The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  That kiss, though . . . I’m not normally a man to give much of a damn about kissing, but that kiss was something else. That kiss ended way too soon. Maybe it isn’t right for a Son of a Wolf to kiss the ex-sheriff’s dad, but I never claimed to be right. I wonder what the boys at the club would think of it.

  I reach the bar and spot her, sitting on the other side, some frat guy leaning over her. She looks flustered but composed at the same time, a look I’ve never seen in a person. The frat guy is wearing a football jacket with a ring on his pinkie which he shows her by leaning way too close and slathering in her face. I pace over to them without thinking. I won’t turn to violence unless he does, but I can’t exactly say I’m not hoping for it.

  “Hello,” I say, grinning at them both.

  Nancy’s face, man, her face in this moment could make me die happy. It lights up like we’ve known each other far longer than a few minutes. Affection fills her wide eyes. And then she fights it back. I get the sense that she’s often fighting a battle with her emotions.

  “See what it says?” The frat boy turns. “Hey, dude, can I help you?”

  “You can help me by getting off that seat. I reckon that’s my seat.”

  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You do know that even Eminem don’t have that hairstyle anymore, right, bud?”

  I grin wider. “Funny man,” I say. “I wonder how funny you’d be with your tongue in a blender. Maybe I’ll feed it to you. But don’t be too upset. You won’t be able to taste it.”

  “You’re a weirdo, man.” He stands up straight, squaring off against me. He’s a little shorter, a little skinnier, and my bet is he’s never killed a man.

  “Do you really want to do this?” I ask. “Is this really the route you want to take? Think carefully, because once we start you can’t change your mind.”

  He looks into my eyes, decides he sees something he doesn’t like, and flees down the bar. “Freak,” he mutters.

  I slide into his seat. “I hope you don’t mind,” I say, gesturing the barman.

  “I don’t need saving,” she says, “if that’s what that was.”

  “So you were enjoying yourself? Because you sure did look happier to see me than you did with him.”

  “Oh, my savior!” She shakes her head, a sardonic look piercing me. “I don’t need saving,” she repeats.

  “Okay.” I order a whisky and order her another vodka and coke.

  “How did you know?” she asks.

  “Well, that’s coke, and I don’t reckon you’re a whisky or rum kind of lady.”

  “So I’m a lady now?”

  “You know,” I say, “this whole I-don’t-need-saving-I-don’t-like-compliments routine would work a helluva lot better if your cheeks weren’t redder than a baboon’s ass.”

  She touches her face reflexively and then scowls at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay, let me ask you something, Nancy. What are you doing here? I knocked your old man onto his ass an hour ago and now you’re here, when here just so happens to be a Sons of Wolves hangout. Can you explain that to me?”

  She blushes a deeper shade of red. “I guess the universe works in mysterious ways.”

  “I guess it does. Come downstairs with me. We’ll get a booth. Quieter, more private.”

  She bites her lip, and then nods. “Okay.”

  We take the corner booth, the most secluded in the bar, tucked away at the back behind the pool tables. I flag down a waitress. “A tray of your finest shots, please.”

  “Are we getting drunk?” Nancy asks. “Because I should warn you. I have a very high tolerance for alcohol.”

  “Is that right? Then I guess we’ll have to make this a little game.”

  “You’ll lose.” She grins wickedly.

  She giggles, about the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, and then takes off her jacket and straightens her back. Her white shirt is slightly see-through; her pale pink bra flashes through. She sees me looking, looks as if she might protest, but then smiles shyly up at me. Damn, but I want this woman, want her bad, want her more than I’ve ever wanted any woman I can think of. This isn’t some club girl interaction, where we take what we need and flee. This is something else.

  The waitress returns with the shots. I move around the table so that I’m sitting closer to Nancy, so close that our legs touch. She moves a little closer, too, pressing her thigh against me. “What even are these?” she asks.

  “Shots,” I say.

  “But what kind?”

  “The kind that have alcohol in them.”

  “Oh, so you’re a comedian, are you?” Her smile is captivating. Her smile is warmth. Her smile is a light at the end of a tunnel. I try and calm myself, tell myself she’s just a woman, but she doesn’t seem like just a woman. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I reckon you owe me a kiss for saving you from that frat boy,” I say.

  “I’ve already paid you, you monster!”

  “Not for the frat boy.” I grin. “That requires additional payment.”

  “Additional payment.”

  “When you smile like that, you get puffed-up hamster cheeks.” I prod her cheeks playfully. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  She slaps my hand away. “You’re just trying to delay. A big strong man like you scared of a few shots? Tut-tut, what would the big bad biker gang say?”

  “They would probably tell me to take you home and do nasty biker-related things to you.”

  She brings her hand to her forehead, pretending to faint. “Oh, how big and tough you are!”

  “Just drink, woman.”

  “I’m just waiting for you to take the pacifier out of your mouth.”

  We neck the shots, five each, and then I order another tray. We get through another five shots each and then sit next to each other, almost face-to-face.

  “You’re not drunk,” I comment.

  “Not drunk.” She giggles, and then smiles sideways. “But if you want to present the charge that I’m tipsy, I won’t deny it.”

  “Present the charge,” I repeat. “So you really are a lawyer, then?”

  She explains: she works in a law office, but she’s not a lawyer. “I spend most of my time combing over documents. It’s more like English literature, to be honest. Close reading.”

  “Okay, ma’am.” I nod mock-serious. “I know exactly what you’re talking about. I understand completely what that means. I’m on board. I am, in fact, a professor.”

  “Were you always a sarcastic asshole, or did that happen when you dyed your hair?”

  “I think a little of both.”

  I lean forward even more, so that our lips are almost touching. She gasps, and then swallows, and then licks her lips. “What are you doing?” she asks, voice faint.

  “Claiming that kiss.”

  “I already gave you the kiss.”

  “I reckon I can get another, though.”

  “Maybe I think what you’re doing is incredibly forward and out of line.”

  “Maybe,” I agree. “But I don’t think so.” I lean forward again, and now she opens her mouth, breathing heavily. She’s ready, I can tell. She’s hungry for it. I lean back just as she leans forward, grinning devilishly. “But I don’t want to press my luck,” I say, throwing her a wink.

  “You’re a cruel man,” she says. “You’re a horribly cruel man. That was mean. That was beyond mean.”

  “I’m not about to take advantage of a drunk lady.”

  “I’m not drunk.” She folds her arms, pouting like a little diva. “I don’t even know anything about you.” She thrusts her hand out. “I’m Nancy O’Neill. Nice to formally meet you.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Fink Foster, though I think we’ve already met.”

  We shake hands. Her hand is soft, and small, and sends dark thoughts into my mind. I imagine it wrapped around my cock, pumping. I imagine it grasping at bedsheets as orgasm after orgasm surges through her
body. I imagine it clawing at my face as she begs for more, more, more . . .

  She snatches her hand away. “You don’t get to touch me if you don’t kiss me. That’s not how this works.”

  I laugh, and wave over the waitress for a couple of sodas.

  “Soda?” she blurts.

  “You’ve defeated me, pretty lady,” I say. “I see no shame in admitting that.”

  We sip the sodas for a couple of minutes, and then Nancy says, “I guess that was pretty embarrassing earlier, you seeing my dad talk to me like that.”

  I shrug, not wanting to offend her. Strange, ’cause I don’t normally give a damn about things like that. “Nobody has a perfect family.”

  “Like you and your dad?” she says. “He walked out on you, didn’t he?”

  I flinch. It’s like she’s just reached inside my chest and squeezed down on my heart. I’m not normally a man for being so melodramatic but damn, she hit the nail on the head and then drove the nail deeper than any woman ever has, or has ever come close to.

  “How do you know that?” I ask. “You a mind-reader or something?” I laugh uneasily.

  “Something you mentioned earlier. I guessed. Call it woman’s intuition.”

  “I don’t normally talk about this kind of stuff,” I say. “But fine. All right, then. My dad left before I was born. I don’t know shit about him and I don’t want to know shit about him. My mom had about ten different illnesses, some of them physical, some of them not, and she died a few years back. There, you have the story of Fink Foster.”

  “And that’s why you joined up with a biker gang?”

  “Club. I joined up with a biker club.”

  “Gang, club. What’s the difference?”

  “You can’t beat people with a gang.”

  She pauses, and then giggles when the jokes hits her. “Okay, funny man. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I joined up with them because joining up with them was better than all the alternatives. Is this a goddamn therapy session now?”

  “Sometimes it’s better not having a father,” she says bitterly, ignoring my question. “Sometimes all they do is cause you heartache. Maybe I’m drunker than I thought. I shouldn’t be sharing this. But—fuck it. Sometimes at work I’ll look out my window at the park and wonder what it’d be like to have kids. I just wonder, you know, and maybe I start wanting them a little. And then I think of growing up with Dad throwing whisky bottles and picking at me and Mom all the time and I get scared, really, really scared, that I’ll be the same. I’ll pick at my kids. I’ll make them feel like dirt.”

  “Kids.” I clench my teeth at the thought. “Committing to kids is about the biggest decision in a person’s life, I reckon, which is what makes it so messed up when a parent decides they don’t care about that commitment. They’ll just walk out, or abuse them, or neglect them. People don’t know how to commit to shit. I commit to the club and that’s all. I don’t commit to anything else because I’ve always known that I’m a human goddamn being, and a human being is weak and cowardly and doesn’t know how to stay committed.” I pause, rubbing my forehead. “Maybe I’m drunker than I thought, too.”

  She places her hand on mine. “I feel like I know you,” she says.

  I flip my hand and interlock my fingers with hers. It feels good, being palm to palm like this. “I feel the same,” I say. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, but it’s the truth. I feel exactly the same.”

  “Do you know what I’m saying about kids though? I know it’s heavy, talking about stuff like this on a first date. Maybe I shouldn’t even call it a date . . . I know it’s heavy, talking about stuff like this when I followed you to a bar, but . . . I don’t know.”

  Something strange is happening inside of me. If any other woman started to talk to me about babies, in any other situation, I’d run. I’d tell her I had to ride someplace with the club and get gone. I’d never look back. I feel that urge now, but it’s minor, an echo, and doesn’t hold the weight it normally would. I find I want to ignore it, which is earth-shattering in itself. I have never met a woman who makes me want to ignore my instinct to run.

  “I reckon you’d be a good mother,” I say. “It’s people who don’t worry about being shitty parents who become shitty parents, folks who don’t give it any thought. They assume it’ll be easy, fine and dandy and all that horseshit, but when the chips are down, they’re gone.”

  She smiles at me, her eyes as woozy as my head feels. She can drink, I’ll give her that. She can drink so good she’s even got me tipsy.

  “So this morning we were strangers, and now we’re . . .” She trails off.

  “Lovers?”

  “Lovers.” She rolls her eyes, smiling drunkenly. “We’re not lovers.”

  “Not yet.” I bring my face close to hers again. “But we could be, Nancy.”

  “I just met you today,” she says.

  “That’s true.”

  “I’m not sleeping with you,” she says. “That’s off the table.” She disentangles her hand and leans back. “I need you to tell me you understand. One time in college, this guy acted all cool and—what’s that word? That word for men who’re down with women? I can’t remember. Anyway, he said he was like that, and then he turned into a pig.”

  “I never claimed not to be a pig,” I say. “But I understand. We’re not having sex tonight. Fine. But what about everything else?”

  And here’s another strange thing. If any other woman tells me we’re not fucking, I go and find another woman who’s up for it. I don’t stick around. It isn’t my style. But I don’t want to find another woman where Nancy is concerned. I don’t even want to look. I want to stay with her. This is damn weird.

  “Everything else . . .” Her eyes go the widest they’ve been all night, which for her is pretty wide. “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” I say, taking out my cell, “I should call us a cab.”

  “Yes.” She nods. “That’d be nice. I need to sleep off this spell you’ve cast on me before work tomorrow.”

  I call a cab and we wait outside. “What about my car?” she asks.

  “Give me the keys and I’ll get it to you by tomorrow morning,” I tell her.

  “What? Are you serious?”

  Am I? The fuck has gotten into me? This is errand boy behavior. At least, if some woman asked me to fetch her car that’s how I’d think of it. But with Nancy I want to do it, because I want to help her.

  “I’m serious,” I say, shocked. “Yeah, damn, I really am.”

  “Okay . . .” She takes her keys from her handbag. “This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

  I take the keys. “You can trust me.”

  “I know. I do. That’s the scary part.”

  I drop the keys into the pocket of my leather, thinking how I can double-back later on this evening and get the car, and then get my bike. It’s an odd series of thoughts. I imagine telling the fellas about helping this lady with her car. I don’t give a damn what they think, but I can’t deny a fair few of them will laugh.

  We climb into the cab and Nancy gives the driver her address. On the ride home we sit close together, my hand on her knee, but we don’t move past that. I’ve done my share of making out in the backs of cabs before, but that was when I didn’t really care about the woman I was with. The idea of this cab driver getting a look at Nancy doesn’t appeal to me at all. I pay the driver and we climb from the car, standing outside her apartment building.

  “This is me,” she says. “But . . . shall we take a walk first?”

  “You don’t want to invite me up,” I say.

  “Is that a problem?”

  I shrug. “Let’s go for a walk. We passed a park on the way here.”

  The sun is still out, but slowly setting. We walk toward the park, hand in hand, almost like we’re some kind of couple, almost like we’re on a date, almost like this isn’t merely a sexual exchange like every other interaction in my life.
I find it feels good to hold her hand, to have her close to me. It feels good with the summer breeze on my face and her arm brushing against mine.

  I want to fuck her. Of course I want to fuck her, but walking like this isn’t so bad, either.

  We end up in a secluded area of the park, shrouded by trees, designed to hide us from the outside world. She turns to me, looks up at me, her lips parted, her eyes hungry. Maybe the gentlemanly thing to do would be to kiss her delicately on the cheek and walk her home.