The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  I ignore Snake’s jeers and go into the garage next to the clubhouse, take off my shirt and get to work. The car has been made as dirty as possible on purpose just for my punishment. Either that or someone’s driven it through a car wash that uses shit instead of water. The smell makes me gag at first, but I’ve smelled worse and after a while, I get used to it. I fill five buckets of water, each bucket turning brown and gunky and the car’s not even one-fifth clean.

  It takes me the better part of an hour and a half to get the car clean. All I do during this time is think of Nancy, think about our time together and wonder why in the hell I’d pick a dirty car over her, wonder why the hell I’d run out on her when she’s warm and soft and willing and lovely and beautiful. It’s only been three days, but I’m already going crazy thinking about her. Three days and I’m aching for her, hungry for her. Three days and I wish I’d never found that pregnancy test. I imagine a scenario where she tells me, and because she has her hands on mine and she’s kissing me and hugging me, I can’t just walk out. So I stay there, and we work it out. We grow closer. We grow stronger. Instead, I ran and ruined everything.

  I emerge from the garage covered head to toe in grime and dirt. Snake leans on his bike off to the side with a few of the men behind him, all of them laughing.

  “Laugh it up, fellas,” I say, heading for the hose. “One day I’ll get you all back for this. That’s a damn promise.”

  “Get us back for what?” Snake laughs. “This is us getting you back, Fink. We’re square now.”

  I hose myself down, getting as much of the dirt off me as possible, and then go into the clubhouse and get a change of clothes from the dormitory wing. I shrug on my jacket and sit in the bar for a while, playing poker and drinking whisky, but unable to get Nancy out of my head. She’s always right there, no matter what I do, lurking, watching, waiting. She’s always there with her gorgeous eyes and her gorgeous smile, her gorgeous way of making me feel like a real person. And I left her.

  “You’ve been odd lately,” Snake says. “You’re normally a violent bastard but fuck, Fink, I can’t count the number of times you’ve threatened to take me out.”

  I cough out a laugh after a slug of whisky. “Sometimes life gets complicated. You know I wouldn’t do anything serious with you, Snake. We’re both Sons of Wolves.”

  “Yeah, I know, man.” Snake nods. “But what’s got into you?”

  I look around, making sure our conversation is ours and ours alone. “You ever been with a girl you love?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been with a girl I love. I’m still with the girl I love, only now she’s my wife.”

  I sit up. “Wait a second. You’re telling me you’re married?”

  Snake grins. “It’s crazy, ain’t it, how we can all see each other damn-near every day and not know a thing like that? I’m married.”

  “And how is it?” I ask.

  “How do you mean?”

  “How is being married? This must be why you’re always so shy with the club girls.”

  “Tryin’ to be loyal. How is it? Let me see . . . It’s like having a best friend around all the time, I guess, if the best friend had a twat and some tits.” He laughs raucously and necks his whisky. “It’s fine, man. It’s damn fine.”

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Of getting her hurt. Of infecting her with . . . with this.” I wave a hand at the clubhouse. “With twisting her or hurting her or dammit, anything.”

  “I was at the start. But what was I gonna do? Pass up on the woman I love ’cause I was scared? I’m not a fuckin’ pussy.”

  “I’ve never thought of it like that,” I say honestly.

  “Where are you going?”

  I pace away from him, ignoring his question, and climb into my bike and kick it to life, growling away from the clubhouse and toward Salem proper. I need to see her. It isn’t a question of just missing her anymore, or just feeling like it’d be good to feel her touch again or any of that. I need to see her, and there’s nothing in this world that’s going to stop me. As I ride, I see myself how I must’ve looked when I left: a coward, fleeing, a coward who’s got even less grit in him than Snake, a coward with a cowardly way of looking at the world. I thought I was doing the right thing by walking out but maybe all I was doing was protecting myself.

  And yet, that moment of clarity doesn’t last long. I stop a few streets down from her apartment building, sitting in a mild autumn drizzle, kneading my knuckles and wondering why I’m really going to Nancy’s. I need to ask myself this question because for all I know, I’ll fuck her and then leave again. Maybe that’s the sort of man I am without even trying to be: the type to swoop in, take what he wants, and then swoop away. Maybe that’s the type of man I’ve always been and I’ll always be. I pace up and down near my bike, thinking. I’ve never been much of the introspection type but I think it’s necessary now. I need to know exactly what I’m doing to that girl before I do it.

  I ask myself some fundamental questions: what do I want from Nancy? What do I think I can offer her? Where do I see this ending? I’ve never asked myself this bluntly about a woman before. I guess I’ve never thought it mattered since all the girls I normally go with don’t want anything from me except for some fun. I sit on the curb, not caring when the rain gets heavier and clings to my hair. What do I want from her? Sex, obviously. I want sex from her because she’s smoking hot and I’m a man. But what else? I want to spend time with her like we did at The Mermaid, drink shots and learn about each other, get closer to each other. I want to see her smile at me because it makes me feel like less of a piece of shit. But what can I offer her? That’s a tougher question. I can tool guys up for her, if it comes to that, and I have some cash stowed but she doesn’t seem like she’s struggling for money.

  “What can I offer her?”

  Goddamn, is my self-esteem really this fucked up? Did my ranting mother and phantom father really do this much damage to me, or is it just me, something deep inside of me, unchangeable, something poisoning me bone-deep?

  I move on from the question. If I’m honest, it scares me.

  “Okay, where does this end?”

  I see two scenes: in one, Nancy is on her face, hair matted and bloody, a pool of blood spreading around her; in the other, she is holding a baby and cooing and radiant, sunlight framing her.

  In the end when I climb back onto my bike I don’t know which fantasy I believe in. I don’t even know if I’m going to Nancy’s to end it once and for all or to beg her to give me another chance or just to hear her voice. I wish I could be more certain about this, but it turns out relationships and women are more complicated than shoot-ups and outlawing. I never would’ve guessed that.

  I press down on her apartment buzzer to no answer. I press it a couple more times and then check the time. It’s half past five. Maybe she’s got a new job; maybe she’s got a date. I should probably just leave and come back later, but I’m amped up now. I press down on the buzzer of the elderly woman who answered the last time I came here.

  “Uh, hello?”

  “Hello, ma’am,” I say. “I’m looking for Nancy O’Neill. I’m a friend of the family and she isn’t answering when I press the buzzer. It’s urgent that I find her.”

  “Oh, is everything okay?”

  “We hope so,” I say, leaving it at that. She’ll fill in the rest for herself.

  “Oh, my. Well I haven’t seen Nancy for a few days, actually. I’ve noticed because I often hear her in the mornings, singing to herself. She has a lovely voice.”

  “She’s gone?” I ask, heart pounding so hard I have to focus to hear past it. “Where?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  I step back, unable to stop my mind from spinning into the deadly and the macabre. That Michaels creep has found her and abducted her. He’s torturing her right now, playing out his sick fantasies.

  I kic
k open the door and run up the stairs without thinking. I’m in outlaw mode now. I’m in red fuckin’ alert mode. I need to know if she’s safe. She can hate me and want nothing to do with me, as long as she’s safe.

  I barge through her apartment door with my shoulder, ignoring the neighbors who poke their heads out of their doors, and then walk around, studying everything. There’s no sign of a struggle, but the wardrobes are empty and a few of the photographs are gone.

  She’s run, then. She’s run away from me.

  I sit on her couch, head in my hands. Maybe I ought to respect her decision. Maybe I ought to just let her run away, if that’s what she wants. But I can’t do that. I need to see her much more hungrily than I thought. I ache for her. It’s like there’s a creature inside of me, a creature who’s never lived there before and who I never imagined could live there. It’s inside of me, and it’s causing havoc.

  “I have to see her,” I whisper in wonder: wonder at the strength of the desire.

  I stand up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fink

  “You can’t be here,” Sal says. “You know that.”

  “I understand,” I reply, but even so it feels like a punch in the gut when he won’t look at me, staring at the ground instead, fidgeting because he wants this to end as quickly as possible. “I’m not here to try and get my job back or anything like that, all right? I’m here because I need your help with Nancy. She’s missing, Sal, and I need to find her.”

  “Missing? What can I do to help?” He sits up in his office chair, resting his meaty forearms on the desk. “I don’t know anything about her or nothing like that.” He gets that look in his face I saw so often when we were kids. It’s the same look he got when some little shit decided to make himself feel better by going at the giant. It’s a look that says: Don’t bother me. Please don’t get me involved.

  I want to back off, leave him be, but I need to see Nancy and I don’t want to go to the club. If I go to the club, they’ll just get angry and go overboard, start harassing the cops again. The last thing I need is another Wolf-cop war. So I can’t just back off like I want to. I can’t just leave Sal be, even though he deserves to be left alone.

  “I need her father’s address. I know he gave it to you when he came in here for insurance or whatever. You’re very particular about that stuff, Sal.”

  “I can’t give you that!” Sal hisses, glancing around like somebody might be listening. “You really think I can give you that? That’s data protection stuff! That’s serious business! If they find out . . .”

  “How’s anyone gonna find out? He’ll just assume I found out from the club. If he asks me, I’ll say it was the club. It’ll never come back to you.”

  “Why not just ask the club?” Sal grumbles. “I don’t get involved in your crime stuff. That’s always been the agreement. You know that. And now . . . I don’t like this at all, Fink.”

  “I know it’s not fair,” I say. “I know I’ve never been much of a friend to you.” He makes to interrupt me, but I just go on. “No, Sal, you know it’s the truth. I’ve been a shitty friend and I’ve caused you a lot of hassle. I’m aware of that and it makes me feel like a real dirt bag all the damn time. But I need this. Just this one thing. And then, if you want, you’ll never have to see me again. I’ll disappear.”

  Sal sighs, leaning back and rubbing his cheeks. “Ah, Fink. Ah, goddamn it. I don’t like breaking the rules. You know that about me. You and the crew used to give me a hard time about that all the time.”

  “The crew.” I smile. “I haven’t heard you say the crew in years.”

  “I haven’t had need, thank God!” He laughs loudly and violently, something he’ll do even when the joke isn’t all that funny. He settles down, and then says, “I don’t want to do this, Fink. So you need to promise me that nobody will ever trace this back to me. And . . .” He takes a deep breath and pushes himself on. “And if they ever do find out it’s me, I need you to take complete responsibility, even if it means you getting hurt.”

  I can tell it causes him a lot of pain to say this. I won’t increase the pain. I just nod. “Okay, Sal.”

  “Let me see . . .”

  He gives me the address and I leave, telling myself to be calm and collected when I go to his apartment. I don’t know that the drunk has anything to do with Nancy leaving. Maybe she just disappeared in a puff of smoke. I laugh grimly to myself as I bring my bike to a stop on his street. I approach the building without my leather on, since it’d be pretty goddamn stupid to wear my leather at a time like this. I press his buzzer and wait.

  A cough answers, followed by, “Who’s there?”

  He sounds weak and scared, a much smaller man than the bellowing bull I first encountered at Sal’s place. I wonder if he’s so blasted he can barely talk, or maybe not blasted enough.

  “It’s Fink Foster,” I say.

  “Fink . . .” His voice deepens. A little of the tyrant returns to it. “Fink Foster. Have you got a death wish? Is that it? Are you determined not to see your thirtieth birthday, you little rat? Why in the name of Christ would you press my buzzer? Are you a fool? That must be it. You must be a real goddamn fool. I can’t think of another reason for it. Do you want to get hurt? Are you looking to get hurt? Answer me, boy! Talk!”

  “I hope you’ve got that out of your system, because I didn’t come here to listen to your shit.”

  “My shit!” Bill O’Neill spits audibly, a crackle through the old metal speakers. “You came to my apartment, kiddo. I didn’t invite you. One phone call and I can have my friends here, ten cops who all saw you pull a gun on me. One goddamn phone call.”

  I’m about to snap at him, call him a piece of shit, a waste of skin, when another idea occurs to me. Instead of snapping at him, I say, “And your daughter’d never forgive you for it. Your daughter’d hate you because you locked up the father of her child, the father of your grandchild.” I pause, waiting for his response. When he doesn’t shout, I guess he already knows. “Do you really wanna have to explain to her how you got her baby’s father locked up?”

  “Then I’ll just have them kill you,” Bill says matter-of-factly. “Bury you so far in the dirt not even fuckin’ archeologists’ll find you. I don’t know who you think you are, kiddo. I really don’t. I don’t mind you outlaw types when you stick to your rat holes, but coming by a sheriff’s apartment? Are you insane?”

  “You’re sober,” I note. “Your voice is trembling a little there, big man.”

  “Maybe it is,” Bill admits. “But that don’t change nothing.”

  “Maybe being sober lets you think about how hard you were on Nancy growing up. Maybe being sober lets you see her as a person instead of someone to be shouted at, snapped at, sneered at, and used. Maybe being sober lets you realize that you fucked with her more than anybody deserves to be fucked with and all because of your pathetic habit.”

  “You need to be careful, boy.”

  “Call me boy again,” I say. “One more goddamn time.”

  There must be some fight in my tone because he pauses for a long time, and from now on he doesn’t call me boy.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “You haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “Are you too scared to let me up? Is that it?”

  “Scared!”

  As I predict, the door buzzes and I can throw it open. I walk up the stairs, trying to figure out how to approach this to get what I want. If how he’s behaved toward me so far is any indication, he’d rather die than give me his daughter’s whereabouts. I could torture him, but that’d mean crossing a line with Nancy’s father I can’t uncross. Who’s to say she won’t hate me for it? No, I need to use words, something I’ve never been too good at; bullets and knives have always been an option in my line of work.

  I walk into the apartment to Bill aiming a shotgun at me. “Nancy took my pistol,” he says. “So I got an upgrade.”

  “Good for you.” I kick the door closed behi
nd me, hands raised. “Really, I’m happy for you. That’s really impressive. Would you look at that? Twelve-gauge, pump action.”

  “Pump action,” Bill agrees, and then pumps it to prove the point. “Damn powerful, too. It’ll blow the steam out of a train.”

  “Nice way of putting it.” I step forward, raising my hands higher when he hefts the gun. “You look drawn out there, Bill. Hair’s a mess and your eyes are all black. You been hitting it hard or not at all? By the way your hands’re shaking, I’m gonna guess I was right downstairs. You’re stone-cold sober, aren’t you? Do you really have it in you, Bill, to shoot a man when you’re stone-cold sober, especially when he’s got his hands up?” I walk right up to the barrel, pressing my chest against it, praying to whoever’s listening that I’ve judged this right and he won’t just blow a hole the size of a soccer ball in my chest.