THE DEVIL’S BABY_The Smoking Vipers MC

by Naomi West

  Eddie and his old lady both told me I should go see the club medic, just to make sure I didn’t have a hairline fracture or concussion or something. I, of course, did not listen. Instead, I grabbed two cold beers from the kitchen and drank them in front of a Monday night football game in the rec room.

  I fell asleep like that and had the most vivid dream of fucking a skinny, biracial babe with brown corkscrew curls, freckles, and hazel eyes. And lips. Those thick, luscious lips that look like pillows.

  My bike might have been down and out because of that girl, Millie, but my cock most certainly was not. Nope. I woke up in a cold sweat on the couch with a raging hard-on. I’d have rubbed it out right there but as soon as I tried to even move, my back was barking like a mad dog.

  She didn’t give me anything but her first name and phone number. I assume it’s a real number, though I didn’t call to make sure. She didn’t strike me as the type to pull a fast one. If anything, she was probably afraid of me after I got all up in her space like some creeper. She probably has six locks on her door by now.

  I think I’m gonna do a little homework on young Millie today. Maybe pay her a surprise visit and see if we can square away some of what she owes me.

  Once I can walk again.

  ***

  Millie

  There’s a bang on the door. A loud, threatening sound that makes me jump. It continues as I tighten my bathrobe and pad to the door. It’s him on the other side, angry, baring his teeth. Oh God. I open the door and start to explain but he doesn’t give me a moment to speak before his lips are on mine, his hands digging into my ass as he lifts me from the floor, spreading my cheeks wide as my legs wrap around his waist.

  I’m lost the moment his tongue finds mine. We could be moving. We could be standing. We could be in space. I have no idea because my head is fuzzy and my insides are aching. His belt buckle, thick and metal, rubs at my nethers through my thin cotton panties. I should be ashamed by the way I grind against it, but I’m not. It feels good, makes me want more.

  He rumbles dirty words in between kisses. When my backside hits the bed, he pushes me back. My head hits the mattress just as his hands shove my legs apart, as far as they will go. I’m splayed wide for him, his mouth quirking at the edges as he takes a long time looking at his prize.

  I push my hips up, groaning. “Don’t tease me,” I beg. “Please.”

  With a wicked smirk, he shoves his face between my legs, feasting on the buffet awaiting him. His tongue does dizzying things to my swollen little button and I hold onto the back of his head, grinding into him because I have only one need right now.

  “Greedy,” he says when he comes up for air. I shove him back down. This is so unlike me. So unlike me to be forceful with a man. So unlike me to feel so much desire, such a desire to find ecstasy.

  His fingers find my entrance, pushing through, finding a rhythm as his tongue continues its assault on that oh-so-tender spot.

  It builds, it builds. I’m frantic with need. Just need to …

  When he moves, his lips and teeth bite and suck at my inner thighs and then … then he’s got his tongue in a place a tongue has never been, and oh, I love it. I like where his tongue is, and where his fingers are and oh, oh, oh …

  I wake up sweating, panting. My breast is hanging out of my tank top and my panties are soaked. That was one of the most vivid sex dreams I have ever had, bar none. I’m blushing just thinking about it. And the star of the show? None other than Mr. Axel, the big, tattooed biker guy I nearly killed yesterday.

  As I blink into reality, I realize my phone is ringing. Phillip. Again. I just let it ring, because I am still overstimulated from my sexy, sexy bad-boy-biker dream. I reach into my panties and feel the wetness there. My little button is swollen, pulsating, ripe with need, so I pull my little rabbit vibrator from my nightstand and let it buzz, buzz, buzz me to climax as I close my eyes and think of coiling tattoos and giant biceps and piercing blue eyes.

  For once, I don’t fret over whether or not to take that call. I don’t even think of Phillip, or our history. I don’t worry that I made the wrong choice.

  At least nearly running over that biker had one good outcome. Well, maybe two … if I try hard enough.

  ***

  Axel

  Hard Rod is my best friend and president of the Rippers Motorcycle Club. His real name is Roderick McAdams, though he’d punch anyone who called him Roderick. He’s big, redheaded, and achieves everything he sets his mind to, particularly because he drops every other responsibility while he chases whatever the goal-du-jour is.

  He’s good people, a real good guy who all among our brotherhood respect. I’m his vice president, which means that I get to take care of all the shit that doesn’t catch his fancy in a given day. I’m a little more big-picture, better equipped to manage multiple priorities, able to deal with the chaos that ensues sometimes. Chaos … Rod can’t manage.

  The Hard Rod name came from just where you’d guess. The guy is a player to the max. We went to high school together—though he was a fifth-year senior when I was a freshman— and he bagged two, sometimes three, chicks a day. In my young mind, he was a fuckin’ legend. The guy had crazy stamina and the joke was that he was just hard all the time, ready to go whenever the ladies felt the urge. And they felt the urge a lot.

  So now I’m in his office and he’s telling me that his newest chick, who goes by the name of Lipstick, is pregnant. So evidently she, too, had the urge for a little Hard Rod. Well, he’d probably say “not little,” but whatever. You know what I mean.

  “She gonna have it?” I ask, lighting a cigarette.

  “Yeah, man,” Rod says.

  I look up at him, shocked. “You’re okay with havin’ a kid runnin’ around out there in the world?”

  He shrugs. “I always kinda saw myself as a father,” he says.

  I feel like my eyeballs might pop out of my head. “Seriously? You’ve never said a damn word about wanting a family. When did this happen?”

  “Always, really,” he says, running a hand through his unruly mass of red hair. “I like kids. I’m a good uncle. Why shouldn’t I think about having a little heir to the throne, so to speak?”

  “Because you run a motorcycle club?” I say, as if this should be reason enough. “Because you don’t like monogamy?”

  “Well, to your first point, there’s plenty of MC presidents who have kids,” he argues. “They just keep the kids out of the club business until they’re of age. And second, I’ve been doing Lipstick for quite a long time. There have been others, but she’s my main girl. And I like her.”

  “You like her,” I repeat drily. “Well, that seems like the foundation for a totally awesome long-term relationship and entry into fatherhood. Dude, she’s been after you to make her your old lady for two years. You sure this isn’t some bid to get attention?”

  “She ain’t like that, Axel, and you know it. Yeah, she wants to be my old lady. She ain’t made no bones about that, but I don’t think getting pregnant was some plot to get a ring on her finger or anything.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head, taking a drag. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Sure, but I don’t think that’s it at all,” he says.

  “You love her?” I ask. “Wait, that’s a stupid question. You said you like her. Do you like her in the way you like blow jobs, or in the way you like Monday night football? What kind of like are we talkin’ here?”

  “Eh,” he grunts with a one-shouldered shrug. “I care about her. Love? Who knows. I ain’t never been any good at it.”

  “You ready to be monogamous with your baby mama, at least?” I ask.

  “She’s a pro in the sack. Hot body, great titties. Horny all the time, even pregnant. I don’t see why not.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. This man is loyal to his guys to the death but he has never, ever been faithful to a woman in his entire life. No way he can make this thing happen with Lipstick. No. Way. Sh
e’s gonna be lighting his shit on fire right soon. I would be willing to take bets on it.

  “So I’m going to need you to step up and take a bigger role here, be my eyes and ears, even more than you already are. I’ll be preoccupied with her, figuring out what we need to do to get ready for this baby.”

  All I can do is nod, because that’s Rod’s way. He’ll be focused on Lipstick and the baby and all the shit that goes along with that for a while. Until he isn’t. Until something else catches his attention. Like a pussy that hasn’t been destroyed by shoving a watermelon-sized human out of it. Mark my words, he’ll be all but gone when he sees Lipstick’s tits heavy with milk, her pussy ravaged by childbirth. He doesn’t have the stomach for shit like that. He likes his ladies looking perfect.

  Rod rattles off a list of things to check on. He says there’s signs of rival club activity at one of our borders and he needs me to make nice with a new client who’s waiting on a big shipment of pot from the southern part of the state. There was also a scuffle between two of our guys he wants me to mediate.

  Fuck, that’s a big list.

  “You want me to paint the shed and shampoo the carpets, too, honey?” I ask, sarcastic.

  Rod gives me a blank stare.

  “Honey-do list?” I ask. “Nothing? Well, shit, you better get used to it if you’re gonna have an old lady to deal with.”

  He looks at his phone. “Speaking of old ladies, she’s waiting on me to take her to the doctor.”

  I watch as my boss and friend walks out the door, scurrying off to some woman he doesn’t love to go make sure a baby he didn’t plan for is healthy. Suddenly I taste blood and realize I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek. I’ve never really said much about wanting kids to Rod. It’s not like we sit around talking about our feelings all day.

  Still, I have wanted to settle down for a while now. I’ve wanted some stability, some normal in my life. I don’t have any idea what I would do with myself if I wasn’t in a club. I’m heavily tattooed, mean-lookin,’ and have nothing on my résumé other than mayhem. It’s probably stupid to even consider trying to do anything other than this. It’s even stupider to think about bringing a kid into this world.

  While I try to talk myself out of wanting a kid, I find myself wanting one even more. Look, I didn’t have the most stable family life. It wasn’t, like, the worst or anything, but my mom and pop fought a lot. Sometimes it got physical. Sometimes she went off for a while on benders, then came back and played 1950s housewife to try to make it up to everyone.

  I just always saw myself trying to be a better parent than mine were, saw myself in a stable relationship with a family. I’ll never be some banker in a suit, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a good father.

  It’s no use really dwelling on it, though. Sometimes we want what we can’t have. And right now, with Rod focused on Lipstick and the baby, I can’t imagine there’d even be an opening for me to even think about having a kid. Heck, I don’t even have a regular fuck-buddy, let alone anyone solid enough to become a baby mama.

  Frustrated, I set about checking on all the shit on Rod’s list. I set up some extra surveillance at the borders and then call and make an appointment to meet up with the new client. We work with a farmer down in southeast Ohio but he had a hard frost that slowed some of his growth in the spring. He’s late on delivery, but assures us he’ll have everything to us soon. The new client just needs a little face-to-face, a little hand-holding. We know our farmers, and I trust the guy when he says he’ll have it.

  I can’t find either of the members who scuffled so I shove that to the back of my mind as I wander out and talk with Tommy about my bike. Tommy, thick, long hair sticking out from under a trucker hat, looks like a total hipster, but he’s damn good with the bikes.

  “Ain’t good,” he says, wiping grease on the front of his jeans as I approach. He shakes his head to punctuate the statement. “Thought there was only mild body damage but there’s actually more than I thought. I know you like your baby looking off-the-floor new. To get her fixed up is going to be a pretty penny.”

  “Lay it on me,” I say.

  “Ten grand? Maybe twelve? I mean, you paid ten times that. Can’t expect me to fix her with cheap replacement parts.”

  I let out a sound that’s half groan, half sigh. “Took me forever to pay off that bike.”

  “Girl ain’t got insurance?” he asks.

  “Negative,” I answer. “Hot little thing. She’s lucky I don’t take it out of her hide.”

  Tommy makes an expression that tells me he probably would.

  “She looked like a scared little rabbit,” I say.

  “Well, if I were you, I’d go rabbit hunting,” he says.

  After a few minutes and a quick movement that reminds me that my back is still as jacked as my custom ride, I decide a little rabbit hunting might be just what the doctor ordered.

  Chapter 3

  Millie

  I like working at a law firm. It makes me feel smart, like I’m doing something important. I only just manage the front desk and reception staff, but we always have plenty of projects to do and through those, I get to learn a lot about the legal process.

  It was always my wish to go to law school. As it was, it was a struggle to get through the three years of community college I did in order to get an administrative office professional degree from Ohio Business College. Was it my passion to be an administrative professional? No. But the program allowed me to get the job I’m in, and I like it just fine for now.

  Maybe someday I’ll go back and turn my associates into a bachelors. Maybe I will go on to law school. Who knows. For now, I’m, just happy for a job that provides stability and a decent income.

  I’m tired as I shuffle to the door of my little house, not paying attention at all to anything around me, just expecting to see my two cats awaiting dinner as I walk through the door.

  What I’m not prepared for is the cats sitting in the lap of a huge, tattooed biker—a biker who is currently lounging on my couch.

  I gasp as soon as I see him. The cats, who had been purring in his lap, scurry off, sensing something isn’t quite right. Or, they know I would call them traitors for loving on some guy they don’t even know. Fickle little jerks.

  My first thought is to grab for the pepper spray I keep on my keychain. I hold it up, finger on the trigger.

  “How did you find my address?” I ask, mentally trying to figure out if I can get past him and into the kitchen before he can get up to catch me. If I can … there’s a block of kitchen knives on the counter.

  “Reverse phone lookup,” he says. “Wasn’t hard. There’s a Phillip Reed listed at this address, too. That your old man?”

  Think fast, Millie. It’s probably better if he thinks a man will walk in here at any time.

  “Yes,” I say. “He’ll be home soon.”

  His keen eyes assess me for a moment, moving up and down my body, stopping first on my hips, then my breasts, then my lips. I feel like I’ve been undressed, even though I’m still fully and modestly clothed.

  “Liar,” he says with a smirk.

  “I’m not ...”

  “Yes, you are,” he says. “You already told me you’re paying your mortgage on your own. And what do you think is going to happen here? You’re going to make a run for the butcher block? Grab you a nice big knife? Spray that pepper spray in my eyes?”

  My hands are trembling. I can hardly hold the pepper spray still. I’ve never thrown a punch, never been in a fight. I wouldn’t know what to do if he did attack me. Probably curl up in a ball and cry. I’m not exactly a powerhouse.

  Still, I can’t let this guy intimidate me. He’s a stranger in my house. I drop my purse and make a run for it. He’s fast, though, and easily intercepts me before I even make it through to the kitchen. I push at him but he’s really huge, really strong. He’s way taller than me, and I’m faced with a brick wall of a chest as he grabs at my wrists. I try stepping on his toes but
he’s got steel-toed boots on. I try kneeing him in the groin but he easily turns so that my knee only grazes his hip.

  We’re moving, and then I’m on the ground and I still have the pepper spray in my hand, so I spray it into the air, hoping it will land on him, at least make him wheeze a little, confuse him enough so I can get away.

  It lands on me, though, and I’m the one who ends up with watery, blurry eyes and a throat that’s closing up. I cough and hack, rolling to my side, curling into a fetal position.

  Whatever he’s going to do to me, he might as well just go ahead and do it.

  ***

  Axel