The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  I return to the car. I need to get back to my apartment and pee on this blasted stick. I curse myself again for being so flighty. That’s not me, but then, it’s not me to barge out of work, either, and it’s definitely not me to do it so brazenly. For the first time in years, I wonder if I really enjoy that job at all, or if I didn’t just take it because it was the only job I could find in Salem and I wanted to stay close to Dad, to try to help the old sneering drunk when really I don’t owe him a thing.

  I’m halfway to my apartment when the old sneering drunk calls me. I pull to the side of the road and answer.

  “Hello, is this Nancy?”

  “Miss . . . I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” It’s Dad’s neighbor; I recognize her voice.

  “Miss Stamper,” the woman says. “It’s your father. He’s waving a gun around in the hallway of the building and they . . . well, the police have come and gone and haven’t done a thing. He said he’d stop, but he just keeps doing it, and . . .”

  I sigh, but not one of defeat. It’s a sigh of rage. “I’ll be right there, Miss Stamper.”

  Maybe it’s confidently striding away from my boss, or maybe it’s the pregnancy test sitting under a packet of toilet paper, but I’m pissed off. I’m so pissed off my knuckles turn bone-white as I grip the steering wheel. I’m pissed off at Dad for putting people’s lives in danger and I’m pissed off at his cop buddies for not giving a damn. I come to a screeching halt outside Dad’s apartment building. A few families are gathered outside like the building is a crime scene, which it very well might become.

  I leave the car with the grocery bag in my hand. I’m not sure why I pick it up. I guess it’s routine. I only realize it when I’m at the main door, and the idea of walking back across the street—with the families watching me in confusion—doesn’t appeal to me. So I walk up the stairs to Dad’s floor.

  I hear him before I see him. “Think they can tell me what to do. Do they know who I am? Do they know who I am? I’m the goddamn law, missy. I’m the law, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You think you can talk down to me? Who do you think you are? Something big? Something special? I’m the goddamn law! How many bandits did this lawman lock up, huh? And they think they can just . . . Nancy?”

  He pauses, gun held over his head, pointing up at the floor above.

  I step forward, grocery bag held like a shield. “Dad, what are you doing? You’re scaring people.”

  He squints at me with his bloodshot eyes. “Scaring people? How am I scaring people? I’m just try’na make people see.”

  “See what?” I ask, inching forward, wondering why I stuck around for this man. He clearly doesn’t care about me. He clearly never has.

  For the first time in years, I let myself listen to the niggling voice inside of me: he uses me so that he has someone to drive him around when he wrecks his car, to criticize when he feels like dirt. He uses me, and he always has, and he always will.

  I clench my teeth as I talk, restraining my anger. “All I see is your gun, Dad. Is the safety on?”

  “Of course the . . .” He squints at it, and then flips a sWolf. “Oh, it wasn’t. Okay, sorry? What do you want from me?”

  “Can we talk in your apartment?”

  He watches me for a moment, and then nods. “Fine, fine. That’s just fine and dandy.”

  We go into his apartment, which looks like a bomb has hit it: dishes everywhere, clothes everywhere, cans and bottles everywhere. Flies buzz around the overflowing trash bag, takeout containers stacked hip-high. I ignore the filth, place my grocery bag on the one unoccupied area of counter, and face Dad.

  “You need to put the gun down,” I say.

  “I need—”

  I fold my arms. “I mean it. Put that gun down or I’m calling Fink.”

  “Fink, Fink?” Dad laughs raucously. “You mean your little biker friend?”

  “He’s not so little.” I take a step forward, looking at Dad dead-serious. He’s pitiful, I reflect, sweaty and old and ugly and mean. Once this is over, I’m done, I tell myself. I won’t let this man twist me anymore. “And maybe you’ll say your cop friends will protect you, but do you really want to take that risk?”

  He mumbles something, and then places the gun on the counter next to my grocery bag. But he’s drunk, of course, because he’s always drunk. He slips and knocks the grocery bag to the floor. My heart drops. For the second time today, I curse myself for being stupid; I should’ve just returned to the car.

  Dad’s drunken eyes follow the pregnancy test as it spills out of the bag and falls to the floor. Before I have a chance to stop him, he darts forward, falling to his knees and scooping the test up, holding it close to his face as though struggling to comprehend what he’s seeing. When he’s finally lumbered to his feet, he turns on me with the test in one hand, the other bunched into a fist.

  “What is this?” he asks.

  Maybe I’d crumble on any other day, but my anger bolsters me. “It’s a pregnancy test,” I say, voice full of acid.

  “Why do you have it?”

  “I’m sure you can work it out. And don’t look at me like that. I’m twenty-three years old!”

  “You’re not married.”

  I laugh bitterly. “So suddenly you’re Mr. Family Values? Is that really the game you want to play? Don’t stand there and try and act self-righteous, Dad, because you just look stupid. You have no right to judge me for anything, especially when it comes to family.” The anger rolls on, unstoppable. Years of withheld rage escapes my lips.

  “What sort of father were you?” I roar. “What sort of person were you, for that matter? You had a wife who loved you and a daughter who adored you, but all you ever cared about was the bottle. Oh, just one more drink, just one more drink . . . do you know how fucking pathetic you sound? Do you know how sad you looked day after day, that smile on your face as you sipped from your whisky bottle, the smile growing darker the more you sipped? Sad, old, fucking pathetic loser.” I spit the words, trembling with unbridled rage.

  “Is that how you talk to your father?” Dad asks, tears in his eyes. “Maybe I should have beaten you after all! You and your whore mother! Look at you. First that cunt runs off to California with a goddamn fairy, and now my only daughter is pregnant by a criminal!”

  “That’s enough!” I scream, taking a step forward and raising my hand. “One more word and I’ll slap you across the face!”

  “Does the truth hurt?” he sneers. Your mother’s a whore and you’re a—”

  I slap him across the face so hard he drops the pregnancy test. As he reels back, recovering, I pick up the test and pick up his gun.

  We stand opposite each other for a time, Dad with his hand to his cheek, tears streaming down his face. “You hit me,” he says. “All these years, I’ve never hit you. And you hit me.”

  “Can you blame me?” I snarl. “Can you really blame me, Dad?”

  “What, are you going to shoot me now, too?” He looks at the gun, which I hold facing the ground. “Is that your grand plan?”

  “I’m taking this gun so you can’t cause any trouble for your neighbors. And I’m leaving, so get out of my way. Oh, and call Mom that horrid word again and maybe I will shoot you!”

  “You’ve chosen her, have you?” He coughs out a laugh.

  “I chose you!” I exclaim. “I stayed here with you when I could’ve gone anywhere after college! I stayed here and withered and now I feel like an idiot for it! I tried to help you. For years, I tried to help you. For years, I saw the best in you. And for what? For you to call me a whore because I might be pregnant? You don’t offer support. You just offer criticism. You’re a leech. You’re poison.”

  I barge past him before he can reply. In the hallway, I hide the gun in my waistband and then walk downstairs, pregnancy test clutched to my chest, heart pounding in my brain.

  It’s only when I drive home that the tears start falling.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fink
>
  I think everything is okay until the scar-faced cop walks in. He has his goons with him, as he always does. When I see him, something inside of me drops, because if he’s here to cause trouble that means the last month of the club playing it straight, of me avoiding Nancy, has been for nothing. It means that I could’ve seen her and the result would’ve been the same and dammit, man, but seeing her would’ve been the sweetest thing there is. All I’ve thought about is her, and now this . . .

  “Can I help you?” I ask, standing up from the car and trying to look and sound as non-aggressive as possible. Even though I feel pretty damn aggressive at seeing these bastards here.

  “Just passing through,” Michaels says, aiming that you-can’t-touch-me-I’m-the-law shit-eating grin at me. “This is a really nice place, a damn fine establishment, I’ve gotta say. So what I don’t understand is why the owner—Sal Douglas, a law-abiding man with a pretty wife—why he’d put up with scum like you. It can’t be good for business.”

  He’s right; two customers watch from the waiting room. Sal watches from his office. I prepare myself to take another beating. I’m getting tired of taking beatings from this asshole, but I’m not about to ruin Sal’s business. I’ve known him too long for that.

  “I guess you’re right,” I say.

  “So why does he, eh? Sal Douglas! Where are you?”

  “You leave him out of this,” I warn.

  “Calm down, tough guy. He’s a man, isn’t he? He can talk for himself.”

  Sal doesn’t look like a man when he emerges from his office. He looks like an oversized boy, shoulders low, head low, looking hangdog in the extreme. “Yes, sir?”

  I hate the sir, but Sal’s always had manners.

  Michaels aims his forefinger right in my face. I resist the urge to snap it in half. “I’m just curious about something. I’m wondering why a good man like you would put up with having a criminal on your payroll. Does that make much sense to you? Well, does it?”

  “I suppose not, sir.”

  My heart sinks with each of Sal’s words. He’s not built for this kind of thing. He’s built for hearty meals with his wife and for a quiet road to retirement. This is unfair. I try and swallow my rage, but it keeps rising, unstoppable.

  “You’re not much of a man, are you, Sal, m’boy?”

  “Whatever you say, sir—”

  “All right, that’s enough.” I step forward. “I won’t stand here and listen to this shit. You don’t talk down to Sal. He’s a good man and he hasn’t done a thing to you. If you think you’ve got a problem with me then we can take this outside. I’ll gladly take this outside. But you and your fuckin’ sidekicks need to get out of here before I lose my patience.”

  Michaels grins at me. “Really are the tough guy, aren’t you?” He turns back to Sal. “I’m coming back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. If this daughter-fucker’s still here, this business is done. You might be thinking you do everything above-board and maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not. But in the end, it don’t matter. There’s always dirt if a cop knows where to look.” He winks at Sal, and then walks away whistling.

  I watch him go, thinking how I’d like to pick up a wrench and slam him over the head with it. Daughter-fucker. That’s my crime, then, being with Nancy. But how do they know? The dad? Did Nancy really tell her drunk of a father about us having sex? It makes no sense.

  I feel like dirt as I stand here, not doing a thing. I reflect on the past month, the miserable nights spent alone thinking of Nancy, ignoring the club girls because nobody can compare to her, and all for nothing. The road has ended at the same destination. Sal’s business is in danger and it’s all my fault.

  “Sal.” I turn to him.

  His lips are watery, his eyes watery. He waves a hand at his office, staring stubbornly at the floor, unwilling, or maybe unable, to meet my eyes. “We meet to talk, Fink.”

  “That sounds serious,” I say, trying for a smile. But the smile feels phony and forced. I let it drop.

  “Let’s talk in here,” he says, stepping into his office.

  I sit opposite him and try to meet his gaze, but he looks above my head or down at the table, anywhere but at me. It’s like he’s trying to put his prized dog out of its misery and can’t bear to see the love and pain in his hound’s eyes.

  “Sal,” I say. “It’s all right. Do what you’ve gotta do.”

  Sal finally looks at me. Tears cling to his eyelashes, his lower lip trembling. People are scared of Sal when they first meet him. The other kids always showed him respect before finding out he was a big softie and they could push him around. I want to clap him on the shoulder like I did the time after the Devlin twins busted his nose with rocks and sticks. I clapped him on the back and smiled and told him, “We’ll get them back, okay? Don’t you worry about that.”

  But we didn’t get them back; I got them back, sneaking up on them in their backyard at two am with a baseball bat and a knot of rage.

  “I don’t like this sort of thing,” Sal mutters.

  “I know you don’t,” I say. “But sometimes it’s gotta be done. What if I was any other asshole and you wanted to fire me, and I needed the money? I had kids, a family, whatever. And you bring me in here and I start spinning you a sob story and you can’t take it, ’cause you’re a nice man, and pretty soon your business is fucked because you never fired those who needed firing.”

  Sal licks his lips, clicks his neck from side to side, opens and closes his hands. It seems like he does anything to avoid saying those two fateful words.

  He sighs. “You’re bringing trouble round here, Fink. I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m not saying you deserve it or anything like that. But those cops are mean pricks and they’ll do what they say they’ll do. You know they will. I can’t lose this business. This is a good business. I built it myself. I have a mortgage, a life. I want to see Europe one day.”

  “I know.” I stand up. “I understand. I won’t come back here.”

  I make for the door.

  “Fink?”

  “Yeah?” I half turn.

  “I remember when we’d sit on my mom’s kitchen floor, playing marbles. You remember you had that little pouch your mom’s necklace came in, and I had that old-style coin purse thing? Do you remember how we’d trade marbles and have names for them?”

  “I remember, Sal.”

  “I never wanted you to go down this path,” he says, wiping his cheeks. “I thought you’d be happy when you got older. I don’t know why, but I always assumed you would be.”

  “Maybe I thought so too.” I grab the door handle, but then my feet carry me back to Sal’s desk. I lean down and look firmly into his eyes, wiping the emotion from my face as though I’m at a club meet and need to be stone-cold. “You have to be strong. You’re a big man, not just in size. You’re a good man. You can’t let these rat pricks walk all over you. I get the cops. The cops walk all over everybody. But customers, employees, anyone, Sal. You don’t have to take it.”

  Sal nods, rubbing his nose. He looks about twelve. “I’ve got it, Fink. I’ll try.”

  I leave the office and head for my bike. I ride away from the garage to a nearby park, where I sit on a bench overlooking the pond, the air cool but the squirrels still out, one of them nibbling on a nut and staring up at me with its big wide eyes. Those big wide squirrel-eyes get me thinking of Nancy. Maybe it was an asshole move to leave her like that after fucking her, but . . . I’ve been over this countless times, going around and around. Getting close to people causes harm. Just look at Sal. He’s my friend, and he’s miserable about it.

  “What do you think?” I ask the squirrel. “Do you reckon a man like me can love and be loved and all that shit? Or do you reckon it’s beyond him? ’Cause I’ve always thought it was impossible, but now . . . Maybe it still is impossible. I don’t fuckin’ know.”

  I stretch my arms out and let my head fall back, staring up at the sky. I feel lost as I nev
er have before. I think about going to the club—the lie-low command has been lifted—but the idea doesn’t appeal to me. The club used to mean belonging, used to mean warmth and brotherhood. But now when I think of it, I can’t help but think that the sense of belonging was a hazy reflection of something better, something real: that the only time I’ve belonged in any true sense was with Nancy, our bodies pressed together at her place, or sharing drinks and our pasts at The Mermaid. Shooting pool with Snake, a man I know virtually nothing about, doesn’t much compare to that.

  I kneel down near the squirrel. It scuttles away but stops a few yards off, staring at me. “It was nice to meet you,” I say, wondering if I’m going a little mad.