BAD BOY’S SURPRISE BABY

by Kathryn Thomas

  Camille smiled again. She could see that the host was pushing to find out if she had a man in her life. Camille was very protective of her personal life, and reporters had caught on very little.

  “Yes, we are a family of three. My husband Devin, Cammy, our daughter, and me,” Camille said, and she finally saw the look of satisfaction on Nora’s face. She had got the answer that she wanted.

  “And what does your husband do? Is he an artist like you?” she asked, and this time Camille laughed - she wasn’t willing to give up too much information.

  “You’ll have to ask him when you’re interviewing him,” she said, and Nora smiled too.

  “We would love to have him on our show too, is he in the audience?”

  Camille watched as the camera panned and searched the faces in the audience. In the little screen above the producer’s head, she saw the cameras capture Devin and Cammy in the crowd. He was sitting in the third row, with Cammy on his lap. Camille panicked first but then noticed the calm on his face and her muscles relaxed as well.

  He was happy to smile at the camera, and then he gently lifted Cammy’s small baby hands and helped her wave at the camera. The audience was delighted, and they all swooned in unison when baby Cammy giggled and made a bubble with her mouth.

  The camera panned back at the guests on the show, and Nora smiled at Camille and Shayna.

  “You have a beautiful family, Camille, and I wish you all the luck in the world. You and Shayna are both very talented, and I know you’ve made this city proud and given young girls a new voice and an inspiration.” Nora finished the interview, and the audience broke into a thunder of applause. Camille and Shayna both stood up to shake Nora’s hand and then Camille turned to wave at the audience.

  She sighed and smiled, and then caught Devin’s gaze. As handsome as always, he had stood up and was clapping with Cammy in his arms. Cammy was clapping as well, as best as she could and Camille knew that her heart was melting with contentment. She couldn’t have asked for more from her life. She had it all.

  The cameras were turned off, and she ran towards her husband in the audience. She climbed up the steps until she reached him and placed a quick kiss on her daughter’s head, breathing in the scent of her one-year-old baby girl. This was her family. This was her life, and she couldn’t have been happier.

  ***

  Devin

  He had given it all up. He had handed over the reins to his second in command in his club. He didn’t want to do it anymore.

  Camille was now in the kitchen, setting the table. Shayna was on the floor of the living room, playing with building blocks with Cammy. The interview had gone well. It meant more publicity, more commissions, and more fans. It had been a good day.

  Devin was standing with a can of beer in his hands, staring at their wedding photos on the mantelpiece. They had been married two years ago. The photo was of Camille in a beautiful white dress, a tiara on her head and she was laughing while Devin had turned to look at her. All his ten dogs were in attendance, and they had posed in the photographs with the happy couple. They were all wearing black bowties to match his tuxedo.

  That was a happy day. And then a year later, Cammy had arrived and taken over their lives. And Devin’s previous life as head of a biker club was long over. He could barely even remember it now.

  He’d barely even kept in touch with them because he wanted to keep his family safe and away from them. Now he had a daughter too, and he could never involve her in that life. It was in the past. He had paid his dues and tied up all the loose ends. It was time to move on.

  Now he ran a body shop for bikes - repaired them, fixed them up, and sold spare parts. He worked by himself, having converted their garage into a studio, which he worked out of. It gave him the chance to be close to his family.

  “Dinner’s ready!” Camille appeared at the living room door with a smile on her face. Every time Devin saw her, she looked more beautiful than before. He knew he was lucky to have her, her trust, and her love. He could never compromise on what he had now.

  Shayna carried Cammy to the kitchen and Devin followed. Even they were friends now, practically best friends. He couldn’t imagine a life without Shayna. She was Cammy’s Godmother, and he trusted his daughter’s life with her.

  Camille had cooked up a lavish dinner, and she was in the process of pouring wine into glasses for herself and Shayna. Cammy was lifted into her high chair, and Camille served her a bowl of baby food while Devin prepared the bib. He was responsible for dinner, and she always listened to her daddy. Even though she was a spoiled princess and the light of her parents’ lives.

  Devin looked around him while Shayna and Camille chattered. They were talking about the show, laughing and exchanging high fives, with a dull stream of classical music playing in the background.

  Camille had lit candles at the center of the table, and from time to time she turned to watch her husband feeding the baby. Camille smiled at him when she caught his eye, and he felt a thrill run through his veins.

  This was his life. This was his world. He had a family, a home, a legitimate business, and a daughter who he loved more than life itself. And he had the love of a good woman, a woman who still made his heart rate quicken every time he looked at her.

  He had given up his old life; the biker life that he had grown up in. And Camille had asked him repeatedly over the course of the two years if he regretted it. He knew she felt guilty. He knew she blamed herself and even Cammy to a certain extent because she knew that Devin had given up that life for them. But he had tried to explain it to her that he wouldn’t have it any other way. He had never been happier, and he couldn’t have asked for anything more from life.

  “Shall we sit down?” Camille asked as Devin wiped Cammy’s mouth. Cammy had eaten all her food like a good girl, and he had brought her some toys to play with while the adults ate their food.

  He sat down beside his wife while Shayna sat across from them. Camille was serving them the food and Devin couldn’t help but stare at his beautiful wife.

  He was a biker; he had used his strength to run a business of providing security for criminals. He had seen more bloodshed and lives lost than Camille would ever know, and here was having dinner by candle light with a family.

  “I just want to say,” Devin spoke up suddenly, and Camille and Shayna both turned to him. He realized then that he was interrupting their conversation. He remained silent for a few moments and then he felt Camille’s hand cover his on the table. Devin gulped while Shayna sipped from her glass of wine.

  “Come on out and spit it already, Rock. What do you want to say? Something soppy and sentimental no doubt,” Shayna said, as cynical and rude as ever. Camille turned to eyeball her friend who only rolled her eyes. Shayna would never change, and Devin didn’t want her to. Each and every element, with all their uniqueness, at this dinner table, was what made them a whole. A family. That is what he wanted to say - to tell them how happy and settled he felt. But he couldn’t find the words; he wasn’t as creative as the other two girls. So he only smiled at Shayna and then at his wife.

  “It’s okay, darling. We know how much you love us and how proud you are of us,” Camille said and leaned over to place her head on his shoulder. He knew it was her favorite thing to do, so he remained still, drinking in the moment, enjoying the pleasure of finding that their violent lives had led to so much happiness and beauty.

  THE END

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  BIKER’S SURPRISE BABY: The Bloody Pagans MC

  By Kathryn Thomas

  THEY TOLD ME TO STAY AWAY.

  INSTEAD, I PUT MY BABY IN HER WOMB.

  Impossible. Off limits. Suicidal to even try.

  But that’s never stopped me before.

  I want the president’s
daughter to carry my baby…

  And the devil himself won’t be able to stop me.

  Her father’s got a temper that’s as famous as him.

  No one in the state would dare defy his orders.

  No one except for me.

  Call me what you want: a rebel, a lone wolf, or a straight-up a**hole.

  But following rules has never been my strong suit.

  He can warn me, threaten me, do everything in his power to stop me.

  But it ain’t gonna work.

  Because I want Vanessa.

  I want her now and forever.

  In my bed and on my bike.

  Naked and in a wedding dress.

  Most of all, I want her round with my baby.

  So do your worst, you S.O.B.

  She’s mine now.

  We’re a family.

  Me, Vanessa, and the baby in her belly.

  CHAPTER 1

  The road is a funny thing. It can be as straightforward as a line going from one place to the next. And when it’s full of bikers like me, there ain’t a damn soul who looks outside the lines. Everyone’s too focused on their destination, where they’re trying to get to, not where they actually are.

  But the road’s a fickle bitch. One minute, it’s that line, pointing a path towards where you’re going. Next minute, it’s a vicious circle, repeating itself over and over again, and every time you feel like you’ve figured out your path, something on the road sends you back, the destination now gone, as if it was a mirage.

  Here in the desert, the road is scorched, parched, dying from baking in the sun, but with its last gasps of dusty breath, it’ll send you twisting this way and that. In the midst of a sunny day, beaming down orange on the cracked pavement, it waves around, glitters, sparkles, darkens. It fakes you out, leaves you desiring more, leaves you wondering how you ended up where you are. Most of all, it lies. It lies right to your face, and it doesn’t give a damn who you are or what you might want. It lies to serve its own damn self.

  When you ride this road as much as I do, you know that that pavement is that circle, just the same goddamn loop over and over and over again. There’s only one real destination, and that’s about six feet under. But in this game, there sure as hell ain’t no pit stops or places to get off and stretch your legs. It’s only black tar and red dirt that stretches as far as your mind lets it.

  I’ve been on the road far too long lately. Granted, it’s for a good reason—leastways, I suppose it is. Now that I’ve been with the Bloody Pagans for nearly fifteen years, I’ve earned my patch logging in these miles day after day. Like the Boy Scout, the obedient soldier with his orders and routes, I don’t ask questions, I just ride, pick up, ride, drop off.

  A normal person doesn’t have the blood or brains for a job like this. Truckers I’ve met call it “road brain,” where your mind goes mush seeing only the yellow and white lines of the highway for hours each day. But I love it. I love riding next to my brothers as we zigzag in and out of the same traffic coming to or from Los Angeles. I love staring down the same men as they hand me their satchels and packs. And I love smelling the burn of the gas as I fill up at the same station every morning.

  Today, however, is different from the rest. Thad and I are firing up the concrete like bats out of hell. Behind me, about a quarter of a mile back, are two enforcers from the Midnight Kings. They’ve been trailing us for an hour now, ever since we managed to pull off one of the greatest heists in Bloody Pagan history.

  I can just imagine the reports back at their headquarters. Wilson Kirkwood, the kingpin and President of the Midnight Kings, was someone we all thought couldn’t be got. But when Martin Barber gave the orders straight from his daddy that I was to pocket their runs before it got to their distributors, I didn’t tell them it couldn’t be done. I did it. I robbed that sumbitch of his stash.

  Thad and I outfoxed the best goddamn fox in the world. And that big pile of cash they thought was going to their bank is burning a hole in my back pocket. The satchel full of pristine, white, Colombian-grade coke is sloshing around in my bucket. I just need to get it past Exit 43 and back to Garland before I can call us safe and in the clear.

  No Senators cross Exit 43. It’s an unwritten law among bikers like us that says territory is sacred. If they pass that mark, we’ve got all the power—and the right, or the obligation, even—to shoot them dead. And the cops in Garland ain’t going to do a thing to stop us. They take a cut of the action themselves to keep us out of trouble. May not be pretty, but it keeps us on the good side of the law.

  Of course, I violated the goddamn truce myself. I’m the one who just crossed enemy lines to get Kirkwood’s stash. But I’m the fastest rider in all of California. I know the routes, the side streets, the short cuts, and the alleyways as if I invented them. Even King land is fair game to me. The two enforcers on our tail don’t even give me second thought as I motion with my leather-gloved hand to Thad to dash a left at Exit 42, a frontage road. We’re going to lose them before they can even get on our tail.

  I slow my Harley down just enough so that it allows me to swerve right in front of the face of a big rig. The trucker slams on his brakes, causing his whole bed to lift off the ground and send debris flying everywhere. The cars around him swerve outwards towards the steep ditches and landscaping. The sound of metal on metal fills the empty air.

  Thad and I use the distraction to veer off onto the exit ramp, our pace still slow and low. Our engines hum and purr as they practically crawl down the loop towards the overpass. We walk our bikes off the road and under the dark and damp cover of the little bridge. Only our shadows—of two men and their bikes—give us away.

  Moments pass as I try not to hold my breath. Thad takes out a cigarette and lights up as he checks his pack. Last thing you want is to lose that picking on the road while you ride. What a waste. But he gives me the thumbs up. All accounted for. I do the same, distracting myself by counting out the wad of hundreds. It’s nearly $10,000, minus a couple of bills probably still crumpled in that runner’s sweaty hands.

  Martin gave me the job knowing that the cash reward would be high. A man much younger and dumber than me probably couldn’t resist the temptation. Ten grand could get you a whole new life in Mexico if you could manage to make it out without being caught by the Senators or one of the other Bloody Pagan chapters. A few have tried, but I’ve never heard them tell their tales. Punishment for stealing from the gang wasn’t exactly lenient.

  So I know better. I know to leave the money alone and let the club distribute it. We’d all see a bonus in our envelopes later this month. A couple hundred towards food and some new riding boots was going to be my reward. That, and being named the new captain of the road crew.

  It was a big honor, but I’ve been expecting it. Ever since Martin was promoted to chief enforcer, his daddy, Jonah Barber, has been calling me to take a bigger position in the club. I was training young guys, new runners, left and right. And I was picking up night shifts which I typically didn’t do. I even gave up my part-time job as a bartender to be the full-time drug runner they needed.

  Tonight, it was going to be official—leastways that’s what I heard. The rumors had been circulating that the huge blowout party we were stopping at later was going to be in my honor. I’m not one for much of a fuss…I like to keep a low profile, blend in. Easier to breathe—and get away—that way. But this was one time—one damn time—I was going to soak in their praise. I deserved some fucking recognition for doing their dirty work after all this time. I’d been treated like a goddamn second-class citizen in the Pagans on account of me being a bastard with no daddy to claim me. So being treated like the king, even for one goddamn day, almost feels like retribution for all the times I was called a mistake.

  Thad’s cigarette burns slowly as the little puffs drift my way. It brings me back to the present as I try to think of our next move. By now, the Senators’ riders have either peeled off at Exit 43, thinking we managed to get awa
y—back over to our lines—or they’re still hunting us out on the highway among the wreckage.

  I close my eyes and open my ears to the sounds around me. There are some shouts from a lady as she tries to explain to another driver that it was his fault she slammed into this bumper. Another big rig passes on by in a flash with his horns blaring. And among the chaos, I hear two chopper engines racing to my left and right. They’re smarter than I thought.

  “We gotta get out of here. We’re sitting ducks.” I turn on my engine, this time not caring how loud it roars and echoes off of the brick. “You ride in the front. I’ll take the rear.”

  Thad looks at me with his bug eyes bulging from his sunken face. He isn’t quite sure what I’m talking about. To him, we’ve been free for minutes now. He doesn’t speak “road” as I do. He probably can’t even tell that those engines are Japanese…bikes made for speed racing. But he still trusts my instincts. After riding as my partner for over five years now, he knows better than to question me.

  As soon as he manages to start his, I see the flash of the black tire around the corner of the exit. It’s speeding at us at breakneck speeds. Two faceless riders are hitched on the back of two souped-up bikes. Both of us react by peeling away without any sense of direction or where we need to go. Dirt and gravel flies behind us, snapping at the sides of my legs and back.