by Nicole Fox
Hunter pointed to them and Archer looked at each kid in turn. They started laughing.
“I see. So you don’t want to tell me anything?”
Archer blinked in response.
“You do understand this makes you look guilty?” Archer again looked to the carrot and whined, but the timing was perfect. The kids burst into laughter.
“Well, there’s nothing else we can do if he won’t talk,” Hunter said. “We’ll have to take him down to the station.”
The kids swarmed the dog, trying to pull him over to the tree that was their “police station.”
Hunter pictured the plastic playhouse that looked much more like a real police station, sitting at Mari’s farm house, waiting for Opal’s birthday next week. She would love it, and her and her friends would get a lot of use out of it.
When they started up their game again and paid the dog less attention, Hunter slipped him a carrot, which he gratefully chewed.
“Your mom wants you to eat these, too, okay?” Hunter gave the baggie to Opal, and they each stuck in their hand to get a carrot stick.
Hunter went back inside and put his arms around his wife, who was still watching the kids.
“They adore you,” she said. “And so do I.”
She turned in his arms to kiss him.
“And I adore them back. And you, too.”
She rested her head against his shoulder, and he felt fully content and joyful. His heart was so full, he didn’t think life could be any better.
His new job let him protect people for a living, something he was clearly good at. He never had to worry anymore about the police coming after him—he worked with them most of the time. He liked his current client, a businessman with high-powered clients, but his favorite object of protection would always be Vanessa.
He ran his hands up and down her back. Keeping her safe was the most important thing he ever did, and he continued to take his job very seriously. Opal, too, was at the top of his list. And soon there would be one more to look after, care for, and keep safe.
He ran his hands down and over Vanessa’s round belly. His baby, growing stronger each day, moved under his touch.
“Ohh,” Vanessa said. “He’s getting so big.”
“He’s already strong.”
“You’re telling me. He thinks he has to kick his way out.”
Hunter held his hand in place, waiting to feel him move again. He loved that feeling of his little son inside his wife.
Opal was overjoyed when she’d found out she was going to have a brother, but he didn’t think anything could compare to his own excitement. This unexpected life had turned out so perfect. Knowing he almost lost it all made each day that much more precious to him. He never took it for granted that he could walk outside anytime he liked to play with his daughter and her friends. Or that he could hug and kiss his wife without restriction. Or that he was free to do as he liked, when he liked, every day.
Life was sweet. And in just another month or so, it would get even sweeter. He’d done nothing to deserve this life, but he’d spend every day for the rest of his years making sure he was worthy of it.
THE END
***
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(Bonus 2 of 2) DOM’S BABY: Broken Spires MC
By Nicole Fox
I HAD A TASTE OF HER. NOW, I’M COMING FOR THE REST.
One more heist, and then I’ll be done with this life for good.
In and out. I’d done it a million times. This will be no different.
At least, that’s what I thought…
Then Erica showed up.
She was too delicious to pass up.
A pretty city girl in a world far removed from the one she knows.
In other words, easy prey.
Down here, we do things different.
When a man like me wants a woman like her, he doesn’t stop to ask questions.
He just takes.
And takes.
And takes.
Until his hunger is sated.
And that’s exactly what I did.
The stupid girl was about to get stabbed, but I had a different kind of penetration in mind.
I scooped her up, threw her across my bike, and took her home.
The rest was bare flesh and broken moans.
I wish it had ended there.
But you can’t always get what you want.
And this little angel is trying her damndest to drag me back into the underworld I’m desperately trying to escape.
Cut it out, princess.
You don’t give the orders around here – I do.
Now get on your knees.
I’m not going to ask twice.
Chapter One
Dominic
“The beaches, man, the beaches!” I insisted for the thousandth time. “That’s where I should be heading.”
“I know, Dom. I know,” my oldest friend and partner in crime, Dorian, sighed. “But you gotta do it. It’s in the rules. Then, after that, you’ll be done.”
“Done…” I murmured, letting the word slip out of me with a long line of cigarette smoke. I closed my eyes and let the cool mountain air touch my skin. Let the feel of the earth beneath me, and the knowledge of the view before me, lull me into a state of comfort.
It did not work.
It used to. This spot, with Dorian at my side, my bike idling between my thighs, used to make me feel at peace. Well, as “at peace” as one can feel in the sad, sorry state of the world.
But now, I longed for tropics. The only vistas I wanted before me should be oceans. The only smell of chemicals from a drink in my hand. The only blaze from the campfire by my feet.
“I’m too recognizable,” I continued complaining. “Someone in the bar will recognize me.”
Dorian did not bother to ask if I was afraid. He knew better than anyone that nothing––certainly not death––frightened Dominic Molina. I was worried for my gang, the Broken Spires. It was my duty as their president to protect them.
“So what if you’re recognized?” countered Dorian, flicking his own cigarette into the wind. “You can handle any of those scumbags.”
I frowned sourly, much too experienced to let paltry praise flatter me. I gazed down at my hands: killer’s hands they were, as riddled with scars as a fisherman’s, with tattoos from the knuckles up the wrists. Though no one could see it, I also had a line of skulls towering up my spine. Thirty-two of them. One for every man I have killed in this biker’s war.
“Dorian, I don’t want to make it thirty-three.”
He did not have to ask what I meant.
I closed my eyes again, envisioning myself not on a roadside mountaintop, but on white sands. Aruba. The Caribbean. Somewhere like that. A place where my tattoos could be art, and not a sign of violent status. Maybe grab a woman or four. Spend some time fucking. Drinking. Relaxing.
I was sure some of my biking peers believed this dream of mine meant I’d gone soft, but that wasn’t it at all. My job as president was just that––a job. I reveled in the strategy, and the planning, but never the outright violence. Now, it was time for me––at the lofty age of thirty-two––to retire.
“It’ll be fine, Dom,” said Dorian, patting me on the shoulder. “Just go in, do a little recon, and out. I’ll be nearby if things get hairy. Alright?”
I sighed. I really didn’t have a choice. The Broken Spires depended on me. I would never let them down.
In silence, we finished the remainder of our cigarettes. Then we ignited the engines of our bikes.
The roar of them echoed through the mountains like the cry of a savage animal, and suddenly, I felt it all come back to me: the thrill of violence, of bloodlust, of outsmarting the opponent. I might
have been ready to leave it, but that did not mean I had entirely forgotten why I had once loved it.
Together, we plowed our way down the mountain, into town.
# # #
From the outside, the goal of my mission––a biker’s bar called the Bear’s Cave––seemed like any other local bar: full of floozies, and overweight, middle-aged men trying to relive the glory days.
That is what the ignorant would perceive.
Those accustomed to motorcycle culture, however, would see much more: the badges, sewn into the leather jackets of the customers, whose hidden meaning indicated rank and violence. The secret compartments on the flanks of motorcycles shaped quite conveniently for a handgun or a pistol. Similar bulges in men’s blue jeans, hidden from the naïve but clear as day to those accustomed to concealed weaponry. There was also a certain silence, a watchfulness, in the bartender as I entered. He gave me a look that lingered a little too long, but did not say anything. I was permitted to sit down and order a drink.
Some bikers refused to drink on the job. They thought it would soften their reflexes. Others preferred to get uproariously drunk, thinking it made them braver. I, however, preferred the middle ground: not ordering a drink aroused suspicion, ordering too many aroused stupidity.
I settled for a whiskey, alone in the glass. As I sipped it, I took a look around.
This bar, the Bear’s Cave, was enemy territory. In preparation for this mission, I had let the stubble on my cheeks and jaw grow out. Hide my strong chin, which I’d once used to break the nose of the ex-president of the Crooked Jaws, the bike club that laid claim to this bar. Hide the long scar that ran from my temple to my jawline; the one that the current Jaws president, Marco “La Gancho” Herrera, gave me in a knife fight long ago.
Do not worry. He was, by far, worse off after that battle.
Still, it was a weak disguise, so I did my best to keep my face low over my drink, creating an appearance of silent nervousness––the expression most newbies wear when realizing that they are way in over their heads. By appearing nonthreatening, yet big enough not to be easy prey, I hoped whatever Crooked Jaws were in here would leave me alone. Without even turning my head to look around, I could spy three of them.
They did not seem to be “on duty”–– metaphorically speaking, anyway. They were clustered in a side booth, drinking large beers and guffawing with each other. Every now and again, one would reach out and pluck the poor, bruised bottom of a passing waitress.
Though I knew with certainty that these guys would not provide me with anything useful, I sipped my drink and listened closely.
“Did you see that faggot squirm when I laid into him, Tony?” One asked, punching his buddy in the arm.
“I can’t believe he cried,” wheezed Tony, laughing so hard that his own eyes were leaking.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get in trouble with the boss,” the third one muttered, grim over his beer. “You know we’re not supposed to cause trouble at that end of the neighborhood.”
My ears perked. “Boss” could only mean one person: La Gancho. And yet, what neighborhood did he mean? The Crooked Jaws had no issue causing problems around here.
“I don’t like working for that asshole,” the first one muttered. I smiled. Dissension in an opponent’s ranks was always satisfying to hear. But then, he said something that surprised me. “Always going on about the appearance of legality and the importance of subtlety, and all the college-egghead crap.”
“Thinks he’s better than us,” complained Tony.
Legality? Subtlety? Egghead? Now, this did not at all sound like La Gancho. I would take arrogance from him, but academic superiority? No. The only education La Gancho had was given to him in his father’s bike shop, then on the blood-spattered streets.
“I think,” I realized, “they are talking about someone else.”
A clue! Perhaps something that would help us solve the mysteries of the Jaws’ very strange behavior lately.
As discreetly as I could, I shifted my chair closer to their booth, straining to hear every word. They were drunk, and spoke loudly, but so did everyone else at the bar.
“We’ll just have to be careful,” one said as I approached. “The time will come soon, and—wait! Who is that?”
All of a sudden, all three of them erupted from their seats. I froze, not out of fear, but the way a chameleon freezes when it is about to camouflage. If they suspected me, the worst thing I could do if appear guilty. Still, like a snake, my hand flashed to the bulge against my hip. Where my .45 was hidden.
“Hey, you!” I heard one call. I slipped it from its holster, cocked the trigger, and–
“Wow, man! It’s been forever!”
I chanced to look around. A fourth male had joined the first three, clapping the men on the backs and grinning. He sat down, and the group ordered him a beer.
I breathed. My gun slipped back into its holster.
“Come on, Dom,” I scolded myself. “You’re getting way too edgy. The last thing you want to do is start a shootout in this bar. There are innocents here.”
Man, I was so done. Done with the constant suspicion. Done with premeditating my every move, only to have so many of my plans erupt in brutal conflicts and exchanges of force.
I’d earned my time to relax. I’d fought for it, blood, tooth, and nail.
Feeling disgruntled, I wrested my attention from the gaggle of idiot Crooked Jaws and returned it to my drink. I would continue surveillance, sure, but, for this moment at least, I would simply enjoy my whiskey.
And yet, it tasted of violence. Of knives drawn at local bars. Of shattered bone. Of territories claimed, and then defended. A normal person would be afraid to be in the situation I was: deep in enemy territory, and a well-known opponent to boot. But again, I was not afraid. The worst these bozos could do to me is kill me, and that, I bet, would be in a wholly uncreative manner.
No, I was tired. I sipped my whiskey. I yawned. I sipped more whiskey. I yawned again. Increasingly, I became convinced that I was wasting my time. Those buffoons in the booth would yield nothing useful, and the bartender, meanwhile, was inscrutable as the drinks he served. It was not like anyone would reprimand me for leaving. I was my own boss. It was only my sense of duty that kept me here.
“One more heist,” I muttered to myself, ordering another drink. “One more, and then I’m free.”
I spent the next hour drinking and dreaming of that freedom. It would have been hard to imagine a mind such as mine thinking of anything else.
That is, until she walked through the door.
Chapter Two
Erica
“Another shitty day at work,” I thought, sagging into my car to drive wearily home. For a moment, I did not even have the strength to turn the key in the ignition. Instead, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel, relishing the feel of the cool leather against my skin.
“I love my job,” I said aloud, thumping my brow against the wheel. “I love my job. I love my job.”
And yet, I could not help but finished the thought with, “Yeah, when I am actually allowed to do it.”
I’d been hired to Blade and Goldstein’s Firm almost a year ago, as a paralegal. Since then, however, my duties seem to have devolved into nothing more than a glorified secretary. “Get us coffee, Ms. Carter,” or “Schedule my next meeting, Ms. Carter.” That was, at least, when Goldstein spoke to me. When it was Blade, I heard, “Come over here, Erica my sweet.”
Yikes. He was by far the worst of them. At least he had the decency to go home early on some Fridays, which was why I was able to be in my car, despairing, an hour earlier than usual.
And though I hated it, I stuck the job out. The money was good, and with all the expenses of the wedding coming up, I sure was going to need it.
This thought, at least, put a smile on my face. The wedding. Brian. We’d gotten engaged about twelve months ago––about the time I starting working at the firm, come to think of it––and the
following year had been little more than a frenzied–but-happy whirlwind of events. Booking the caterer, the music, the guests––the list goes on. Through it all, Brian had been so helpful and understanding.
Thinking of coming home to him, I smiled, started the car, and pulled into the street. On the radio, I tuned in to one of our favorite songs. It was a love song.
Inspired by the music, I lost myself in my memories. When he asked me to marry him––right after work, as if it were the most natural and easiest thing in the world. I thought about when we met, both young and in college, and how his charm and debonair smile had won me over immediately.