He thrust a hand through his hair and pulled the ends. “Fuck, Megan. What the fuck kinda question is that?”
“A legitimate one,” she returned. Try as she might, she couldn’t hold her tears back.
“Don’t fuckin’ cry, baby.” He pulled her into his arms and hugged her. “Especially over a motherfucker like me.”
She stood on tiptoes, breathing in the leather he wore and him, her husband. Her Christopher. “I love you,” she whispered, nausea roiling through her.
He pressed his lips on the top of her head. “Why? That’s what I wanna fuckin’ know. Why the fuck you love me, Megan? I can’t even guarantee you protection against Cee cuz I can’t find the motherfucker. I’m supposed to fuckin’ protect you. Motherfucker slipped back to Virginia. Which pisses me the fuck out cuz instead of grounding him myself I had to put a fuckin’ hit out on him.” He cursed, his shoulders heaving with disappointment. “So, again, why you love me? I can’t even take care of a motherfucker threatenin’ you myself.”
She wiggled out of his arms and stepped back to breath in fresh air and stare him in the eyes. He looked uncertain and disgusted. Meggie was sure he was both. He was a strong, willful man and he hated feeling vulnerable. “I love you because of the man you are. You’re strong and no-nonsense, but, for those you care about and love, you’re always right there. It’s your heart and your soul—“
“My soul?” he scoffed and drank again, glaring at her. “My soul, if I have one, is blacker than the pits of hell. My soul? What fuckin’ soul?”
And, suddenly, Meggie got it. She understood why he’d pulled away and why he’d hurt her and insisted they not have a church wedding. She stepped closer to him and rubbed his cheek, freshly shaved but still so masculine. “If you didn’t have a soul, Christopher, you wouldn’t have a conscience.”
He opened his mouth to speak but she placed her fingers over his lips to forestall his words.
“Shhh,” she soothed. “You have both. Whether you know it—or like it. If you didn’t have a conscience, the things you do wouldn’t eat at you.”
“You got me pegged wrong, baby.” He finished off the rum and swiped his hand over his mouth, glowering at her. “Didn’t start givin’ a fuck ‘til I met you.” He stomped around her. “Take off your fuckin’ blinders, Megan. See me for the motherfucker I really am.”
“I do,” she yelled and marched up to him, shoving him backward. “How long have I been living with you, you moron?”
He glared at her, stepped closer. She planted her hands on her hips and raised her chin, narrowing her eyes.
“If you came here to—“ He raised his hands in the air and spun on his heels.
“I came here for you, Outlaw,” Meggie called, desperate. To her, he was Christopher. He was human with a heart and a soul, but she had to let him know that she loved Outlaw just as much.
He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “What the fuck you just call me?”
So now they were playing that game? “You’re right there. You heard me.”
He turned back to her, the rise she stood on giving her a slight advantage in height. Emotions raced across his face and he swallowed. “Megan, you don’t know—“
“Don’t I?” she said quietly. “I know who and what you do, Outlaw.” She rocked back on her heels. “Life isn’t all sunshine and roses. Do I like to think about that side of you? No. I try not to. Even living at the MC, I try to ignore the other side of your activities.” She chanced a closer step to him. “If I have to choose you or them, I choose you every time. This is the reality of my life with you. You’re not holding me hostage here, Outlaw.”
His nostrils flared. “I love you, Megan. I do but—“ He stopped, looked into the distance and raised his empty bottle. It was clear he wished he had more.
“But?” she prompted.
“Baby, the day we was supposed to go for that counselin’ session…” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “It don’t matter, Megan. It don’t fuckin’ matter. I am who the fuck I am.”
“You know what? You’re right. You are who you are. Outlaw. Cold-blooded killer. MC President. Tough ass. Christopher. Bad boy. Sex god. Husband. Man I love. And father of my children,” she said softly, placing a hand on her belly and staring at him.
“You havin’ another baby for me?” he whispered, his eyes wide, his expression as incredulous as his voice.
She nodded. “Yes.”
He looked up at the cloudy sky. “And you out here in all this fuckin’ drizzly weather?”
“Aren’t you?” She wouldn’t point out she’d also consumed alcohol, smoked a joint, and drank whatever else besides liquor that was in the fizzy drink he’d given to her the other night.
“I don’t like hearin’ you call me Outlaw,” he admitted, rocking back on his heels.
She cocked her head to the side. “Why not?”
He shrugged. “Cuz I ain’t fuckin’ Outlaw to you. You ain’t never called me fuckin’ Outlaw, so don’t start now.”
“Then stop acting like Outlaw with me and I’ll stop calling you him.”
Christopher glowered at her. “I ain’t nowhere fuckin’ near—“
“You are,” she insisted. “Word around town is Outlaw is cold-blooded and mean. Doesn’t care about anything but his club and his brothers. His word is law and final. He’s feared and respected.”
Christopher drew in a deep breath. “Fuck me, Megan.” He closed his eyes. “How the fuck you do this shit to me?”
“Don’t know,” she said with a little sniff. “Since I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Yeah, you fuckin’ do, baby.” He walked up to her and set the bottle next to her, then bent and kissed her. She tasted the alcohol on his lips and groaned. He pulled back and sighed. “You gonna fuckin’ hurl, aintcha?”
She nodded and turned, falling onto her knees and throwing up for the third time that morning. Only this time, Christopher crouched beside her and held her hair out of the way, stroking her back until she finished. He pulled her into his arms and drew her onto his lap, kissing her forehead.
“I’m sorry, Megan,” he whispered.
Her head lulled against his chest and she felt drained. “For?”
“For hurtin’ you. I’d rather cut off my dick than hurt you.”
“No, please,” she said. “If you can’t cut off any other part of your anatomy, I’d rather you hurt me than you cut off your dick.”
He hooted with laughter and leaned back against the grass. Megan felt too sick to be embarrassed.
“Christopher, you realize we’re in a graveyard?”
“Ain’t nothin’ but a thing, Megan,” he said, lifting up on his elbows. “A graveyard is peaceful. Don’t have no motherfuckers comin’ up to talk to you.”
“Let’s hope not,” she mumbled.
He stroked her cheek. “You really want to stand with me in a church?”
“More than anything.”
He blew out a breath. “Thought I’d found a way to get me and the boys outta wearin’ them fuckin’ monkey suits.”
“Christopher, you’re sooo bad.”
His arms tightening around her, he got to his feet, his strength amazing her. Not that she was heavy, but he stood as he held her without even appearing to strain.
“You’re probably safe anyway,” she said glumly, another thought occurring to her.
“Yeah?” he asked, zigzagging to sidestep graves. “Why the fuck is that?”
“Father Wilkins. He won’t marry us until we’ve finished the required pre-counseling.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Don’t worry, baby. He won’t be no problem.”
Suspicion welled inside her. “Why? You can’t threaten a priest, Christopher.”
“Who the fuck said anythin’ about threatenin’ the fat little motherfucker? He agreed to your weddin’ song, didn’t he?”
“True.”
“Just trust me, baby.”
“I always
do,” she whispered.
“No.”
“I don’t like that fuckin’ word,” Christopher growled.
“Father Wilkins, is there anything we can do?” Johnnie asked with the kind of patience Christopher didn’t have. “Out…Chris…Mr. Caldwell had some urgent business—“
“There’s nothing more urgent then pre-marital counseling.”
“We already fuckin’ married. What the fuck we need counselin’ for?”
Father Wilcunt sniffed and puffed up his chest. “Because that’s my requirement for anyone to marry in my parish.”
Christopher glared at him. “We have five fuckin’ days to the weddin’ and—“
“That isn’t my problem, sir. You should’ve thought about that when you cancelled.” He shoved his glasses up on his nose. “Furthermore, I’d already made concessions for you by allowing the Wedding March—“
“Fuck you. It wasn’t for me. It was because I told you I was gonna cut your entrails out and feed them to my fuckin’ dogs, Father Wilcunt.”
The priest jumped to his feet. “Out.”
Johnnie scowled at Christopher. “Father Wilkins—“
Christopher stood and pulled out his piece.
“Jesus! Put that the fuck away,” his cousin snarled.
“It’s like this. You marryin’ me and Megan Saturday in this church with whatever fucked up bullshit music Megan want.” He raised his gun. “Or I’m blowin’ you the fuck away right now and takin’ my case to your replacement.”
The priest swallowed. Fuckhead was finally realizing how serious Christopher was. He’d fucked up enough with Megan and, although he still didn’t believe he belonged anywhere in a church, he owed this to her.
“Do you realize how inappropriate this is, Mr. Caldwell?” the priest sputtered.
He had to give it to the old geezer. He was determined to show he had balls. Motherfuckers might be useless but they were big.
“Don’t give a fuck if it’s misappropriate or not.” He narrowed his eyes at the priest. “I’m the most misappropriate motherfucker you’ll ever meet, so this ain’t nothin’ but a thing.”
Johnnie cleared his throat and beckoned Christopher closer. Probably to complain about his bad language to Father Wilcunt.
“What, fuckhead?”
“Er, Outlaw,” he whispered. “Misappropriate isn’t the right word. That means misuse of shit. Inappropriate means not suitable—“
“The word mean whatever the fuck I want it to mean, motherfucker,” he snarled, jerking away from his cousin. “Don’t need you to give me no fuckin’ definitions.” He knew Johnnie only wanted him to make as much of a good impression on Father Wilcunt as possible, but that fucking shipped had sailed. The man didn’t like him and he didn’t like the man. Besides, it reminded Christopher of his 9th grade education. It reminded him he didn’t speak the proper English cuz he’d always been more interested in street smarts than sitting in a class.
That boat had floated, too, and he was what the fuck he was.
He scowled at Father Wilcunt, who continued to glower. The priest slanted a quick glance to the phone—thinking Christopher was fucking blind—before he nodded. “Fine. The wedding can go on.”
Christopher lowered his nine. “If I was you, I’d shove them thoughts you have of callin’ the cops right the fuck out of your head.”
Not having any more to say, Christopher stalked out, leaving Johnnie behind to give the man some monetary incentive to keep his fucking fat trap shut.
Chapter 17
“What the fuck holdin’ Megan up?” Christopher asked. Certainly not the weather, he thought, rocking back on his heels. It was still cold with low clouds blanketing the air, but the rain held at bay. So where the fuck was she?
The last of the bridal party had marched up and now they were waiting for the bride to appear. The organist continued to play. When Megan appeared, the woman stop her playing and a CD of the Wedding March would begin. “I’m gettin’ tired of lookin’ and feelin’ like a trussed up fuckin’ penguin, John Boy.”
Johnnie scowled, while Christopher tried to remain level-headed. “Give Megs a break—“
“Shut the fuck up with that Megs bullshit on my fuckin’ weddin’ day, asshole, before I fuck you up.”
A stern clearing of the throat interrupted Johnnie’s retort. “Mr. Caldwell,” the priest began with tight disapproval, “we’re in the house of the Lord and I’ll expect you to refrain from foul language within my church.”
Christopher glared at the older man. “Don’t give a fuck whose house we in. If I don’t see my fuckin’ wife walk the fuck down that aisle in two fuckin’ minutes, I’m gonna fuck somethin’ up.”
“Yo’, Outlaw, if the priest call off the ceremony and put us out, Megan gonna be pissed. I’ll even risk my life and clue you in, she might decide to lock her pussy up and keep it to herself a while,” Mortician explained. “Women funny like that.”
Johnnie cleared his throat and sent a pleading gaze to the priest. What-the-fuck ever. Christopher would let John Boy convey how fucking much it would mean if the wedding went on. He’d see to it the parish received a hefty donation.
“She said she had a surprise for you, Christopher,” his cousin said.
Christopher stilled and frowned. “Unless she changed her mind because...because…” I’m still me. Pussy-whipped or not. Loving the fuck out of Megan or not. He couldn’t fucking change and the last month some intense fucking bullshit had happened. Worse, it looked like the Dwellers’ and the Scorpions were headed for war. Cee Cee remained under the radar, but to smoke him out, Christopher had ordered a hit on another one of Cee Cee’s sons. The fucker—who happened to be his half-brother—had gotten plugged two days ago. Had Megan discovered the extra bullshit he tried to keep away from her? What if…?
“She already your wife, Prez,” Mortician reminded him. “All this bullshit just because Megan want a big wedding. The girl ain’t going nowhere so stop fucking tripping.”
Like a pussified motherfucker. The sentiment went unspoken but hung in the air like a motherfucker. Even the priest scoffed at him.
Christopher growled low in his throat, glaring at the man. What the fuck did he know any-fucking-way?
Johnnie rolled his shoulders, making Christopher all the more antsy.
Just over one year had gone by since any of them had last set foot in a holy sanctuary. That time had been for his Ma’s funeral and she was all up in his mind today. He wondered what she would’ve thought of how the church looked today. Megan had made it so fucking pretty, helping Christopher to blot out the memories of Patricia’s funeral.
Unlike then, peach, cream, and blue gauze, silk, and lace decorated the church today. Bouquets of flowers hung on each side of every pew and a long red carpet littered with rose petals had been laid on the white marble floor. Candles lit the altar, reflected on the bridesmaids who stood on the left in the blue gowns and the groomsmen in their tuxedos with blue bow ties.
Johnnie glanced at his watch and Christopher mimicked the action. Megan was almost fifteen minutes late for the church wedding she’d been so excited about.
Johnnie tugged at his collar and Christopher wanted to knock the fuck out of the motherfucker. John Boy’s fucking jitteriness was making Christopher’s skin fucking crawl.
“Fuck me,” Christopher whispered. “She realized what type of man I am and ducked out on me, John Boy. Took my son.”
His boys all shifted, uncomfortable, looking from one to the other, beginning to agree that she was going to be a no-show.
“Keep it together, Outlaw,” Johnnie said under his breath.
If she’d used this opportunity to leave Christopher, it would destroy him. He thrust his fingers through his hair. Megan wouldn’t fucking do this to him. She loved him as much as he loved her, so if she wasn’t marching the fuck down the aisle…it was because she didn’t have a choice in the matter. A boulder of anxiety pressed in on Christopher’s chest, something unsett
ling him. Everyone had already marched to the altar, even the flower girl. Not the ring bearer, though. The ring bearer…CJ…aided by Val...because a seven-month-old couldn’t hold a motherfucking thing. Nor could he walk.
So where the fuck was Megan? CJ? Val?
The three hundred guests were beginning to get restless, too. Murmurs and movements was rippling through the pews, harping on his nerves like chirping birds. And that fucking organ music. Fuck him. Megan was gonna get her Wedding Song, he should’ve requested Insane Clown Posse in the meantime. He’d prefer to hear Another Love Song play on repeat, rather than having this boring shit pounding through his fucking brain.
Johnnie narrowed his eyes. “Where the fuck is Val, Christopher? She might’ve ducked out on you, which is as unlikely as the sun falling from the sky by the way, but Val wouldn’t.”
John Boy had the same fucking idea as Christopher. And it wasn’t as if Val would run away with Megan and CJ, so what…Holy motherfuck him. How could his head be shoved so fucking far up his ass? This situation stank of…Cee Cee. Sebastian Fucking Caldwell.
“Come with me,” Christopher ordered. He kept his back to the wedding guests and pulled his nine from the holster beneath his jacket. Removing the silencer from his pocket, he attached it to his piece as Father Wilcunt spluttered in outrage.
“Mr. Caldwell!” the priest began.
Christopher shoved the gun in his pocket. “You! Shut the fuck up. And if you go one fuckin’ place before I get the fuck back, I’m gonna fuckin’ gut you.”
Johnnie nodded to Digger and Mortician. “Go with him,” he ordered. “If something’s happened, we don’t want a bloodbath in the church.” As they hurried down the three steps of the altar, Johnnie turned to Father Wilkins. “Please. Bear with us. I hear the church daycare needs a few renovations.”
The priest glared at him, but nodded. Assured that that had been taken care of, Christopher rushed down the red carpeted stairs that led to the altar and headed down the aisle, the fury in his eyes discouraging anyone from disobeying him.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 51