A Secret Vow: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance

by Zoey Parker

  It’s hard to force down a swallow. My throat is dry. Croak didn’t deserve to die like that. Hell, no one deserves to die like that. A man should be able to go down swinging, to have some dignity left in him when he goes to meet his maker. Worse still, he died because of me. I’d started this, hadn’t I? There is no way around it: Croak’s death is at least in part on my own conscience. I have his blood on my hands. I owe him vengeance.

  And goddammit, I’m going to get it for him.

  This is the Inked Angels way. This is what the tattoo on my shoulder means: when you take one of ours, we come for all of yours. Grady Freeman is going to die.

  I need a plan, though. I can’t very well go barging into the headquarters of the Galveston Police Department and just start firing off rounds. I’d have more lead in me than blood by the time I finally got to the back office where that fat bastard sat. No, I have to find a subtler way to attack him.

  The air in the room is too thick. It’s clogging my veins, my brain. I have to get out of here if I want to clear my head and come up with something that makes sense.

  “Go home to your families,” I tell the men in the room. No one else has spoken a word since the video ended. “Tell them you love them. Make sure they’re safe.”

  I realize something: I can’t ask them to risk their lives on my behalf. Too much blood—good blood, the blood of a man I followed and respected, despite his flaws—has been spilled because of me. This is my mission now, and mine alone. Each of these men around me is my brother and they deserve to live to see another day, to take another ride. I will do this by myself.

  “Each of you has done enough for me. It’s time for me to take this ride solo.” Vince starts to protest, but I shake my head. “No. There’s no arguing with me on this one. I won’t see another good man killed by these fuckers for something I began. I started this, and I’m going to be the one to finish in. I’m going to protect what’s mine. Each of you needs to go do the same.”

  They file out of the room, one by one. They’re reluctant to leave, but it isn’t hard to see that I’m serious. There’s no denying me right now. A man has to defend his own. At the end of the day, he is only worth that which he is capable of protecting.

  I have Kendra, my wife and soon to be the mother of my child. She’s everything to me. If I can’t keep them safe, then what am I worth? I won’t have her taken from me, least of all by some devil like Grady.

  Vince claps me on the shoulder before he leaves. His grip is tight as he looks in my eyes. “Be careful, brother,” he says. “This isn’t the game we know anymore.” I nod back with a fierce clench in my jaw. He stares at me for one long moment before leaving.

  Then I’m alone.

  I text the prospect, Marley, whom I’d sent to take care of Kendra. He sends me back a quick update.

  House is quiet. Everything is secure.

  I pocket my phone. Time to go on the offensive.

  * * *

  I take my bike to the pier. The first place to look is O’Neil’s Bar, though I’m doubtful I’ll find him there. He’s too smart to get caught in the same place twice, especially alone. He has to know that I’m coming for him. That’s why he sent the video, assuming he was the one who’d orchestrated the whole thing.

  I cruise down the pier, past the bar. There’s no sign of his cruiser anywhere, assuming he got a new one after we’d fucked up his last ride. The whole place is eerily empty, actually. Not a soul in sight. The sky overhead is cloudy and depressing, wrapping the whole city in a thick gray swathe.

  I reach the end of the pier and dismount, killing the engine. Silence settles over me, except for the burbling crash of waves below me. I look out over the ocean. It’s as gray as the sky. Maybe, once all this is settled, Kendra and I can just take off. There’s a whole world out there to explore, a million places better than this shithole of a town. Away from the tourists, the beach, the seagulls that refuse to ever shut the fuck up with their incessant yapping—away from all that, maybe we’ll find something calm.

  The thought surprises me. I’ve never once considered abandoning the life I was raised up in. Never even had the itch. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known. Why leave it?

  Other guys were always jumping at the bit to get the hell out of here. I’d never understood before. We had a good thing going down by the shore—at least, we used to, before all of this chaos started ruining the foundations of the life we’d laid—and it seemed redundant and useless to pull up stakes, abandon ship, sprint off in search of greener pastures. Shit wasn’t any better in other places. Wasn’t even that different, really. There are the same sick bastards in every piece of the world. We’re a fucked up species, humanity, and there’s no escaping that.

  But some of us are sicker than others. My fists curl on the soft wood of the railing. Some of us are more than just flawed. I’m no saint, I’ll admit to that freely. I’ve stolen, I’ve robbed, I’ve inflicted pain. But Grady Freeman is far worse. To strike a pregnant woman is about as low as anything I’ve ever heard of in this life. To say the things he has said is simply asking for death.

  I planned to be the one to deliver it to him.

  I turn my back to the ocean, ready to continue my hunt. The gun at my hip is a reassuring weight. My trigger finger is twitchy, lively, eager for action. Soon, I think. Just as soon as I find the bastard.

  A white car noses around the corner at the other end of the pier, where it connects to the main road running alongside the beach. Emerging from behind the building on the intersection, I see that it’s a cop car. The lights flick on, although the siren stays silent. Blue and red beams pinwheel along the pier as it cruises towards me, slow and steady. I reach to my hip and rest my hand on the butt of the gun. If Grady comes out of that thing, I’m firing, consequences be damned. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to end that motherfucker’s miserable existence.

  The car drives slowly. My pulse is cool and steady. There’s no fear, no hesitation. I’m ready. It parks a dozen yards in front of me. The lights cut out. I can’t see through the tinted windows.

  “Get out of there, you bastard,” I whisper to myself. “Come get what’s coming for you.”

  The door creaks open. A uniformed cop stands up.

  It’s not Grady.

  I loosen my fingers from the butt of the gun, but I’m not ready to go slack just yet. I saw what those cops did to Croak. I’m not about to let the same kind of stunt get pulled on me. The cop walking towards me is tall, on the skinnier side, clean-shaven. He’s got dark sunglasses obscuring his eyes, the brim of his hat pulled low over his head, and the police bomber jacket he’s got on is billowing in the ocean breeze. Both hands are jammed into his pockets. I can’t tell if he’s holding his weapon or not.

  Waves swish below us. I’m a coiled spring, prepared to launch into action the second this motherfucker tries anything sneaky. But, to my surprise, he raises his hands out of his pocket and holds them over his head.

  “I come in peace,” he says. There’s an odd flutter to his voice, halfway between nervousness and shaky laughter.

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  “Just to talk,” he says. He stops about ten feet in front of me. No one else is in sight.

  “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

  He takes off his sunglasses. “Yes, of course I know.”

  “Then you know I’m no friend to cops around here.”

  “I’m pretty aware of that.”

  My mind is racing. Who is this guy and what does he want with me? He clearly followed me here. Is it to kill me? Intimidate me? Pass along a message from Grady? I grit my teeth and wait for him to explain himself.

  “I know what he’s doing,” the cop tells me. “Grady, I mean. What he’s up to.”

  My suspicion is ratcheting up to dangerous levels. There’s no way Grady sent this man here to blabber about whatever fucked up things he’s planning next. I can’t trust a word this cop says.

  I call him out on
it. “Why would I believe a word out of your mouth?”

  He shrugs. “I can’t convince you. I don’t have any proof that what I’m telling you is real. But judging by the looks of it, you don’t have too many allies at this point, do you?”

  He’s got me there. I’m alone. I chose for it to be that way, yeah, but the fact remains that I’m a one man army right now. I’ll go along with what he’s saying for the moment.

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly. “What do you know?”

  “I know that he called for your boss to be killed.” He’s talking about Croak.

  “Big fucking surprise,” I spit. “There’s no one else who would kill a defenseless man that blatantly.”

  “No, you’re right,” he agrees. “That’s why I’m here. He’s gone over the edge. I’m no big fan of your crew, but killing civilians? Since when is that part of the job?” He shakes his head angrily. “It’s not what I signed up for when I became a cop.”

  I wrinkle my brow. “You signed up to be a money-grubbing whore when you got that badge, brother.”

  The man raised his palms to me as if to protest his innocence. “I’ve never taken a dime from you. I’m not your ally or your friend. I don’t think what you do is right. I’ve seen the drugs, the races. You’re not as bad as others, but you’re on the wrong side of the law. It’s my job to stop you.”

  “So stop me,” I growl.

  “But I can’t do that right now. Grady is worse. I can’t stop him either. And he’s going to hurt you and your family if you don’t do something about it. He’ll wait until you’re away from your wife, and then he’ll go to your house and take her. He knows you’re not with her right now, as a matter of fact.”

  “How do you know all this shit? How would he know that?”

  “I overheard him telling the undercover guys about it. We’ve had a guy from our unit planted in your crew for a few months now. It was supposed to be a long-term gig, extremely low-key, just the little funnel we needed to keep the information we needed flowing. Swear to God, we were never going to shut you down. You’re a lesser evil when compared to the cartels who might be setting up shop here if the Angels weren’t around. But we needed an inside source.”

  My heart freezes.

  “But Grady decided to blow the whole thing up. He barged into the undercover office last night and pulled the file on our inside guy. Last I saw, he was on his way out the door to give him new orders. I don’t know what happened next, but I’m pretty sure he’s up to something bad.” He grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  I need to know who it is. “Who was the mole?” I ask. I hold my breath while I wait for him to answer.

  “It was a buddy of mine, actually. We went to cop school together. Travis McNair was his legal name, but he obviously had a different identity when he went undercover to join your club.”

  “What is his name?” I repeat. “Tell me the goddamn name.”

  He shakes his head, sadly this time. “I only got a glimpse of the file before Grady left, so I only saw the first name. It’s Marley.”

  Colors run together. I’m hopping on my bike, speeding past the cop, flying as fast as the engine can bear. He’s a speck in the distance of my rearview mirror before he can even comprehend that I’ve gone.

  Marley. Why did I trust a new guy to guard my wife? I should have sent Steezy, Vince, or anyone else I knew could be relied upon. Instead, I played exactly into Grady’s hands. He’s got her.

  I rip my cell phone from my pocket and dial. The line rings endlessly. No one picks up.

  Just when I thought I was on the prowl, it turns out I’m the one being hunted.

  Chapter 13

  Kendra

  Mortar texts me a few minutes after he walks out the door to tell me to get his spare handgun from the bedside table and lock myself in the bathroom until he can send a prospect to keep guard over the house.

  I hurry to the bedroom and yank open the bottom drawer. The gun is shining. I pick it up. It’s heavier than I expected, and honestly, I’m a little scared of it. I wrap it in the lower half of my shirt and dash into the bathroom, being careful to keep my fingers far away from the trigger.

  I tug the door shut firmly behind me and lock it with a twist of the button. Then I settle into the crevice between the toilet and sink and wait. I keep my phone in my hand in case Mortar texts or calls me, but it doesn’t buzz.

  The house is mostly quiet, save for the ticks and groans and buzzing of any home. The plop of random droplets from the leaky faucet and the slow rattle of my breath in the still air mark the passage of time.

  Seconds stretch into minutes, and minutes into almost an hour before I hear the shuffle of footsteps downstairs. “Hello?” calls an unfamiliar voice. Even muffled through the door, I can tell that the person is male, gruff. It’s definitely not Grady’s Southern snarl. That doesn’t mean it can’t be one of his men, though. I can’t trust anything anymore.

  Whoever it is walks around, calling into the first few rooms of the house as he works his way closer and closer to where I am hiding. I pull the gun out of the folds of my shirt and grip it between my hands. I rest the butt against my knee as I steady it towards the door. If he tries to break in, I have to fire. I can’t hesitate. It’s only a step or two from the door to my seat, so if they force it open and I don’t react, then I’m done for. I breathe, trying to stop the tremors in my fingertips.

  “Hello?” calls the voice again. He’s at the entrance to the bedroom.

  “Tell me your name and why you’re here,” I call out from where I’m sitting. “I have a gun and I’ll shoot you if you try to open that door.” I’m trying hard to control my breath and keep everything calm and concentrated on the task at hand—surviving.

  I hear him come to a stop outside the bathroom door. The handle doesn’t twist or turn, though. He’s listening to my orders, for now.

  “I’m Marley,” he says through the wood. His voice is cautiously friendly. He can tell I’m spooked, not that it would require a detective to piece together that particular puzzle. He’s working hard to seem non-threatening. “Mortar sent me here to make sure you’re safe. There’s a lot of chaos going down at the clubhouse, but I’m supposed to be on guard duty here.” He pauses. “You can trust me.”

  I let the air whistle out of my chest. There’s no way Grady’s men would be able to lie this convincingly. I believe Marley. I stand, wincing at the cramping pain in my lower back and knees as I totter to the door, unlock it, and ease out.

  I survey the man standing in front of me. I haven’t seen him before. He’s an inch or two over six feet tall, with dark, spiky hair and a three days’ growth of beard scabbing over his chin and neck. He’s muscular but not overly so. Straight nose, thick eyebrows, tanned skin. All in all, he looks instantly forgettable, the kind of guy who could be at home anywhere, could go from a corporate boardroom to a barroom brawl with just a simple change of clothes and not look a bit out of place. His eyes, a warm, chocolate brown, convey openness.

  I set the gun down on the top of the bedside table. He eyes it, but doesn’t say a word.

  “When you’re married to a man like Mortar, you start to pick up some of his habits,” I explain, smiling hesitantly.

  He smiles thinly. “Can’t say I blame you. I don’t know that I’d trust a stranger walking into my house either.”

  I decide I like him. “What’d you say your name was again?”

  “Marley.”

  “Hm. I don’t remember Mortar ever mentioning you before.” I’m racking my brain, trying to remember if the name had ever come up in the few bits of information that Mortar gave me at the end of any one of his long work days.

  He shrugs. “I’m a new guy,” he says. “Haven’t been around long enough to make a big impression yet, I guess. I keep to myself anyway.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. I let another notch of tension dissipate from my shoulders. A new guy. One of Mortar’s. Nothing to w
orry about. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?”

  “A water would be great, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure thing, not a problem. Kitchen’s this way.” I walk past him into the hallway, headed for the kitchen, when I hear an odd, unexpected clunk behind me.

  “Marley?” I ask as I turn back around.

  He’s tucking the gun I just laid down into the back of his pants with one hand. The other hand is dangling by his side. He’s holding something in it, but I can’t tell what.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” he says. Some part of him seems genuinely sad, like he’s about to do something he really doesn’t want to do. He raises the hidden hand and I see that it’s holding his own gun. “But orders are orders. I need you to come with me. Don’t make a sound.”