THE DEVIL’S BABY
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
THE DEVIL’S BABY: The Smoking Vipers MC copyright 2017 by Naomi West. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.
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Contents
THE DEVIL’S BABY: The Smoking Vipers MC
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
PAY FOR HER: The Warhawks MC
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
AXEL’S LITTLE ANGEL: The Rippers MC
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Books by Naomi West
PAY FOR HER: The Warhawks MC
AXEL’S LITTLE ANGEL: The Rippers MC
PISTOL’S BABY: The Brethren MC
KNOCKED UP BY THE BIKER: The Ancestors MC
CRAVE: Santora Mafia
TRADED: A Dark Mafia Romance
BAD BOY’S TOUCH: A Dark Bad Boy Hitman Romance (Moretti Family Mafia)
BAD BOY’S KISS: A Dark Bad Boy Mafia Romance
CONTROL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blackened Souls MC)
OWNED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blood Warriors MC)
Broken: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Satan’s Wings MC)
STOLEN: The Vanguard MC
SOLD: Jagged Souls MC
RELEASE: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance
Hawk’s Baby: Kings of Chaos MC
Outlaw’s Baby: Devil’s Edge MC
Hitman’s Promise: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
DARE ME: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Mailing List
THE DEVIL’S BABY: The Smoking Vipers MC
By Naomi West
I SWORE I’D PUT MY BABY IN HIS DAUGHTER’S BELLY.
She thinks I’m the devil, but that won’t stop me.
When her father sees what I’ve done with his girl, he’ll beg for my mercy.
But I won’t rest until she’s wearing my ring…
And bearing my baby.
I’m gonna end this war once and for all…
By hurting Snake Lafayette in the most permanent way possible.
His daughter already thought her life was hell…
But then she met me.
And I’ve got big plans for this little princess.
She’s gonna bend where I tell her.
Beg when I command her.
And once I drag her to the altar, she’ll be mine forever.
Whether she likes it or not.
Chapter One
Spike
“I’m going to kill every damn one of ’em!” Knuckles roars, charging into the clubhouse and kicking a table so hard that it collapses in on itself. He’s a tall, wide, fat man who makes the whole building tremble.
I follow behind the men silently. My anger is more of a seething, boiling anger, the kind of anger which takes a while to blow over the top. My anger is the sort of anger which causes men to turn up slit from ear to ear. I drop into a chair and wave at one on the pledges to bring me a whiskey. It’s evening, but it’s summer, and it’s Sunnyside, California, so an orange glow fills the room, bouncing off photographs of the MC, the old decommissioned WWII rifle above the bar, a pile of old motorbike tires in the corner which Red-Eyes says he’s going to fix one day. I sip my whiskey as my men gather around me.
Justin Herveux, my vice president, leans his elbows on his knees. He’s a good man, a couple of years younger than me, ginger, with freckles all around his nose. He’s the only one here who’s finished college. Business, I think. “I understand Dwayne’s anger,” he says. Justin is the only one who calls Knuckles ‘Dwayne.’ “But what are we supposed to do, boss? Can we afford to put security on our bars twenty-four hours a day?”
“So we’re gonna let ’em hit us twenty-four hours a day instead?” Alfred mutters, his voice wheezing. He must be ninety years old if he’s a day. He sits hunched over, clutching the table, eyes watery. But when he speaks, he looks like a young man again, if only for a moment. “The Scorpions need to be taken out. I’ve lived in Sunnyside since I was a lad. I helped make this club. And now you’re telling me these Scorpion fucks can just roll in and take over? I won’t have it.”
“The Dinosaur’s right,” Charley Red-Eyes says, his eyes bloodshot as usual. He’s short, stocky, with a flat face and a flat attitude toward violence. “They need to die.”
“I agree,” Danny Simmons squeaks up, nineteen years old, the youngest officer by far. He wipes down his blond hair and smiles nervously. “We can’t let them keep going in on us, can we, boss?”
They all turn to me, waiting. I’ll never get used to that moment. One day I’m sitting on their side of the room, looking to the President for advice, and the next I’m sitting here, dishing it out. Part of me misses just being able to sit there, waiting to be told what to do.
“Some of you might not know this,” I say. “But I had a girl I’ve been seeing on and off for a couple of months now. Her name was Christina. She was a cousin to one of the club girls. Anyway, she was at the bar tonight. One of the men—and I reckon it was that bastard Snake Lafayette, ’cause it’s always Snake Lafayette—left her bleeding out back. She’s dead.” I lean forward. The officers sit up, watching me intently. “So believe me when I say I want the Scorpions wiped out as much as you do. But here are the hard facts. They have just as many men as us, maybe some more. They are just as tough as us. They are just as brutal as us.”
Knuckles heaved up his huge body, smacking a meaty fist on the table. “Bullshit!”
“Do I look like I’m done talking?” I ask quietly.
Knuckles swallows, shakes his head, and hunches down.
“They are our equals,” I go on. “I know you don’t wanna hear that, but they are. So here’s what we need to do. We need to find a way to make things unequal.”
“Like in checkers when you get to the other side of the board and become a king?” Danny Simmons whispers, looking nervous when the men turn to him.
“Sure,” I say. “Like that.”
“But how?” Red-Eyes asks.
“Yeah.” Justin furrows his eyebrows. “Do you have a plan?”
“No. Not right now.” They all deflate. “For now, let’s all get some rest. Get some of the club girls in. Get some life into this place. It’s seven o’clock, goddammit; we’re not all dinosaurs here.” I wink at Alfred, who croaks out a savage insult.
Half an hour later, I’m in my office which adjoins the bar, listening to the sound of glasses clinking and women giggling in the next room. The only one who doesn’t get involved is Justin. He’s in an office next to mine. I can hear him in there, tapping on his keyboard. He’s working out the logistics for a gun shipment, I know. Leaning back on my chair’s hind legs, staring at the framed photograph of me and the previous president, Sonny, I think about Christina. Truth be told, I wasn’t in love with Christina; nothing as dramatic as that. She was just a woman who liked to fuck. But killing a man’s woman, even if it is just some casual thing, is crossing a damn line.
The whiskey bottle calls to me from the drawer of my desk. I’ll crawl into it soon, crawl deep, and forget about the trashed bar and the dead woman. I’ll try and forget about the other memory, too, the smoldering car and cooking flesh—I shake my head, forcing the memory deep down where it can’t bother me.
I need to ride, hit the road and be a man and his bike instead of the president and his officers. I need to pretend I’m just an enforcer again, working a job, trying to keep the Smoking Vipers afloat.
I feel oddly young when I climb out of the window into the parking lot. Not that I’m old at thirty-one, but I feel twelve or thirteen or something. This is the sort of thing Toby and I used to do, back in the day. The sun has almost set now, the silver handlebars on my bike catching an eerie purple color. I climb onto the bike, no jacket, no helmet, and ride away from the clubhouse. The music pumps behind me, becoming quieter as I get further away and release the engine to a full growl.
The wind feels good in my face, waking me up. I always think best when I’m on the road, metal roaring beneath me. I don’t know how a man can think in silence. There’s too much room for stray thoughts to get in the way. Sunnyside is a smallish town buried in the Californian south amidst trees and dust, San Diego a whisper to the west. As I ride, though, I don’t feel like I’m in California. I don’t feel like I’m in America. I feel like a pioneer, in the middle of nowhere, just me and the wide, unknown road. After about half an hour of aimless drifting, I ride toward the Scorpions’ clubhouse. I guess it can’t hurt to see what the enemy is up to.
During the two years I spent in the army, I learned to move quiet. So I park my bike on the far side of the road, hidden under the trees, and then creep across the road to the clubhouse. The building is squat and ugly, all jagged edges with a glaring neon light proclaiming Scorpion with a flashing scorpion figure next to it. Around thirty bikes stand in the parking lot. I approach from the dormitory side, skirting the lot, crouching low behind some bushes. I’ve got my pistol slung under my arm in its holster, just in case. But I’m confident I won’t get caught. A man can move like a shadow if he knows how.
I crouch here for an hour or more watching the dormitory windows. Most of the curtains are drawn, but I catch a glimpse of a couple of bikers. Mostly it’s just club women, the same kind we have, party girls who like to have fun, or cleaners and cooks doing their work. The moon is fading into the sky when I’m about to get up and leave. Coming here was a stupid idea anyway.
But then a light switches on, a yellow rectangle tempting me to stay. I crouch lower. The woman who walks into the room is like something out of a magazine. She must be around twenty, with a youthful, red-flushed face and big saucer-like blue eyes. Her blonde hair is tied up in a bun. She moves around the room with the grace of a dancer, her body short and curvy in all the right places. She’s the sort of woman who makes a man want to bury his face in her tits. I don’t know whether other men would feel guilty about eyeing up a piece like this after their girlfriend just died, but I don’t. A body and face like hers is too much to resist.
My smile drops when Snake Lafayette enters the room with the woman. I take out my pistol, wondering. But then I slide it back into the holster. I could shoot him at this distance without a problem. I’ve killed men from longer ranges with pistols. But guns are loud, way louder than in the movies. One shot would draw out the whole club and see me dead. The woman backs away from the man, shaking her head. I can’t hear what they’re saying, dammit. I don’t even know why I want to. Before I can question myself, I’m creeping to the window, making sure to stay in the shadows. I press flat against the wall, their voices dim but audible.
“Listen, I’m sure we can work something out.” Snake’s voice reminds me of the brown noses in the army, the ones who’ll do anything to please the officers, or like the brown nose pledges who never get patched. But Snake isn’t a brown nose. He’s just a snake. “I know you’re upset about your mother, but that’s no excuse for being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable, Dad? Unreasonable?”
Dad . . . I creep away from the window, making my way back toward my bike. Snake Lafayette has a daughter. I had no clue about that. I have no clue how he could keep something like that a secret, either. But the facts are the facts. Snake Lafayette has a daughter, and we need leverage against the Scorpions. If the leader of the club I’m trying to take down has a daughter, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what needs to be done. She could be useful. She could be the difference between the Smoking Vipers living another year or dying in the Scorpions’ pincers.
I ride back to the clubhouse, thinking of that bottle of whiskey. The plan is formulating in my mind, the logistics slotting together. This man killed my girlfriend. She wasn’t my fiancée, or even a woman I loved, but she was my girlfriend, and the principle of the thing can’t be ignored. Even without Christina’s death, though, I can’t let Snake roam around Sunnyside doing anything he likes to Viper territory. I can’t let Snake rob our stores and trash our bars. I can’t let Snake put my men at risk, men with wives and kids and bills and rent and responsibilities.
I sit on the edge of my bed, whiskey bottle in hand, taking slow, long sips. The whiskey is liquid fire down my throat, burning in my belly. I roll my head from side to side, clicking my neck. It’s time we did something. It’s time we stopped letting the Scorpions walk all over us.
I go into the bar, where the partying has reached the lazy stage, music playing low, the men dealing cards, the women sitting on their laps.
“Officers!” I shout across the room. “My office. We’ve got shit to discuss.”
Cards scatter. Women scatter. Whiskey glasses drain and slam into the table.
And then we’re in my office, talking about the sexiest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“First thing’s first; one of you needs to get to the Scorpions’ clubhouse. I want that place under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
Chapter Two
Yazmin
Mom is dead. I say it to myself every day but it’s still difficult to believe. Mom, who raised me on her own, who took me to ballet practice and then understood when I told her I wanted to quit, who baked pumpkin pie every Halloween even when she had to work a double shift at the hospital, is dead. Mom is dead. Lying in bed, my face buried in the pillow as though that means the world doesn’t exist, I giggle madly. Mom is dead, but it doesn’t seem close to real. I keep expecting her to knock on the door and sweep in, de
manding to know why I’m here, in the clubhouse, surrounded by cruel men.
The knock comes at the door, but it isn’t Mom. It’s Christopher Michaels. He’s around fifty-five years old but for some reason he brings me my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He has no hair except for a few wispy gray bits. His bald head is covered in purple veins. He always smells of cigarettes and stale sweat. I pull my blanket up around my chin, covering my chest.
“No need to get nervous around me, baby doll,” he says, placing the tray on my bedside table. “We’re friends, ain’t we?” He licks his lips. His lips are always dry and his eyes are always watery.
“Sure,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “But the last time I checked, friends don’t stare at each other’s tits.”
“You’re a snooty one, missy.” Christopher points a long skinny finger at me. “You need to learn how to take a compliment. I’m not staring at your tits. I’m appreciating your form.”
“Okay, fine. Sure. Call it whatever you want. Can I eat my breakfast now?”
“Ungrateful slut,” he mutters, dragging his feet from the room like a teenager.
I want to shout after him, to demand that he apologize, to tell him to never talk to me like that again. But Christopher has more power here than me, the president’s daughter. I have no power at all. I pick at the toast, eating some crust, but I’m not hungry. I keep thinking of Mom whisking eggs and milk, sprinkling seasoning, smiling at me with eyes bluer than mine.