. But I’m getting damn tired of listening to you go at her for no reason at all.”

  The atmosphere immediately turns potent; any moment, words could turn to violence. I look at the man and I look at Dad and I know it’d be no contest. The mechanic would devastate him, but Dad doesn’t know that. I can see it in his face: the confidence of a drunken tyrant.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “My name is Fink Foster,” Fink says, standing up straight. “I can give you my address, too. And yes, I know who you are. And yeah, I know you have powerful friends. I know about every little thing you’re gonna threaten me with. But you ought to keep something in mind.” His voice becomes emotionless. It’s scary, and yet I’m not scared of it. There’s something . . . not sexy about it. But there’s something there. “You’re not the only dangerous man in this town.”

  “Fink Foster,” Dad murmurs. “I admire your grit, boy, so I’ll give you this chance to get the fuck out of my face.”

  “I don’t need it,” he says. “I’m fine right where I am.”

  They are about five feet from each other, but I’m in between them. I step forward, planting myself firmly in Fink’s way. “I need to talk with you,” I say, pleading silently with my eyes.

  He gets the message; I see it register. He clicks his neck from side to side, looking over my head at Dad. “Okay,” he says. “Fine. We can talk near the junker.”

  Dad bristles at the word junker, but doesn’t follow when Fink and I move into the garage area. When we’re out of view he turns to me with a smirk on his face, leaning against the wall so that his immense muscles relax. “What is it, pretty lady?”

  “What is it?” I sigh.

  We’re reflected in Sal’s office window. I’m twenty-three but I still look like a teenager sometimes, and I’m not happy about it like some people might be. Young and naïve-looking, with chestnut-brown hair I pull into a ponytail to try and seem more business-like. It’s straight and sleek and soft and accompanied by my large, squirrel-like brown eyes, I look hopelessly girl-next-door. I turn from the reflection to Fink. “It’s dozens of things,” I go on. “But the most important is that I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

  “You father to get hurt, you mean,” he says.

  “Of course that’s what I mean!”

  He leans closer to me. His scent is sweat and oil. It’s a scent that shouldn’t appeal to me, but I can’t help it. It fills my nostrils and works its way into my mouth. I keep glancing at his bare torso without meaning to. It’s impossible to ignore. I imagine biting down on his chest, biting to feel the firmness of it. I try to empty my mind of the thoughts, worried he might be able to read them on my face.

  “It’s not my business to tell you what is and isn’t okay,” he says. “I get that, all right? But what do you expect me to do? I can’t just sit out here and listen to him talk to you like that, treating you like dirt and me just sittin’ out here listening and not doing a damn thing. Is that any way to let a lady get talked to?”

  “So you’re my knight in shining armor?” I ask. I mean it to be scathing and sarcastic, but it comes out more as hopeful. I usually have a reasonable amount of control over what I say, and how I say things, but with Fink it’s like I can’t focus. I don’t see myself as so easily swayed that a sweaty muscular body can do that to me, but maybe, just maybe, I’m not as strong as I thought.

  “What’s wrong with that?” He leans forward again. We’re around the corner, out of view of the waiting room. Right now it feels like we’re in a secret world, especially with Sal’s office curtains drawn.

  “I’ve never needed a knight in shining armor and I don’t need one now. That’s one problem. Another is that this can only end in violence and I don’t think violence is a good route to take, generally speaking.”

  “But we’re not speaking generally, pretty lady. What?” He looks closely at me. “You don’t like it when I call you pretty lady? Or maybe you like it too much and that’s why you look so scared when I say it?”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” I retort, when in reality he’s eerily correct. “I just don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

  “I never want anybody to get hurt, either,” he says. “But sometimes it’s necessary.”

  “He used to be the sheriff,” I whisper. “He still has cop friends. They’re dangerous, Fink.” Using his name comes naturally. It’s as though I’ve used it a thousand times before. “They don’t mess around.”

  “Do I look like I mess around?” he counters.

  I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what else I can say, except this: I don’t want your help.”

  “If that was true,” Fink says, “I would back off. But looking at you, I know it’s not true. You do want my help. I reckon you want somethin’ else from me as well, and if I wasn’t such a gentleman, maybe I’d oblige you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I hope I sound confused, or disbelieving, or skeptical. I hope I don’t sound how I feel, which is like I want to hike up my dress and pull down my tights and … I kill the thought. It’s so inappropriate, I can’t believe I have it in the first place.

  He just smiles. “We both know what I’m talking about. How about we make a deal?”

  “What kind of deal?”

  Everything about him is captivating, but his eyes most of all. They roam over me and I find I’m not offended or uncomfortable with their roaming. I welcome it, in fact. Part of me wants to arch my back to push my breasts up, to reach forward and press my hand against his jeans, jeans which hang just below his waist.

  “You want me to back off,” he says. “I don’t think that’s a good attitude to have when it comes to this situation, but there it is. So, fine.” He spreads his hands, standing so close to me now that all I’d have to do is move a few inches and my cheek would be pressed against his chest. “I’ll back off, but only for a kiss. That’s my price.”

  I roll my eyes, trying to seem outraged or bored or apathetic. But I can’t stop my cheeks from firing red. I can’t stop my lips from tingling and getting warm just at the prospect of it.

  “You’re joking,” I say. My voice is hoarse and raspy when I need it to be unwavering and firm.

  “I never joke when kissing a pretty lady is concerned.”

  “You can’t expect me to just kiss you!” I protest.

  “Why not? You want to. I want to.”

  “Who said I want to?”

  “Only every single thing about the way you look right now. Other than that, nothing.”

  “Maybe you’re misreading me,” I say.

  “Maybe. It could be that. But I doubt it.”

  “Maybe I think you’re a disgusting brute. A pig for asking me for a kiss.”

  He just smiles again, watching me, never taking his eyes off me. I feel slightly tipsy from the attention. There’s no arrogance about him, or bullying, or desperation like other men. He wants to kiss me but he won’t grovel. He won’t stoop. He won’t humiliate himself. And the more he looks at me like that, with complete confidence, the more I want to kiss him. I know it doesn’t make any sense. I know I might regret it later on, without the hormones running through my body. I know my coworkers, if they ever found out, would judge me for it. But . . . life is for living, isn’t it? Life is precisely for moments like these, stepping over the edge when it seems terrifying and exhilarating
in equal measure.

  I bite my lip. “A quick kiss,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “Whatever you want.” He tips an imaginary hat. “I am a gentleman, after all.”

  “Yeah. Right.” I tilt my head up at him, suddenly nervous. “Will you lean in, or me, or . . .”

  He leans down, our lips touch for the briefest instant—brief, but beautiful, sparks buzzing between us, the kiss holding me prisoner for a tenth of a second—and then Dad comes charging out of the waiting area.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he roars.

  I step back, already astonished with myself for what I was about to do. Fink steps back, too, but not out of surprise or fear. He steps back like a boxer getting ready for a bout. He keeps his eyes locked on my dad at all times.