OUR ACCIDENTAL BABY: Hellhounds MC

by Paula Cox

  I go into the homeless shelter, where a tall man with night-black skin and missing front teeth grins at me. “Is that Allie, or do my eyes deceive me?”

  “Hey, Aaron.” I grin back, leaning on the desk.

  Aaron sits on a seat which is way too small for him, hunched over a small notepad. He’s thin, reedy, but with a big man’s smile: it fills his face. Behind him, the homeless shelter spreads out, a tall-ceilinged warehouse with beds laid out side by side, a door leading to a kitchen far in the back, a few men and women sitting around an overturned box playing checkers and cards. Aaron is looking better than the last time I saw him. He wears a new sport tracksuit, the T-shirt tucked into the pants, and bright white sneakers.

  “You handing around those leaflets of yours?” He holds his hand out.

  I place a few in his hand. “Got to let people know I’m out there, right?”

  “Oh yeah.” Aaron nods seriously. “They call that self-promotion.”

  “Well, hopefully I can self-promote myself enough so that the library doesn’t cancel my services.”

  Aaron waves a hand at himself, and then gives his head a theatrical flourish, flashing his gap teeth. “You helped me, didn’t you, Allie? If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be walking like a zombie through the streets, trembling and looking for some trouble, cheap beer and cheap cigarettes moving through me.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not true,” I say, and mean it. “You did all the work in getting your life in order. I just helped you along.”

  He shakes his head vehemently, still smiling. “I won’t hear that.”

  I make to leave, and Aaron holds his hand up. “You won’t stay for a coffee?”

  Lifting at my mug, I reply: “I’ve got more pamphlets to drop off, big man.”

  But the truth is that it’s almost one o’clock, and my stomach is grumbling about wanting lunch. I return to my car, reach into the back and get my small cooler, take out my ham and cheese sandwiches and my soda, and then collect my current book from the glove compartment. Twenty-five years old, and I still get a thrill every time I pull out whatever romance novel I’m currently reading. The romance, the over-the-top delight of being swept off one’s feet, there’s just something about it that pulls me in. This one’s about a tough-as-nails alpha hitman who kidnaps a woman to get a bounty on her, but then decides he likes the look of her too much for that. She isn’t too fond of his roughness at first, but she soon comes to appreciate it. I read them quickly, and trade them out at the used bookstore half a dozen at a time. There’s another on my nightstand, likely to be started tonight. That one’s about a billionaire, with a taut smile and an even tauter whip; perhaps that one will be better for bedtime reading.

  I read for around half an hour, finishing my lunch, and then start the engine and drive through the city toward the abused women’s shelter.

  I remember choosing Michigan as my college, and then driving through Detroit one afternoon, just to drive and explore the city. That drive changed my life. I found myself cruising through the poorer areas of the city, just to watch. At first I felt like an invader into these peoples’ lives: the hard-faced men on their way to another shift at the factory; the skittish-looking women on their way to supermarkets and daycare centers, or rehab centers; the half-feral children running around in second-hand clothes looking for some trouble. Then the feeling of invasion was replaced with a feeling of profound humility. I had lived my entire life sequestered in suburbia, with fields and trees and barbeques and American flags and picket fences and large back gardens. If any of these people had walked down my childhood street, they would’ve felt like they were on a movie set, I bet.

  Up until that point in my life, I had always wanted to be a librarian. While romance novels are always my favorite, I love to read in general. Since I was a kid, I’ve been a literary adventurer: literary, historical, fantasy, science fiction; anything I could get my hands on. I spent a great deal of my childhood in the library, breathing in the scent of the books. I suppose I was trying to escape, even then, in my own way. But now, as I drove through Motor City and took in the fumes and the fatalism, I knew that I wanted to make a change here. As a freshman, I was a long way from declaring my major, but I knew that I wanted to forget accounting and pursue social work (without informing my father), and immediately enrolled in several volunteer programs to help the poor and disillusioned of the city. I was too scared to tell them for months; the explosion that happened when I finally did was terrible. I will never forget my father’s absolute disbelief, how he kept repeating: “But …I thought you were going to be an accountant?”

  I shake my head, shaking away the memories, as I pull the car to a stop and walk through the streets to the women’s shelter. The July sun slants down through tall buildings, blinding me, so that when I walk into the shelter, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the indoor light. Kasey offers me a warm smile as I place the pamphlets on the counter, but she’s on the phone, talking incredibly slowly, so I just smile and leave, making my way back toward my car.

  I’ll head back to the library now, to my little office in the rear of the building behind the stacks, spend the rest of the day getting on with some paperwork, and then later I’ll go to my apartment and collapse on the couch, maybe turn on some Scandal or Game of Thrones as I summon the strength to go into the kitchen and bake a pizza. It’s odd, because though my work isn’t physically demanding, it always leaves me tired. It might have something to with expending emotional energy rather than physical, or perhaps it—

  I stop when I round the corner and see them: several men, all wearing leather biker jackets, but without any club insignia on them. A few of them are smoking cigarettes and laughing, and one of them leans over and peers into my car.

  I’m parked on a side street, tall buildings either side blocking out most of the sun, and the men and I are the only ones on the street.

  “Hey, Trent.” One of the smoking men gestures with his cigarette.

  The man peering into the car stands up, turns, and then nods at me and then at a long metal pipe which dangles at his side like a resting viper, ready to strike. “Make one move or one sound and I’ll shove this so far up you you won’t be able to speak for a week, y’hear?”

  Chapter Two

  Allison

  The man who speaks—Trent—is clearly the leader. He would look unassuming if it were not for his eyes and his out-of-place haircut. His eyes are bright, startling blue, a blue so captivating that if he were not holding a metal pipe and striding toward me I might almost be tempted to call them attractive, and his haircut is Viking-like: a shaved head on one side, a long lank style on the other. His knuckles are grazed, I notice as he approaches me, and his tongue constantly licks at his lips. His voice is gravelly, and his eyes are flat and hard.

  He approaches me, his motion liquid like a predator, while his men continue smoking, exchanging words and watching casually. This terrifies me more than anything else. They’re treating it as such a regular occurrence that there’s no need to even acknowledge it. Trent is not tall, but he’s still taller than me. I’m just over five foot five inches, and my frame is usually described as petite. I normally make up for my stature with the force of my personality, but right now, I can feel my body shrinking in on itself, and I’d give absolutely anything to be absolutely anywhere else.

  But I’m right here, and I need to deal with what’s in front of me. This Viking-haired man leans over me, staring down with bright blue eyes. “That your car?” he grunts.

  I open my mouth to reply, but my lips are trembling. My heart is beating madly in my chest, as though it wants to beat out of my mouth and beat all the way down the street, away from this situation. I force myself to take a deep, long breath. I know a little about the biker clubs of this area; I had to learn to be able to be a help to those who might be looking to get out of that life. The Damned, Undying Kings, a few others; wearing no patch on their jackets means that they’re part of an unpat
ched, untitled group; that makes them incredibly dangerous. Motorcycle clubs get a bad rap, but most of them live by a code of honor that is stricter than what many of us follow at work. But men who’ve decided to be outlaws and keep to no code can be a threat like no other.

  I can’t freeze up. If I freeze up, I’m going to get hurt, or more. I compose myself, and then say, “Yes, that is my car, and it’s not worth anything. And it’d be really great if you could, you know, not smash a window or anything. I don’t really have the cash to fix it.” Oh my god, seriously, that’s my desperate plea for clemency? Good job, Allison, well done.

  Trent regards me for a few moments, and then throws his head back and coughs out a laugh. Behind him, his coterie laugh, too, harsh hacking laughs which hold little amusement. I make sure to keep my head held high, to not show the fear which moves through every part of my body, to not show how genuinely unsettled these men are making me feel.

  “You hear that, boys?” Trent calls back to them, flicking his hair in a somehow savage way; it reminds me of a wild animal flicking its head to get something out of its eye before moving in for the kill. “This lady’s a bit la-dee-da, huh?” He turns back to me, that metal pipe hanging at his side as a constant reminder of where this could lead. “You’re a fancy lady, aren’t you?”

  “I just want to get out of here,” I say. “I’m on your side. I don’t have a single thing you want.”

  I’ve worked with men like this before, when I was in training. It’s not just men, but people who are scared will do anything to try and maintain their status quo, even when they know it’s destructive, dangerous, or deadly. They will try to intimidate you, make you feel powerless, or push you to fight with them. You can’t be scared. The trick is to never let them see that you are scared: to remain at all times logical and calm. I remind myself of this again and again as I stare at these men and their leader. I can tell it confuses them. They clearly expect me to scream and panic, to start crying perhaps, and somehow I know that the moment I start to show any sign of weakness, they will leap on it.

  He squints at me, his gaze tight, hot. “You don’t have many manners, do you?” he says. He tilts his head, animal-like, observing, and then comments nonchalantly: “Maybe I ought to teach you some.”

  The urge to swallow my fear, or to scream, or to turn and run is almost overwhelming. But somehow I manage to fight it back and keep my face composed. This is why you ran from your comfortable suburban life? a voice chides in my head. If I weren’t terrified, I’d be giggling. I came from suburbia to Motor City to be threatened by unpatched bikers: traded picket fences for picked fights, bland men for brutal men.

  “I will remember what you look like, and sound like. I will remember what you are wearing. I will remember your face. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want this kind of trouble.” Through some miracle, my voice didn’t shake. It is completely at odds with how I feel. Inside, I am panicking, but my voice fills the dim, shadowed side street with a lawyerly lilt, in-control. Trent looks as though he doesn’t know how to respond for moment, and then he takes another step forward, so that his body is almost touching mine. He wants me to stop back, to show him that I’m afraid, and the moment I do, he’ll be able to tell himself that I’m just a scared girl and he can do what he wants. So I stand frozen, glaring up at him, fists at my sides, projecting anger and confidence as hard as I can.

  “You’re crazy,” he mutters. “You’re really bat shit, aren’t you? Have you got some kind of death wish? What’s going through that whore head of yours, talking like that, talking about police to a man like me? Huh?” He hefts the pipe, making as though to hit me.

  I push my fear far back, right into the back of my head, where I shove it into a box and wrap chains and padlocks around it. It’s only by doing that that I stop myself from flinching as he hefts the pipe.

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “You need to be taught a lesson.”

  “Let me get into my car and drive away and I will forget I saw you,” I say. This time, my voice does shake, and I think I’m done for.

  He glances over my shoulder, down the street. “Maybe I’ll just kill you,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

  His voice is curious, the sort of voice I imagine a sadistic child using before he decides he wants to dissect a cat: the voice of a budding psychopath. He turns back to me, smiling. “You’re just acting brave,” he says. “Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll beat you a little with this pipe, and when you start screaming, I’ll know that you’re just a scared whore like the others. Okay?”

  He asks the question as though really wanting me to respond, and then he lifts the pipe, aiming at my face. I can’t hold it in anymore; I see that he’s going to hit me, that there’s nothing I can do. I take step back, let out a small whimper, and my hands begin to shake. His smile gets wider at this sign of weakness. “I knew it,” he says. “I knew you were a scared slut just like the rest of them.” He walks forward as I walk back, almost stepping on my toes. “You’re always trying to act tough, aren’t you, you whores? Always trying to make men feel small. Well, lemme tell you, you’re not making me feel small. No way.”

  “Please—”

  I hate how scared I sound. Pathetic. I hate it. I am supposed to be able to talk to people like this: supposed to make them stop from behaving this way. But I’m terrified, and all of my training has gone right out of my brain.

  “‘Please,’” he echoes, and then laughs harshly. “Knew it.”

  He makes to swing, and I am sure that he would batter my face in if it were not for the growling engine which fills the air of the side street. He pauses, looks over my shoulder, and slowly lowers the pipe, his eyes now tracking the car or bike behind me. I can’t turn to see who it is. My fear is too powerful, so that even though I know I should run, I can’t make my body move an inch. But I can see the men behind Trent, the way they throw their cigarettes to the floor, glancing at each other nervously. And I can see the uncertainty which enters Trent’s expression.

  The engine comes within my peripheral vision: a bike, with a huge muscle-bound man sitting on it. He is broad-shouldered, his leather jacket pulled tightly over his back, the sigil of his club—The Damned—held taut. A picture of a tough man in the foreground, a burning church in the background. He stops the bike, climbs from it. He’s tall as well as muscular, much taller than me, and taller than this bastard in front of me. His hair is brown, cropped close to his head, and his face is strong and clean-shaven. He has sturdy, square features, and his eyes are dark, almost black. Even through my fear, I manage to note that this man is incredibly handsome. He has a small smile on his face, as though he’s just heard a joke moments ago and is still fondly remembering it.

  “Unpatched,” the man says, moving slowly to where Trent and I stand. As he approaches, Trent backs away to join his men, and then this big man is standing in front of me, arms at his sides, watching Trent and his men. “Unpatched botherin’ a lady,” he says. His voice is deep, but smooth, the voice of a man who is never unsure. I notice the outline of what looks like a gun beneath his leather; his right hand rests close to the butt of the weapon, but he is relaxed and calm, his eyes gazing almost lazily straight ahead. “Maybe it’s time you fellas took off.”

  “Fuck you, Rust,” Trent snaps, but now he sounds pouty, and the effect of his words is mitigated by the fact that he’s walking backward toward his motorbike. “This isn’t over. You know that, don’t you? We’ll get you one day, you fuck.”

  “I’m right here,” Rust says, shrugging. “Why wait?”

  “Because you have a gun and we don’t.”

  “I’ll fight you fair, if you like,” Rust comments. “Show you how much of a coward you really are.”

  Trent pretends not to hear that as he climbs onto his bike and he and his men ride from the alleyway, their engines growling as though with the rage he must feel at being humiliated by Rust.

  Once Trent and his gang are gone, their engines dim
echoes faraway in the city, Rust turns to me, his smile wider now, cocky.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, and then holds his hand out. “Rust, ma’am, nice to meet you.”

  Chapter Three

  Rust

  She stands there like a deer in the headlights for a few seconds, just staring. She’s damn hot, and that’s the truth. Around five six, with long, curling chestnut locks of hair which look like she’s tried to tame them and failed, flowing all the way down past her shoulders. Her face is pale, and open, with bright green eyes which make her look startled as hell, like she’s not quite sure what’s going on, but this is contrasted with her lips, which are thin and sharp, and her nose, which is cute and button-like. All in all, she looks smart and cute at the same time, a rare combination. I hold my hand out for a few seconds before she slowly takes it.