CONTROL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blackened Souls MC)

by Naomi West

  She’d pushed her cart through the baby aisle, where she had stared at the shelves of diapers and wipes, pacifiers and bottles. She had felt such warmth, such joy inside of her — a joy that had quickly been crushed by the knowledge that she had no idea how to keep this child safe.

  And now here she was with a trunk full of perishable food and a car coughing like it was on its last legs. Wheels. Whatever. Pregnant with the child of a man who might not survive tonight. For all she knew, when she stood in this aisle with her child someday, it would be as a widow. She pulled over and flicked her hazards on, then sat for a moment in the shuddering car. She pressed her fists to her eyes and breathed in.

  Damn her father. Damn him. And damn herself for being too weak to defy him.

  And yet, if I had defied him, would I have Pistol? This man I… I’m starting to care for.

  To lose him now would kill her.

  God, whether or not her relationship with Pistol went anywhere, it terrified her to think of losing the father of her child. To think of raising this baby alone. To imagine spending the rest of her life wondering what might have been. If he’d lived, would they have made a life together — a life that would last, not one built on lies and blackmail?

  She inhaled again and slowly let the breath out.

  She couldn’t exactly picture having a happy family with Pistol either. Couldn’t picture him picking out baby names and clothes with her. And yet the image of Pistol cradling a swaddled infant in his muscular, tattooed arms made her melt. Seeing him on his knees in the nursery, trying to assemble a crib, cursing the instruction manual. The idea of a world where she could come home from class at the university to Pistol and her baby — to a life free of her father, free from grief and fear — was so tempting that she ached for it to be real.

  What could she do about caring for someone as reckless and free as Pistol? You couldn’t chance people, right? Couldn’t tell them not to be who they were. But she knew — sheknew— that so much of Pistol’s brashness came, not from who he was at his core, but from fear. From a lifetime spent fighting to survive when his father was gone, when his mother not only couldn’t keep him safe, but was an actual danger to him.

  She didn’t want to tame Pistol, exactly. Didn’t want to bind him to a home and a kid and a wife he’d never wanted. But she did want to help him make peace with himself.

  A fine person I am to help him with that. I’m just as messed up as he is.

  The car was still growling and wheezing, but she needed to keep going. Both right now and in the days to come. She needed tokeep going.

  She put the car in gear and drove it slowly the rest of the way to the house.

  When she pulled into the drive, she was surprised to see a dark shape huddled on the front porch. Her heart began to pound. What on earth…?

  She turned off the car and yanked the key from the ignition. Leaped out and raced up the steps to the porch, her worst fear gradually solidifying into a terrible reality.

  Pistol was lying there, surrounded by a pool of blood.

  So much blood.

  She couldn’t even tell where it was all coming from at first. Then she saw it still oozing, bright and slick, from a circular wound in his shoulder.

  “Pistol!” she cried, dropping to her knees beside him. She shrugged off her jacket and pressed it to the wound. He groaned, but his eyes were rolled back, his face was far too pale.

  “Pistol — Jax — stay with me,” she murmured. “Stay with me. Look. Look at me, into my eyes. Good.”

  He’d made an effort to focus on her face. He was hearing her, at least.

  Damn, she’d kill him. She’d wait until he was fully conscious, and then she’d kill him. Hadn’t she told him not to go? Hadn’t she warned him it was—

  No time to think about that now. She focused on putting pressure on the wound and getting her husband to focus.

  “Jax,” she whispered. “You’re gonna be all right, but you have to stay with me.”

  He let out a soft groan.

  “Shh. You don’t have to talk right now.”

  He shook his head very slightly. “Keh … mmh … Kat…”

  “It’s me. It’s Katrin.”

  “Your f…” He stopped, wincing with pain. Katrin checked discreetly under the jacket. The bleeding was slowing, but it looked like he’d already lost far too much blood.

  “Jax, I think you need to go to the hospital.”

  “No,” he slurred emphatically. “Da—dangersss…”

  “Jax, what happened?”

  “You father.” His voice was still unsteady, weak.

  “My father?” Katrin’s heart pounded harder. “Did my father do this to you?”

  “Was a … a trap. He…” Pistol grunted, sucking in a breath as he tried to sit up.”

  “Jax,” she warned, but he was already pulling himself upright.

  “The bike is … in the garage. We gotta…”

  “I don’t care about the bike right now. I care about you.”

  “We gotta go.”

  “The only place we’re going is inside to clean that wound.”

  “Listen,” he insisted. Katrin winced at the bloodstains on the porch, but helped him support his back against the house. “He never … and then … betrayed us…”

  “Okay. We don’t have to talk about that now. I need to get you into the house and cleaned up.”

  “No!” His whole body shook, and his mouth worked for a moment without any sound coming out. “No time.”

  “This is non-negotiable,” she said, in her firmest voice. “You can’t go anywhere until you’ve been taken care of. Come on.”

  She helped him up. He was heavy, but adrenaline was on her side, and she supported him as they walked into the house. She sat him on the toilet lid in the downstairs bathroom and stripped his jacket and shirt off to get a better look at the wound. It looked like the bullet had made a fairly clean entry and exit. Thank God. Prying a bullet out of flesh went beyond her limited training.

  She fetched the first aid kit and cleaned the area carefully, remembering the first time they’d done this, the night he’d cut himself with the chef’s knife.

  Look how far we’ve come, she thought ruefully.

  He looked into her eyes as she bandaged him. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  She smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”

  He had some color back in his cheeks now. “Katrin. Your father…he’s he’ll know I got away. We have … have to go…”

  “So he’s behind all this?” she asked, anger rising in her.

  Pistol nodded. “Ambush. We got out to the desert, and … and his men…” He hissed sharply as she swabbed the wound’s ragged edges. “Just started shooting us like dogs.”

  Katrin’s breath caught. “Are the others okay?”

  “’Rango’s dead.” The words clearly pained Pistol more than any wound.

  She felt lightheaded. “Jax. I’m so sorry.”

  “Mica too. More. Didn’t see…”

  “So they’re looking for you now?” Katrin’s heart pounded so hard she thought her chest would burst. What was she supposed to do? With Pistol incapacitated, how would she defend them both from her father’s men?

  “Yeah.” He took her hand. His was slick with blood. “We gotta get out of here, darlin’.”

  She swallowed hard. “I don’t see how you can go anywhere in this condition.”

  He gave a shadow of a grin. “Back together five … minutes … already … bickering like a … an old married couple.”

  She smiled too, her face flushing.Like an old married couple. That ache was back. She brushed a hand over his scalp. “You’re a stubborn man.”

  He gazed at her with such tenderness that her throat tightened. “And you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “Mean it.”

  She leaned forward and softly kissed him. “I’m gonna go get fresh clothes for you. Don’t
move.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She’d barely stood up when glass shattered somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

  “Oh God!” Katrin stumbled backward. Pistol pulled her down next to the toilet and got unsteadily to his feet. Even in tremendous pain, he still tried his best to shelter her. “Kat. Stay still.” He was already pulling on his blood-soaked jacket over his bare chest. Katrin grabbed her jacket too — it was soaked with Pistol’s blood, but she shrugged into it anyway.

  More glass shattered. Someone was knocking out the panes in the back door.

  “Smith,” Pistol growled. “He’s sent someone to finish what his goons started.”

  “Shit,” Katrin whispered, zipping the jacket over her tank top.

  “We need to get out.” Pistol was still wheezing, but adrenaline seemed to have taken over. He no longer looked like he was about to He got to his feet, flinching as they heard the back door burst open. “We have to go. The bike’s in the garage.”

  “You can’t drive like that,” she whispered fiercely, nodding at his damaged shoulder. “Ride,” she corrected herself.

  She could see that Pistol knew it was true. He was still weak, and every time he moved that shoulder, more blood seeped through the bandages.

  He met her gaze. “Wanna learn to ride?”

  “Are you—”

  But there was no time to discuss it. They could hear voices now, footsteps in the kitchen, heading into the hall. Katrin looked into Pistol’s eyes, more terrified than she’d ever been in her life.

  “On the count of three,” Pistol said, with surprising calm. “We run for the laundry room. Into the garage. I’ll…” He sucked in a breath, face contorting with pain. “I’ll start the bike. I’ll tell you what to do. Just trust me.”

  Katrinwas scared — how the hell was she supposed to learn to ride a motorcycle under this kind of pressure? But she knew there was no time to debate the merits of this plan.I have a responsibility to both of us.Allof us. She thought of the baby inside her.

  “One,” Pistol said.

  She gripped his hand.

  “Two.” He squeezed hers.

  “Three,” they said together, and burst out of the bathroom, running full speed down the short hall to the laundry room, just as they heard the shouts from her father’s men, the goons’ confused footsteps, and the sound of weapons being cocked.

  They bolted into the laundry room, shutting and locking the door behind them. Then they went out the connecting door into the garage, locking that door too. They could hear the goons firing bullets into the laundry room door. Katrin tried to keep breathing. Only two doors separated them from death.

  Don’t think about that now.

  Katrin climbed on the bike, kicking up the kickstand. Pistol mounted behind her. His breathing was shallow, and she worried about his ability just to hang onto her on this ride.

  She turned the key, and he reached around her to handle the clutch.

  “Shift it into first!” he called.

  She blanked for a few seconds, but then saw what he meant. These were the same controls she’d stared at over his shoulder the night he’d taken her for a ride. The same controls she’d seen in pictures online when she did private research, fantasizing that one day Pistol really would teach her to ride.

  Well, that day is here.

  The garage was already filling with fumes. She hit the garage door opener on the side of the bike’s tank. Even over the roar of the bike, she could hear the bullets entering the door behind her.

  “Go!” Pistol called.

  She was a little thrown by the weight of the machine under her — by the knowledge that this time she had to control it. Pistol helped her slowly release the clutch as she walked the bike forward, and then he was telling her to go, go, go…

  She hiked her feet up, saying a quick prayer, and let the clutch lever the rest of the way out while yanking back on the throttle.

  The bike roared out of the garage, Katrin clinging to the handlebars for dear life, Pistol’s hands on her hips.

  “Hold on!” she shouted at him, as she struggled to figure out how to shift her weight to keep the bike balanced. Four men burst through the door behind them, weapons aimed. Katrin nearly screamed as they started firing. The bike blazed down the drive, over the curb, and then they were weaving down the street, toward the highway.

  “Holy shit!” Pistol shouted. “That was close!” He sounded exhilarated.

  Terror still had a death grip on Katrin’s throat, but she managed to smile. Was glad Pistolcouldn’t see her. Okay,maybe she could understand what appealed to him so much about his lifestyle, with all its high-octane craziness, the sense that danger was always chasing you, biting at your heels…

  She saw a neighbor look up from watering his garden as they blew past. She kind of wanted to give him a thumbs up.

  “Okay,” Pistol called. “Try to stay on the right side of the road, yeah?”

  She was still weaving. “Working on it!”

  She was going as fast as she dared, not wanting to risk an accident, but needing to put as much distance as possible between them and her father’s goons. The bike swayed beneath her, but she was doing a good job counterbalancing now. She could feel Pistol behind her struggling to stay upright. He must be in such terrible pain.

  Just hang in there a little longer.

  There was a turn at the end of the road. She thought she remembered something from her online research about not braking during a turn. You had to slow down, then take the turn, rather than pumping the hand brake She released the throttle and braked slightly, holding her breath. Looked in the direction she wanted to go, and let her weight shift naturally. She swung a little wide, nearly into the path of an oncoming car. The car blasted its horn, but they made it through, and Katrin sped up toward the highway.

  There was a grinding sound as the clutch engaged. She shifted into second gear, and things smoothed out.

  Holy shit. I can do this. I can actually do this!

  A car appeared in her side mirror, roaring up behind them.

  Okay, maybe I spoke too soon.

  Pistol had noticed too. He gripped her hips and called, “Swing left!”

  She didn’t think, just obeyed and swerved into the left lane. There was no oncoming traffic, which was a blessing as far as not having to worry about smashing headlong into a car, but a curse, as it gave the people tailing them an opportunity to lean out of their car and fire at them.

  “Shit!” she shouted, swerving right.

  “It’s all right, baby!” Pistol didn’t sound like he thought it was all right at all. “Keep moving. Don’t give them an easy target.”

  She did, swerving wildly amid the hail of bullets. She felt one strike the tailpipe, sending the bike skidding slightly. She managed to straighten it out.

  A line of three cars was coming toward them, and the men behind them held their fire temporarily. Katrin used the opportunity to gun the engine, the speedometer’s needle climbing. Eighty … ninety…

  The cars passed, and once they’d disappeared from sight, the men started shooting again. Katrin saw an upcoming turn onto a residential cul-de-sac street. She gripped the handlebars tightly, the wind whipping her hair, chapping her face, adrenaline rising in her like a whitecap. Praying there were no children at play, she waited until they were nearly at the turn, then slowed and yanked the bike into the turn. The bike skidded wildly, flinging up bits of gravel from the street. She thought they would go over for sure; could almost feel the pavement stripping the denim from her calves, but by some miracle, she got the bike upright and continued on. She heard the squeal as the car behind them braked to take the turn.

  She leaned low over the handlebars, aware they didn’t have many options here. In fact, pretty much the only option was…

  Dear Jesus. Please, protect me.

  The cul-de-sac was coming up. It was now or fucking never.

  As the car gained on them, Katrin gunned th
e engine and let the bike fly, leaping up the curb and through some poor suburban family’s lawn. She shot between the two-story yellow house and a line of pine trees — an aisle too narrow for a car. They rattled through another household’s lawn, smashed through a vegetable garden, shattered a garden gnome, and emerged onto another residential street.

  For a second she was too stunned to do anything but just keep going straight, slowing the bike to a somewhat reasonable speed. Then she whooped, loudly, startling two kids playing catch in their yard with their golden retriever.