Biker Baby (The Kings of Mayhem MC Book 3)

by Penny Dee

  “Hey, you,” he said with that killer smile of his. He handed me the glass of water. “I figured you’d be here, you know, that dime-store bladder of yours.”

  “It’s dime store because your baby is bouncing on it.” I smiled up at him as I took the glass from him. “Thank you.”

  “Want to get some fresh air?”

  After the mean girl attack I was ready for lots of fresh air.

  “Please, it’s a bit chaotic out there at the moment,” I said.

  “Sorry about that.” Again he smiled but it was softer. “When you’re a part of an MC, you’re a part of a huge family. Your business quickly becomes their business. You tell one person something, and before you know it, ten people know about it. You’ll get used to it.”

  A strange sense of belonging unfurled in me.

  “You think they’ll like me?”

  “They already do.”

  Caleb took my hand in his and we walked down to the river and sat down at the end of the pier. Twilight slowly darkened to night and moonlight danced on the water. It was a clear night, crickets sung in the shadows and above us the stars twinkled in brilliant starshine.

  “So tomorrow I’m going to meet your grandmother,” I said.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I don’t know what to expect.”

  He chuckled softly. “There aren’t any words I could use to prepare you, believe me.”

  I’d heard talk about his feisty grandma. She was one of a kind, they said. She wasn’t here tonight because she’d broken her foot and was resting at home.

  “How do you think she’ll react, you know, when she finds out about the baby?”

  “She’ll be thrilled. Like my mom, family is everything to her.” His finger brushed mine. “And she’ll love you.”

  The touch of his finger against mine sent a wave of longing through me.

  I raised my face to the moonlight and inhaled a deep breath of fresh night air and it raced through my mind like a cool breeze, bringing with it a beautiful sense of calm.

  When I glanced back at Caleb he was looking at me. Our eyes met and the moment became excruciatingly intimate. I licked my lips and his eyes darkened as he watched my tongue slide across them. His Adam’s apple bobbed and his lips parted. Emotion was all around us. Attraction. Longing. Need.

  He swallowed deeply and the St. Christopher on the choker chain around his neck glinted in the bright moonlight.

  “I like your St. Christopher,” I said, breaking the spell.

  He reached up and touched it.

  “My granddaddy gave it to me when I was young. It was his. He wore it in the war. He said it kept him safe through two tours of Vietnam.” He ran a finger over the tarnished silver. “It’s the most precious thing I own.”

  “Even more than your Harley?”

  He gave me a lopsided smile. “A Harley you can replace. This is irreplaceable. I never take it off and it’d kill me to lose it. It’s the last bit of him I have, you know.”

  “You were close?”

  He nodded. “Growing up, he was my best friend. When he died suddenly, it felt like my whole world fell away.”

  “How old were you?”

  “He died three days before my ninth birthday.”

  Feeling his sorrow, I thought for a moment and then said, “It must’ve been nice growing up with grandparents.” With family.

  “You’re a part of this now, too,” he said.

  It was a kind thing to say and it warmed me because I knew he said it to give me the sense of belonging that I’d missed out on as a kid. Caleb was a lot of things, I was learning. Strong. Sexy. Fiercely protective of what was his. Generous. He was all that, but he was also incredibly thoughtful. Considerate.

  We looked at one another. Across the water, the band was singing the old Poison hit “Unskinny Bop” and a bunch of drunk bikers and their old ladies sang along. Their loud, off-key voices dipped and waned on the breeze.

  I didn’t tell Caleb about the girl in the bathroom. I didn’t want to ruin the night. Because aside from my mean girl encounter, the night had been perfect.

  “What do you think, time to go home?” he asked, draining his beer bottle.

  I was surprised. The party didn’t show any signs of dying down.

  “You don’t want to stay here and hang out with your buddies? It sounds like they’re having a good time.”

  He shook his head and his eyes were a beautiful blue in the dim light of the night. We looked at one another for a moment longer.

  He didn’t try to kiss me.

  But it lingered in the air between us.

  “Come on,” he said, finally breaking eye contact. He rose to his feet and offered me a hand. “Let’s go home.”

  HONEY

  The next day, Caleb took me to meet his grandmother. She lived in the historic part of town where the homes were built during the nineteenth century and once upon a time served in the Civil War as hospitals and outposts.

  The old home with the wraparound porch was off Magnolia Street and was partially hidden from the road by a well-looked-after garden. As we walked through the little gate at the front and along the path to the steps, the sweet scent of roses greeted us.

  Caleb led me by the hand as we climbed the steps. Potted ferns and flowers hung from the eves and bright red trumpet flowers festooned the railings, their vines weaving through the wrought-iron balustrade. Farther along the porch, sitting on a comfortable-looking chair with her left booted ankle resting up on a stool, was an older lady with flaming red hair. She was wearing a vibrantly colored caftan, bright red lipstick, and a pair of black biker sunglasses.

  She was also sound asleep.

  As we stepped onto the porch she didn’t stir.

  “Grandma Sybil,” Caleb said gently, so as not to startle her.

  She didn’t move. Her head was tilted back and her red lips were slack. Gold-ringed fingers rested on her chest, her long nails as brightly colored as her outfit.

  “Grandma?” Caleb said again, this time a little louder. But again, the old lady didn’t stir.

  Caleb released my hand and gently nudged her, but when the old lady didn’t move, he nudged her again.

  “Grandma.” His voice took on a sharper tone and a prickly sensation took up in the base of my spine. “Sybil. Wake up.”

  His fingers curled around her wrist as he gently shook her. He leaned down, his face coming close to hers, and I realized he was checking to see if she was breathing.

  “Grandma?” He sounded alarmed and gave me a worried glance over his shoulder.

  And just when I thought he was about to ask me to call an ambulance, a devilish grin spread across the old lady’s lips.

  “Boo!” she said, startling the life out of Caleb.

  He jumped back in surprise. “Jesus Christ, Sybil!”

  When he straightened, she lifted her sunglasses and started laughing.

  “I thought you were dead!” Caleb exasperated.

  “Of course you did. That was the point!” The old lady chuckled.

  “Do you want to give your youngest grandson a freaking heart attack?”

  She waved off his comment. “I’m stuck on this porch like an old lady because I broke my foot. I’m bored. Give me a break and stop being a pussy.” It was then she noticed me and her face lit up with curiosity. “Well now, who do we have here?”

  “Grandma, this is Honey,” Caleb said, still riled by his roguish grandmother.

  “Hi, Grandma Sybil,” I said, stepping forward and giving her a warm smile.

  She reached for my hand and placed a second hand on top of it.

  “Well, aren’t you just the prettiest thing.” Her wise old eyes glittered over my face before she indicated to the wicker chair next to her. “Please, have a seat.”

  I sat down and immediately felt welcomed by the old lady.

  “Caleb, there is a fresh batch of lemonade in the ice box. Will you fetch us a glass each, please?”

&nb
sp; “Sure.” Caleb glanced at me and then back at his grandmother. He raised a dark eyebrow. “Play nice.”

  Sybil gave him an innocent look.

  Once he was gone, she focused on me, her bright blue eyes taking in every inch of my face.

  “So how long have you and my grandson been an item?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, we’re not together,” I said, slightly wilting under her gaze. “I mean, we’re friends . . . but . . .”

  She tilted her head to the side, ever so faintly, those eyes trying to work me out.

  “Hmmmmm . . . what a shame. You certainly look like you’re something. The way he looks at you. Hmph. I suppose I’m just being a foolish old lady.”

  Her eyes sparkled over at me with something I couldn’t put my finger on. It was almost like a secret knowledge. I shifted uncomfortably. There was nothing foolish about Sybil Calley.

  Caleb returned with three glasses of lemonade.

  “Did you put a little sugar in it, Caleb?” Grandma Sybil asked.

  “You know you’re not allowed any liquor while you’re on those painkillers the doctors have you taking.”

  “Oh, fooey!” Grandma waved off the comment as if it was a ridiculous idea. She winked at me. “Ain’t nothing like a little sugar to make the afternoon a little more interesting.”

  “Yeah, well, that sugar is not happening when you are taking drugs for pain.”

  Grandma Sybil rolled her eyes. “I was a child of the sixties, sonny. You think I’m going to let a couple of Advil and a splash of bourbon push me around? What about some weed? This drought is making me crazy. I heard Hawke had some insane buds, is that true?”

  “You’re not having any liquor or any weed when you’re on medication.” He paused in front of her. “And no damn peyote either.”

  Again, Sybil rolled her eyes.

  “This is delicious lemonade,” I said, interrupting their war of wills.

  “Jury made it this morning before heading off to work,” Grandma Sybil explained. “Used the lemons from the lemon tree out the back. It’s over a hundred years old, you know, and gives us some of the finest lemon juice in the state. Jury says it’s all in the way you squeeze the juice. You gotta do it right with your hands, coax the juice out real slow.”

  “Jury is Grandma’s boyfriend,” Caleb explained.

  “Yes, and he’s very good with his hands,” she said with a playful wink.

  Caleb paled at his grandmother’s innuendo.

  “How did you hurt your ankle?” I asked, suppressing a smile at the old lady’s mischievousness

  “Sex act,” she said, taking a casual sip of her drink.

  My lemonade caught in the back of my throat and almost exited out my nose.

  “Jesus Christ,” Caleb said, looking pained.

  “We have a chair,” she started to explain. “A recliner. Big enough for two people—”

  Caleb stood up. “I think I’ll fetch some of that banana loaf I saw in the kitchen.”

  He hastily made his escape off the porch and out of earshot of his feisty grandmother. When I looked over at Grandma Sybil, an amused grin curled on her lips and a mischievous glint sparkled in her eyes.

  “Now that we’ve gotten rid of the fun police, pass me that box on the table over there, will you, sweetheart?”

  She nodded toward the wicker and glass table beside me. On top of it was a vintage wooden box, intricately carved and about the size of a jewelry box. I handed it to her and watched on, amused, as she pulled out a silver hip flask. Unscrewing the lid, she poured a decent nip of liquor into her lemonade, then offered me the flask. I shook my head.

  “Caleb’s a good boy. Sweet. But damn if he’s not infuriating, fussing over me like I’m an old woman. I broke my foot in two places having some rather fun sexy time with my man. Don’t mean I have to sit here in purgatory until I can walk again. I like my liquor and I like my weed. And I usually like them together. When you get to my age, you’ll see, you won’t be told you can’t have either.” She added an extra nip to her lemonade and rescrewed the cap. Placing the flask back in the box, she handed it back to me, just as Caleb came back into the room with a plate of banana loaf. She winked at me. We had a secret.

  “Is it safe to come back out?” Caleb asked.

  “Just having some girl talk,” Grandma Sybil replied. She raised her drink to her bright red lips, but Caleb smoothly glided past her and took it out of her hand before she had a chance to take a sip. He smelled it and gave her a filthy look.

  “Seriously, Sybil?”

  She glared at him and smacked her bejeweled fingers against the arms of her chair. “Goddamnit.”

  “If you’ve got to have something, you’re better off having a joint than mixing this with your meds.”

  “Fine. Get me some weed and I’ll gladly give up the liquor.”

  “Now where in the hell am I going to get you some weed when the whole goddamn south has run dry?”

  “You can visit your granddaddy’s cabin. Last time I was out there I saw a few plants growing rather nicely down by the river. I’m not sure if they would’ve survived when the river got high last winter, but it’s worth a look.”

  “I doubt anything survived the flood,” Caleb said.

  Grandma Sybil turned her attention to me. “Did my grandson tell you I used to look after the weed production for the Kings in the 1970s. We grew the best buds in the South. Plump. Aromatic. With a purple-tinged hue. It was potent. Sweet and smooth. We had a roaring trade, earned the Kings a fortune. Of course, this was in the day before they shifted their focus to pussy and pornographic movies.”

  Hearing the words pussy and pornographic almost sent another spray of lemonade out of my nose.

  “Wait, I thought you said the Kings weren’t involved with drugs.”

  I said it to Caleb. But it was Grandma Sybil who replied.

  “Hutch never worried about weed. He enjoyed it. More than alcohol. He always said liquor was worse than cannabis. It was the heroin and the opiates he despised. The shit he saw destroy his fellow comrades in the war.” She smiled, her eyes fading as she recalled her memories of times long past. “He encouraged it, you know. The cannabis fields. Taught me everything there was about growing a crop. From sewing it to cultivating the plants into fat, bud-producing plants. He was a purposeful man, my Hutch. He was a gentle man with gentle ways. He saw the merit in those plants, so he loved them—gave them life, if you will—then gave them to me to raise.” She shrugged. “And I turned them into a money tree.”

  “So what happened?” I asked, intrigued.

  “It was a deal the Kings struck with the Knights in the early eighties. By then, the weed industry wasn’t as profitable as other interests,” Caleb explained, rather diplomatically. “It became a pawn in our negotiations with the Knights.”

  “And I got shut down,” Sybil added. “The eighties were all about coke—grotesque and garish, if you ask me. Weed wasn’t as in demand. What was once the shiny jewel in our crown somehow became nothing more than a rough pebble in our arson of collateral with the Knights.”

  She looked at her grandson. “So, my favorite grandson, will you visit granddaddy’s cabin and see what’s growing out there by the river?”

  Caleb and his grandmother shared a challenging stare before Caleb finally broke. “Fine, I’ll go and have a look.”

  I saw Sybil’s eyes brighten with a mysterious glint. “Good!” She smacked her hands together. “Now that that ugly business is sorted, which one of you is going to tell me when my great-grandbaby is due?”

  Caleb and I both looked at her, our mouths dropping open.

  “You know?” Caleb asked.

  “Oh, son, please. The MC grapevine is faster than any form of communication on this planet.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I ain’t no rat.” She raised an eyebrow at her grandson. “But get me some ganja from the river, and I might be open to bribery.”

  CALEB

  We
drove out to my granddaddy’s cabin.

  It was a simple cabin built by a man who appreciated and saw the value in simple things. One main room with a kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small laundry off to the side. Hutch Calley had built it in the seventies when he had a wife and two little boys. He and Sybil made plans here. Built the Kings of Mayhem here. Raised my dad and uncle here.

  We climbed the steps to the back door and I unlocked it using the spare key I found in the terracotta planter on the porch. Inside, it was stuffy. It’d been a long time since I’d been out here. Months. Maybe even last year sometime.

  As a kid I used to spend a lot of time here fishing with my brothers, running free through the fields of untouched land, racing our dog, and climbing trees. Granddaddy built us a treehouse on the far side of the property, and me and my brothers used to spend hours there, reading comics, telling stories and eventually smoking cigarettes stolen from the packets that were always lying about, begging to be taken by curious kids.

  It was one of those cigarettes that saw the demise of the treehouse by fire when I was eight. We weren’t sure who was responsible, but I always suspected it was probably me. My daddy had been furious, but not my granddaddy. I think he knew I was responsible and didn’t want me feeling bad.

  We were close. I used to love coming here and spending time with him. I was so much closer to him than my father, and I learned more from him than anyone else.

  I opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the veranda and the sappy aroma of marijuana hit me right away. Walking to the railing I stared out at a sea of shamrock green leaves gently swaying in the late afternoon breeze.

  Honey came up behind me and gasped, stunned at the sight of so many marijuana plants. “So this is what your grandma was talking about.”

  “I don’t think she realizes how many there are,” I replied, just as stunned.

  Timber floorboards creaked as I crossed the veranda and took the steps down to the riverbank. Here the plants thrived in the loamy soil. It was rich and super fertile, enhanced by wild bat guano and nutrients from the river water. The plants stood as tall as me, gently swaying in the late afternoon light.