OUR SURPRISE BABY: The Damned MC

by Paula Cox

All through the night, I expect Kade to knock on the door and tell me he loves me, tell me he doesn’t want me to go, tell me he can’t stand the idea. But he doesn’t; he just tells me I can’t go. And that makes me want to go even more. I sleep with the door locked just in case Scud tries anything. Part of me wants Kade to beat up Scud, despite what I said. But he doesn’t do that, either. His mind is on his club and it’s like I’m an afterthought. I try and see it from his perspective. In a matter of hours I’ve gone from a casual fuck-buddy to a massive commitment. Sure, that would scare a man. I can understand that. But it doesn’t make it any easier for me to accept.

  I roll over and close my eyes. I don’t know I’m sleeping until I open then again and sunlight slants through the windows, patchy sunlight pockmarked with clinging raindrops. I lean up, groan, check my phone. Terry has texted me. She’s picking me up in two hours.

  I go to my writing desk and begin collecting my things, and then pack my clothes into my bag. I’ve only been at the clubhouse for a few weeks but the idea of leaving it saddens me. I’ve begun to see it as my home. I pile my bags on the bed. Two bags, one filled with books and writing materials, the other with clothes: two bags, my entire existence. I sit on the edge of the bed and place my hands on my knees, waiting. I feel oddly calm. Accepting. This is it, then. This is how it’s going to happen.

  Kade is out, somewhere, on club business. I can’t even blame him for that. Two of his men—his friends—have been killed by the Italians. Of course he has to focus on that. But to look into my eyes when I’ve told him I love him and not say it back. To just let it hang there. To let it hang there making me feel more rotten and ridiculous as each second passes by. That’s the worst part. I truly thought he loved me. Perhaps that was naïve of me. Perhaps I was letting storybook ideas get ahead of reality. I saw Kade wrapping his arms around me, kissing me deeply, whispering tenderly close to my ear so I felt his breath on my skin: “I love you.” I saw all of that in my head dozens of times. But in the end all we did was stand under a rain-battered roof with more unsaid than said words passing between us.

  I mutter, “There once was a girl who thought her man loved her until she brought it out in the open and realized it was all ash and broken and nothing and—” I snort, fighting back tears. An unladylike sound, but I’ve already made it clear I won’t sit around here being a beck-and-call biker lady. I shouldn’t have let it go on for so long as it is. Maybe that’s why Scud got so many absurd ideas.

  Even now, with Terry less than an hour from picking me up, if Kade knocked on the door and asked me to stay, told me he loved me, said he’d stand by me. Not ordered me to stay, like he has already. But asked me. Asked me like I am a real person and not another task on his to-do list.

  But he doesn’t, and soon it is time for Terry to pick me up. I check my phone: I’m here, hon.

  I stand up, coughing back tears. Leaving anywhere can be upsetting. Leaving the father of your child without a proper goodbye is . . . No, I won’t cry. I won’t let that happen. I fight back the tears, push them deep inside of me, wipe my eyes and pick up my bags. I will not cry.

  I walk through the clubhouse, empty apart from the pledges who hang around to alert anyone if the Italians attack, and out onto the street. Outside, two Tidal Knights sit in a pickup. They’re the same ones who watched me and Kelly at the café. They’re going to follow us to Seattle, I know; Kade told me. Despite not being willing to admit he loves me, he’s willing to take two of his men away from the Italian trouble and put them on following duty.

  I guess that’s men for you. He won’t open his heart but he’ll open his wallet.

  Terry walks across the parking lot and takes one of the bags from me. She’s dressed in a woman’s suit, pale blue, which makes her look imposing and professional. Thick-framed glasses are perched on her nose.

  “Didn’t know you wore glasses,” I say. I hear the choking noise in my voice, on the precipice of falling into Tear Valley. I clear my throat. It does nothing to push back the impending tears.

  I will not cry.

  “I usually wear contacts,” Terry says, carrying the bag to the trunk. I drop in my rucksack and we go to the front of the car. Terry nods at the pick-up across the road. “That our escort?”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  “Your man really doesn’t take any chances.”

  “He’s not my man.”

  Terry looks at me.

  I wave my hand. “Just leave it.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s get going.”

  We climb into the car and make the drive to Seattle in silence. I stare out of the window at the passing scenery, which blurs in my vision. I don’t ask myself if it blurs because the car is moving fast or if because tears brim in my eyes. I can’t afford to ask myself that. All I know is that with each passing moment, Kade gets farther away. It doesn’t matter that two Tidal Knights follow us to Seattle.

  Finally, we stop outside a tall apartment building on the outskirts of the city. As we walk toward the entrance, an artsy-type couple walks out holding hands, one of the ladies with short dyed-pink hair, the other lady wearing a beautiful multicolored scarf. They talk loudly about F. Scott Fitzgerald, and the pink-haired one opens the door for us.

  “They seem nice,” I comment.

  “A lot of nice people here,” Terry agrees.

  Her apartment is on the third-floor. It’s a modern two-bedroom with refurbished kitchen and bathroom, sleek, and hardwood flooring. My bedroom has a desk and an en-suite.

  “Home sweet home,” I say, and even though this place is beautiful, I can’t help but think about the clubhouse. I can’t help but think how, tonight for the first time in weeks, Kade will not be visiting me. Tonight, if I get cold, or scared, or lonely, I will have to stay cold and scared and lonely. Tonight, I won’t be able to rest my head against Kade’s hard body for comfort. I place my clothes in the wardrobe, my books on the shelf, and my writing material on the desk.

  Then I join Terry in the living room.

  She tilts her head at me, looks at me with her mother’s eyes.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” I say, sitting on the white-leather couch.

  “You’ve barely said a word since you got into the car.”

  “I—” Damn these eyes and damn these hormones and damn these persistent tears. “There isn’t much to say. That’s all.”

  My voice rises and falls as sobs try and sabotage my words. I bite down. I keep thinking about that moment under the shelter at the town hall, the moment where the rain pounded, where everything could’ve been so different. He could’ve pulled me close to him and told me he loved me and—

  “Oh, hon,” Terry says. She moves from the chair to the couch, shimmying along it until she’s close to me. “Oh, hon.”

  “Don’t,” I mutter. “Don’t, Terry.”

  “You’re hurting and you’re my friend. I don’t want to see you hurting.”

  “I told him—”

  I explain about the café and the walk in the rain. I leave out the business with Scud. Terry would probably drive back to Evergreen and take care of him herself if I told her about that.

  “You were expecting more,” she says softly, when I’m finished. She places her hand on my back, rubbing it much as she did back at the Twin Peaks when the morning sickness first hit me. “You were expecting him to say it back.”

  “Y-yes.” I swallow. My voice quivers.

  But I won’t cry. I can’t cry.

  I have to be strong now.

  As if reading my mind, Terry says, “You don’t have to stay strong on my account, hon.”

  And that’s enough to break down my defenses.

  Those simple words, spoken kindly, are enough to push aside my resolve. I collapse into the folds of her shirt, weeping violently, belly tight with the sobs, eyes burning with the tears. I wrap my arms around her and cry for a long time. As I cry, I remember Kade walking out of the morning mist and getting rid of Chester. I remember
the way he put his arm around me at the waterfront bar. I think about these past nights, the sex, the intimacy; I think about waking with my cheek resting against his chest. I think about the child inside of me. Our child. Tears surge from me and I shake and whisper words I myself do not even hear, but I understand them. They are words of love and longing. Words wishing all of this could be different. Words wishing the father of my child would stand by me when it mattered.

  I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but it’s too difficult. I don’t just cry; sobs explode out of me with same body-shaking reverberations. I bury my face as deep into Terry’s chest as I can, thinking as I weep that this is the first time I’ve had a mother figure to cry upon. My own mother was never much use in that area.

  After what feels like a long time, I disentangle myself and lean back.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m fine. I just . . .” I wipe tears from my eyes. “I just need to be alone for a little while.”

  Terry nods, and I walk into my bedroom, close the door behind me, fall onto the bed.

  I lie on my back with my hand on my belly, wondering when the baby will start kicking, wondering why its father isn’t here. I imagine Kade’s hand atop mine, both of us waiting in anticipation for the first signs of life.

  I close my eyes and I see a clear image: a blue-eyed toddler and I are sitting up in a huge king-size bed. It is summer and petals of sunlight blossom in all corners of the room. Where is Daddy, Mommy? the child asks me. I kiss the child’s forehead and before I can answer Kade walks in, wearing a bathrobe and holding a tray of toast and soft-boiled eggs. He carries them to the bed and drops down next to me, nudging me with his shoulder. We made it, Lana. We made it.

  I open my eyes, banishing the fantasy. I shouldn’t let myself dream like that; dreams like that can be dangerous. This is reality and this is what I have to get used to.

  But for the next month, as I look for work and try (and fail) to write and watch for signs of Kade, that fantasy returns to me every night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kade

  If there’s one thing I’ve never let myself do, it’s second-guess my decisions. Second-guessing has always been the thing most likely to get me killed. Back in the trailer park, second-guessing would’ve led to being beaten bloody more than once. Second-guessing my instincts when we were in the junkyard and a group of older kids were on the prowl. Second-guessing my confidence when I charged, roaring and blustering, at a group of Duster’s bullies. Second-guessing when I ducked behind the couch before Dad fell drunkenly on his gun. And then later, second-guessing was unacceptable. Second-guessing if two unknowns could found a club; second-guessing my leadership; second-guessing the respect that was afforded me. No, a man like me can’t second-guess. It’s not in my DNA; I can’t let it be.

  But over the next month, I do a hell of a lot of second-guessing. Lana has broken my lifelong tradition.

  I think back to the rainy day in the shelter of the town hall, think about when she told me she loved me, think about the accusations I hurled at her. I was more of an asshole than usual that day; that’s the truth. And if that’s ’cause I thought she was fucking Scud, that’s my fault. I should’ve listened to her, given her a real chance to explain.

  Should’ve, should’ve . . .

  That’s a word I usually stay far away from. An acidic word which could easily eat through all the resolve I’ve spent my entire life building up. But acidic or no, it’s a word that dominates my mind. Even when I’m dealing with the Italians—the Italians, I think clenching my chest as I sit at my desk, who always seem to know when we’re coming. The Italians who most likely have a mole somewhere in the Tidal Knights.

  I lean back in my chair, groan. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Groaning. Thinking. Overthinking. Replaying that moment with Lana in my mind. I know that Lana is safe. I’ve sent Noname up every other day since she left. The Italians don’t seem to know where she is, thank Christ. But still . . . she’s up there, with my child, alone. And I’m down here in the muck.

  I sit up when somebody knocks on my door.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me,” Earl says. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “What?”

  Already I’m thinking about how another one of our men might be dead. At least it’s not Earl, I reflect grimly. Since the business with Scud, Earl has become second-in-command in all but name. I’ve steered clear of Scud, giving him orders through Earl. It makes me feel like shit, letting him roam free after what he did to Lana. But the men are on-edge. They don’t need much of a push and they’ll just go straight over, maybe start speaking of mutiny. Mountain and Duster have been here from the start, Scud almost from the start. If they three go, they might start questioning their own position. Unless Scud gives me a reason the men can get behind.

  “It’s Scud,” Earl says.

  Maybe I’m a sick man, because excitement runs through me at those words.

  “What happened? Dead?”

  No hope in my voice. That’s good.

  “No, just beat to hell. Come have a look.”

  “Alright.”

  I leave the office and walk into the bar. Earl and a few of the other guys, the foot-soldiers as I’m starting to think of them seeing as this is wartime, stand in a semi-circle around Scud. He’s on his knees and his face is hardly recognizable, pulpy and puffy, soaked in blood, bulging. He doesn’t look human. He looks like some alien creature from a movie.

  “What happened?” I ask, addressing Earl.

  Even now, I can’t look at Scud. As soon as I look at him, I remember what Lana told me, grabbing her arm—grabbing her arm with my baby inside of her. Shit, life has got damn confusing damn fast.

  I’m surprised when Earl kicks Scud casually in the ass.

  I raise my eyebrow: What was that for?

  Earl nods down at Scud: He’ll tell you.

  I kneel down so that me and Scud are eye-level. Or, at least, my eyes are level with the bulging mass of blood where his eyes used to be.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  He barely looks like Scud, which is good. This is the closest I’ve been to him since I heard how he behaved with Lana. Even now, I want to hook him across the jaw. A cruel want, I know, because his jaw is as puffy as the rest of him. I swallow down the rage. Outside, thunder cracks and rain pours from the sky, pattering against the windows. Rain, again. This has been the rainiest summer in memory. Rain and death and love and longing. If I was a religious man, I’d say Duster was up there, sending the rain down as one of his dark jokes. Weather to match the mood, he’d say.

  Scud sniffs, as though fighting back tears. Can’t blame him if he is.

  “Scud,” I say. “What is it?”

  “You’ve already told me,” Earl says calmly, standing off to the side. “What’ve you got to hide now?”

  Scud’s shoulders slump. “I’ve been giving information to Enrique about the whereabouts of our men. But I didn’t want to!” He adds this part quickly, a kid admitting to something but then just as quickly wanting to make it seem small, not something to worry about. “It was soon after, uh . . .” He licks his bloodied lips. “It was soon after Lana left, Boss, and I was leaving the clubhouse to go for a ride and the Italians they—they blocked the whole road with their cars. They climbed out and Enrique told me that I better do as he says, or he’ll kill me. Kill me. And I didn’t want to die. No way. So I told him yes, I would. But I didn’t want to. I never wanted to. And today, today, today . . .” He breaks down, weeping tears which must sting his eyes if his wincing is anything to go by. The men watch impassively. There’s nothing worse than a traitor. “But today, he said I was lying to him. He said I was a liar and so he did this to me, Boss, and he told me to tell you—” He sobs again. We wait. “He told me to tell you he’s coming for you here, at the clubhouse. He told me to tell you he’s finishing this war.”

  I stand up, disgusted with him, and disgusted with myself for not keeping
an eye on him.

  Outside, another blast of thunder hits, making the clubhouse tremble. My mind isn’t on Scud, or the men, or the clubhouse. My mind is on Lana. If Enrique has been holding off on hitting the clubhouse, he might’ve been holding off on hitting Lana, too. I need to get to her.

  “What shall we do with him?” Earl asks.

  I look down at the bloody, beaten man. Part of me wants to kill him. With my own fists. To fall on him like a wild animal and tear him apart piece by piece until there is nothing left. But then something strange happens. I start thinking about the baby, my baby. I think about the child and I think about my own father, how I was scared of him, how he, too, was an animal. I wonder if I want the same for my child and I don’t have to wonder for long. I don’t. I want my kid to be able to look at me and see a protector, not some twisted monster. Maybe that’s it . . . or maybe it’s ’cause enough Tidal Knights have died already. Or maybe it’s a mixture.