CONVICT’S BABY: Black Dogs MC

by Parker, Zoey

  Kurt nodded and jumped to his feet, running after her.

  Sarah had mapped the ideal route for their escape. With the riot exploding in the main cell blocks, no one would be anywhere near the gym, or the locker rooms that were off the adjoining corridor. From there, it was just a few short steps to the side entrance the guards used. Then they'd get to her car, use her key card to leave through the officers' parking area, and leave this miserable place behind them forever. Ron had prepared their new identities, which were tucked under the spare tire in the trunk of the car.

  They reached the gym, and Sarah almost fainted with relief. The sounds of the riot could be heard from a distance, even over the screeching alarms.

  Just a few more steps, Sarah thought. Freedom is so close...

  But when they entered the short hallway that led to the locker rooms, they found Hawkeye, Spikes, and Little John waiting for them. Each of them held a pair of shivs.

  “I knew it,” Hawkeye sneered. “I knew you two were behind this shit. I should've had you both killed at the first sign of trouble. But no, I had to show compassion, like some kind of fucking idiot.”

  “Fuck,” Sarah thought. “I should have brought a weapon for Kurt, in case we ran into trouble. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  She slid her baton from her belt. “One warning. That's all you get. Let us pass, or by God I'll beat the brains out of your skulls.”

  “I just watched Wilder get stabbed to death by about a dozen Sinners,” Hawkeye snarled. “He was my best friend in this shithole, and he died so you and your lover boy could run off together and play 'Happily Ever After.' Well, guess what? I'm going to carve my name into your hearts while they're still fucking beating. I'm going to make sure you never leave this place.”

  The three Brothers lunged at them, the blades of their shivs glinting in the red emergency lights. Sarah swung her baton and cracked it against the side of Spikes' head, knocking him out immediately. As she did, she saw Kurt jump on Hawkeye, knocking the shiv out of his left hand and grappling furiously for the one on the right.

  Little John swung one blade at Sarah's face, slashing her left cheek even as the other blade swooped down toward her midsection. She used her baton to parry it, and succeeded in smacking 88's hand hard enough to make him drop it. But he was fast, and his remaining shiv darted toward her torso again. She side-stepped it clumsily, but it came close enough to nick one of the buttons off her uniform.

  You can't stab me there, she thought. You can stab me anywhere else, but motherfucker, you are not taking this baby away from me.

  The knife came in for the kill again and Sarah caught the blade with her left forearm on purpose. She barely registered the pain as she twisted her arm to one side, wrenching the weapon from Little John's fingers. But as she raised her baton to strike, Little John's fist extended with blinding speed, hitting her squarely in the face.

  Sarah felt her nose crunch under the force of the blow, and her head snapped back as stars danced in front of her eyes. She was caught off-balance, and it was just the opening Little John needed to snatch the baton from her hand. Before she'd even had time to process the punch to the face, she felt the hard polished wood of the baton connect with the top of her scalp.

  She sank to one knee, the world around her briefly fading into shades of gray. As Little John raised the baton again, she saw that Hawkeye had managed to wrestle his way on top of Kurt. His weight gave him the advantage, and Kurt grunted as he tried to keep Hawkeye's thumbs away from his eye sockets.

  We're not going to make it, Sarah thought blearily as she waited for another crack from the baton. We got so close, so fucking close, but it's going to end right here in this hallway. I'm sorry, Kurt. I did my best.

  Suddenly, Sarah heard Hawkeye let out a shriek of agony. She looked over and saw him flop over onto his side, bleeding from a half-dozen puncture wounds in his upper back. His eyes were rolling up in his head, and saliva was foaming at the corners of his mouth.

  Bear stood over him, holding a bloody shiv.

  “You get Kurt outta here,” he said. “I got this. If y'all get a chance to see Ron, tell 'im I'm sorry I let the Dogs down.”

  As Sarah pulled Kurt off the floor and dragged him along behind her, she saw Bear run toward Little John with his shiv. Little John ducked down, reaching for one of the discarded blades. He retrieved it just in time to drive it deep into Bear's jugular, even as Bear stabbed him in the chest and stomach over and over. They collapsed to the floor together, both sticky and slippery with blood, their bodies locked together in the spasms of death.

  Sarah's hand was shaking so hard she could barely get her key card into the slot that unlocked the side door. She and Kurt held onto each other until they made it to her car.

  Then they drove off and never looked back as the riot at River Oak raged behind them.

  Epilogue

  Sarah

  A year later, most of the major TV networks in the Southwest covered the anniversary of the riot at River Oak. They showed the same footage from the prison security cameras, over and over. They recited the same dreary statistics: Twenty-seven inmates killed, along with six guards. They speculated endlessly about what had happened to the two people who were determined to be missing in the wake of the riot—convict Kurt Bellows, and corrections officer Tina Martin, which was now known to be the alias of Sarah Swanson, niece of the alleged president of the Black Dogs motorcycle club.

  But in a small house in Nashville—the home of Gray and Christina Hudson, an auto mechanic and a stay-at-home mom, respectively—no one watched this story on the news. No one cared. After all, both of the parents had seen it for themselves, and their four-month-old baby didn't seem interested, either.

  And besides, Gray and Elizabeth—“Kurt” and “Sarah” to each other, when they were alone—were keeping busy in plenty of other ways.

  For example, at the moment, Kurt was occupying himself by kissing the scar on Sarah's cheek. She loved it when he did that. When she was out in public, most people—especially men—glanced at it and then looked away self-consciously, with a mixture of pity and revulsion in their eyes. But Kurt had told her that he found it sexy. He said it was a constant reminder of how much she loved him, and the fact that they were strong enough to get through anything together.

  To Sarah, the strongest reminder of this was the way their crooked noses looked when they nuzzled them together affectionately. Both of the noses had been broken in River Oak, and they lent additional character to the faces they were on.

  Kurt and Sarah wrapped themselves around each other in the bed they shared. The scars on their naked bodies seeming to fit together perfectly, like corresponding pieces in a puzzle. The contours of their muscles were highlighted by the golden sunbeams that spilled in through the window, and a light breeze tickled their bodies playfully. Sarah had left the window open on purpose—she knew how the smell of fresh air turned Kurt on.

  Their lips were locked together as they shared each other's breath, exchanging it from one mouth to the other slowly and sensually. Their chests were pressed together too, and if Sarah really concentrated, she was sure she could feel their pulses beating in a single rhythm. Two hearts that had finally found perfect harmony in each other.

  Kurt cupped one hand behind Sarah's head as the other slid between her smooth thighs. His forefinger rubbed against her clit, and Sarah gasped sharply, smiling. No matter how many times he touched her, it felt like the first time.

  No. Better. Because this was so much more than some sweaty, confused encounter in a dirty public bathroom. This was the promise of forever, of basking in the glow of another person's love from now until the sun went cold.

  This was everything she'd ever wanted, and it was finally hers.

  Kurt continued to touch her, delicately stroking the lips of her pussy and enjoying the way her body twitched with pleasure.

  “I love the way you touch me,” she whispered in his ear.

  “I love touching you
,” he replied. “When I was cuffed to the bed in the infirmary, this was just one of the things I thought about doing to you.”

  Sarah laughed. “I don't know—it was kind of nice having you handcuffed and unable to move while I had my way with you.”

  “I guess I know what to get you for Christmas now,” he chuckled, kissing her behind her ear.

  “Shhh. Just keep touching me.”

  Kurt's fingers were slick with juices as he slipped the first two inside her. She let out a long moan, loving the fact that they could take their time with each other now—that they didn't have to worry about being caught and punished for their love.

  He re-positioned himself, sliding his body down over the covers until his head was between her legs. He continued to push his fingertips inside of her as his mouth settled over her clit. It throbbed as his sandpapery tongue flicked against it insistently. The feeling of his breath against her was soft and tantalizing, and she felt her thighs close reflexively on the sides of Kurt's head.

  She ran her hands through his hair, tugging it gently. Her breath was coming in sharp hisses now, and she wasn't sure how much more she could take.

  “Please,” she pleaded. “I need you inside me. Now.”

  Kurt scooted up between her legs again, her scent still clinging to his lips as his cock pressed against her gently. He was inside of her a moment later, his mouth caressing the side of her neck while he buried himself deep within her. She felt something light up in the pit of her stomach, a tiny flame that quickly spread through her until her entire body felt consumed by wildfire.

  Sarah clung to his body as tightly as she could, holding his torso against hers as her legs wrapped around his hips. Her nails dug into his back and he inhaled sharply, playfully nipping at her neck and shoulder with his teeth. The sounds they made seemed to intertwine into a single passionate voice, crying out over and over.

  When they finally came together, it felt like the entire universe beginning and ending, only to begin again in a blinding cosmic blast of form and energy.

  Sarah heard the baby crying in the next room. She and Kurt looked at each other, then laughed. Of course their sounds had awakened her from her nap—it wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. In a minute or two, one of them would rise from the bed, walk into the baby's room, and walk back and forth with her until she went back to sleep.

  But for now, they would lie in bed in a tangle of arms and legs, holding each other like two people who'd woken up from the same nightmare—relieved that it was all over, and that the reality of waking could be so sweet in contrast.

  THE END

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  WED TO THE BIKER: Skeleton Kings MC By Zoey Parker

  I PUT MY INK ON HIM. HE PUT HIS CLAIM ON ME.

  It started with a tattoo.

  It won’t end until all of me belongs to him.

  The biker came in wanting some fresh ink on his chest.

  But it doesn’t take long before he wants more.

  More of me, that is.

  My taste. My body. My heart. My soul.

  The problem is, Max is from the wrong side of the tracks.

  He’s seen things, done things, that make my blood run cold.

  There’s no future with a man like him.

  There can’t be.

  There won’t be.

  If I let him have me…

  Everything I love will burn.

  So why can’t I say no?

  Chapter One

  Brittany took a deep breath, inhaling the scent around her. She loved how the craft store in town smelled, loved how peaceful and tranquil it was within its aisles. Moving slowly, she admired all the different shades of paint. They had every color of the rainbow, but even more than that, colors she’d never even thought about before. She felt like a kid in a candy store. Brimming with excitement, she placed a few of the brighter colors into her shopping cart along with the artist’s notepad she’d already picked up.

  This was Brittany’s weekly release – a time when she could just be herself and be soothed by the world around her. Every Tuesday morning, like clockwork, she’d cycle into town and stop by the large craft store beside the local Walmart. If the sun was shining, it made the trip even better. She’d linger among the aisles for as long as she could before eventually paying for her purchases and cycling back to the home she shared with her brother. The home they had inherited from their parents.

  Checking her paint-splattered watch, Brittany sighed and pushed a loose strand of dark hair back behind her ear. She’d lingered in the store a little too long. If she didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, she risked her brother, Zack, getting in before she did, and that was never good.

  With quick, urgent steps Brittany approached the checkout.

  “Morning, Brittany,” Samantha, the kind-faced plump woman in the bright red smock grinned at her.

  “Morning, Samantha,” Brittany smiled back. She wished that she had the luxury of time to partake in their usual morning pleasantries. She’d ask about Samantha’s children, and they’d discuss the weather from the week before. But time was no longer on Brittany’s side.

  “I’m in kind of a hurry today,” Brittany told her apologetically as she frantically shoved her items into a paper bag.

  “Oh, honey, don’t you go rushing now. ‘More haste, less speed,’ that’s what my mother always used to say.”

  “Hopefully I’ll have some more time with you next week,” Brittany said as she handed the cashier her cash. She always had to pay in cash, never on a card. Any purchases made on a card could be monitored. But any cash she got her hands on was her own to spend as she liked. And she loved nothing more than buying art essentials. On sunny days, she’d just be out in the back yard beneath the weeping willow and waste the day away sketching in her notebook. Lately, it was the only thing which bought her any joy.

  “You’re too young and pretty to let that brother of yours keep you locked up like a prisoner,” Samantha clucked, handing Brittany her receipt.

  Every week Samantha would tell Brittany how she needed to get away from her brother, how she needed to live her own life. The whole town had an opinion on Brittany and her brother, the poor little kids over on Brixton Road, who lost their parents too young.

  Brittany had been twelve when they died, Zack fifteen. He’d dropped out of school and taken any work he could find. He’d saved her from a life in the foster care system. And now that Brittany was eighteen she felt like she couldn’t just walk out on her brother when he’d scarified so much to keep her in school, to keep some normalcy in her life.

  “I’m not a prisoner,” Brittany explained with a thin smile. “Zack is just…strict.”

  “Hmm,” Samantha looked unimpressed but her anger melted into a warm smile none the less.

  “Well, you have yourself a good day, Brittany. And make sure you pop by next Tuesday to see me.”

  “I will,” Brittany promised as she headed for the door. Outside the sun was burning bright as she hurried over to her bike, pleased with her new purchases.

  She pedaled hard and fast back through town, desperate to make it home before Zack did. He’d been out all night, working. She had no idea what he did. He went out on his motorbike at dusk and rarely returned before dawn. She assumed he did shift work somewhere, maybe at one of the factories just outside of town. He made good money. She was always finding wads of cash around the house and on occasion she slipped a twenty-dollar bill from the pile to fund her art habit, Zack didn’t even notice. It was as if he didn’t even know how much money he had.

  Brittany cycled through the small town which had a
lways been her home with the wind blowing through her short dark hair. The familiar streets looked shabbier than they had when she was a child. It was as if when her parents died the sheen had come off the entire world and she was forced to see things for what they really were.

  Finally, Brittany reached Brixton Road, a street lined with small wooden bungalows, some in better condition than others. She remembered on bright mornings how her father would turn on the sprinklers and let Brittany and Zack dash beneath the spurts of water until they cooled down. Now the lawn outside their house was overgrown and thick with weeds. Zack was always promising to get out and mow it, but he never did. Their lawnmower had been pawned long ago, back when times were leaner.

  Dismounting her bike, Brittany pushed it up towards the car porch and then stopped. Zack’s bright red motorcycle was parked next to the side of the house, heat still radiating from the engine and causing the air to bend.