“Quiet!” Mac makes to hit her over the head, but then, from across the room, a voice calls out.
“Wait!”
Mac pauses, gun held in the air. I turn to the voice.
Dean Dunham walks into the room, holding a briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other, aiming the pistol with a shaky hand toward Mac and clutching the briefcase to his chest. “I don’t want to use this, Mr. White, but I sure don’t like the way you’re aiming that gun at my daughter.” His face is less swollen now, but he still looks like he can barely walk. He totters across the room on instable steps and comes to a halt beneath the stage, gun aimed directly at Mac’s head. “I don’t want to kill anybody. I don’t want anybody to die.”
I see Ripper struggling to stand behind Dean, so I kneel down and take the gun from Dean, and then go and stand where I can shoot any of the three: Mac, Ripper, Hitter. “You might want to drop the gun,” I tell Mac. “You know I can use this.”
Mac swears, but drops the gun. I quickly pick it up and then prod Mac in the back, guiding him to the edge of the stage where I can easily keep the three of them in my sights.
“You’re going to kill us now, eh?” Mac chuckles. “That’d be a mistake, and you know it. I’ve got friends in New York, Miami, fucking Cuba. You’d be on the run for the rest of your life.”
I swallow bitterly. He’s right. We would be. But what other choice is there?
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Dean says, walking up the stairs to the stage on wobbly legs, holding his briefcase like a kid holds a lunch bag, scared the bully will take it away. “I have your money, Mac. I have it. Right here.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mac says. “I’ll need more than—”
“I have one and a half million dollars.”
Daisy gasps. I’m too stunned to say anything. Ripper coughs out a bloody laugh. Mac just shakes his head. “Of course you do. And I’ve got the cure for cancer. Give me a fucking—”
Dean falls to his knees and opens the briefcase, showing stack after stack of fifty dollar bills, so many that it’s difficult to believe they all fit into the briefcase. Mac takes a step forward before remembering that I have my gun on him. He looks mesmerized, a man in a desert who’s just spied water. Everything else seems to fall away for him until only that briefcase full of cash exists.
“We may have our differences,” Dean says from his place on the floor. “We may not, well, like each other very much. But I have to believe that you’re a man of business, Mr. White. I have to believe that if you take this money, you’ll agree to leave my daughter alone. And you’ll agree to leave Henry alone.”
Mac falters for a moment, but then nods. “If I count this cash and find one and a half million, you can have them both. It means nothing to me.”
I shouldn’t be hurt at the easy way he discards me. It’s what I want, after all. And yet I am. It stings me. I swallow the feeling and keep the gun trained on Mac as he goes to the briefcase and begins counting, laying the bills on the floor when he’s counted a stack.
“I wasn’t lying about signing a non-disclosure agreement,” Dean says, facing me. “That day in the alleyway, I was telling the truth. Years ago, must be five, six, I won big on poker, really, really big. I shouldn’t even have been in that game. I bluffed my way in. I didn’t have the cash. But I won big and if there’s a god, he was smiling on me that day because before I could blow it, I got a call from one of my friends from the old days. Had a business opportunity, he said. Needed some cash, he said. I pledged every cent I had, even though back then I didn’t understand the business—an algorithm to do with advertising—but he convinced me. And made me sign an NDA, since it was a risk that some other company might just steal his code. The NDA was watertight. If he even heard of a whisper that I’d said something, to anybody, even my family, I wouldn’t be eligible for my payout. But I’ve had my payout now. So there’s no risk.”
I stare at him in disbelief, seeing Daisy’s mouth fall open out of the corner of my eye.
“It’s all here,” Mac says, already putting the money back into the briefcase. “Every single dollar.”
When Mac stands up and walks to Dean, he’s like a different man. He’s behaving how I imagine he behaves in the legal sides of his business, proper and respectful. Dean climbs to his feet and the two of them shake hands. “We can go?” Dean says. “All three of us?”
“Never step foot on my property again,” Mac says, “and we won’t have a problem. And remember, Dean, if you ever need a loan…”
I untie Daisy as quickly as I can, and then the three of us rush out to the parking lot. I’m surprised to find that it’s still daylight, that the sun has barely moved an inch. I turn to Daisy and wrap my arms around her, holding her close, savoring the feel of her, smelling her hair, smelling her skin, kissing her, and then all at once I’m crying, both of us are crying, and Dean is backing away saying, “I’ll leave you two to it,” and Daisy is kissing my cheeks, kissing the tears away.
“Is it over?” she asks. “Is it really over? Can we be together?”
“If you’ll have me,” I say, smoothing a stray strand of hair from her eyes. “If you think you can stomach living with a hound.”
“I can stomach living with a Henry,” she says. She holds up her left hand. “I think I’m ready for my rings again. But for real this time.”
I pull her close to me, pressing our bodies together. When we kiss, I forget about Mac, forget about violence, forget about Hound. When we kiss, I forget about the past and the future. I forget about everything but this woman, this magical woman, this life-changing woman.
For the first time in my life, I can smile without being afraid of smiling.
Epilogue
Daisy
I sit at the window overlooking the garden, my papers and books on the desk in front of me. The textbook title reads Principles of Real Estate in large, bold letters; the cover is shiny and new. Every time I run my finger down the spine I shudder at how stiff it is, shudder when I think about cracking it open so many times that it’ll become easier each time, until its knowledge is pouring into me. Downstairs, I can hear Henry and Lola. Lola…named for my mother, sweet Lola, but already Lola owns the name. When I think of Lola, I don’t see Mom, but my baby, her gap-toothed grin and her pawing hands, her giggling voice.
Henry is singing to her, if you can call it singing. I listen to it for a while and then get on with my work. I started the course a week ago, when Henry found out he got the job as a security guard for a large firm in Austin. He’s doing his own studies, too, after passing English lit. That’s our deal. When one of us is studying, the other person has to sing to the baby. I think it’s a pretty sweet deal. And with a little help from Dad, and with Henry’s saved-up cash, along with what small amount I was able to add, we were able to close on our dream home, that perfect house that was only ruined because of our argument. Well, the arguments are few and far between these days. And when they come, they’re about petty things, normal things, and the making up is always worth it.
After working for an hour and a half, I lean back and hold my hand up to the sun which shafts through the window. It glints off my rings, my real rings. Henry and I were married quietly without any fanfare, with Dad and a man named Denton as witnesses. Maybe it’s sad that we didn’t have hundreds of people to invite, but I don’t think so. There was nothing sad about the feeling I got when he fell to his knees and kissed my growing bump. There was nothing sad about the passion that exploded between us on our wedding night. That was nothing sad about seven-foot Henry sitting behind me in pregnancy classes muttering, “Breathe, breathe, breathe…”
I think of Dad, too, working part-time at a garage, even though he’s got enough money to retire if he wants. But he likes to keep busy these days, working and going to AA and his gambling meetings. He was one-year clean last week. We had a barbeque.
It’s Sunday and our street is alive with activity. The Sands are cleaning their car
and the Jameses are playing with their infant son. Two boys are playing soccer in their yard. Down the street, somebody revs their motorcycle.
I’m going to be a realtor, I’m going to work my ass off and then I’m going to be the kind of realtor these people deserve. Not the lying kind, not the kind to hide damp with pictures and lie to their clients. I’m going to build up my business slowly, honestly, so that in ten years’ time I can look back on what I’ve done and be proud. I’m not going to slip into my old habits of just surviving. I’m done with that.
“Is that what you call work?” Henry says, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
I sink into his enveloping embrace, an embrace which makes me feel invincible. “I was just thinking about paint and tiles and carpets and things like that.”
“Liar.” I giggle when he kisses me under the ear. “You’re just a liar, Daisy. I always knew you were.”
“Oh, what gave it away?” I tilt my head so he can kiss up and down my neck.
“When you said you loved me. A woman like you, loving a man like me?”
I turn to him seriously. “Don’t say that. I’m the lucky one, not you.”
He laughs. “Maybe we both are,” he says.
And we kiss.
***
Henry
I stand in the study, staring at my GED. Maybe most people wouldn’t as proud of a GED certificate as I am, but I’m way prouder of this than anything else, barring Lola and Daisy. I’m prouder of this than I am of my twenties, of Violence Mode, of Hound. I’m prouder standing in a mall in my security uniform than I am cracking through a door and causing pain. I’m prouder protecting than I am hurting.
“You’re going to call me stupid for staring at this thing again,” I say, when I hear Daisy enter behind me.
“I’d never do that.” She dances across the room and kisses my bare back. I’m shirtless and she’s dressed in raggedy old clothes. “But it is painting time, lazy.”
Dean’s got Lola for the day, so Daisy and I are going to paint her room. As we leave the study, I think of Dean with a sense of respect which proves the respect I felt for Mac was wish fulfilment, nothing else. Dean has really turned himself around. He’s off the booze and he’s holding down a job and I don’t worry one bit leaving Lola with him.
The painting doesn’t go too well. We’re about halfway through when Daisy gets bored and flings some red paint at me. She says it’s an accident, but by that time I’ve painted a red line down her shirt, and before either of us can tell the other to get back to work, we’re on the floor, thrusting, grunting, moaning, her hands running through my hair and her forest-green eyes flitting open and closed as orgasm after orgasm releases over my cock. When I bury inside of her and come, hard, I lean down and press my lips against hers. We kiss as both of us release.
For a long time, we lie on the floor, panting, staring up at the ceiling. Daisy nestles into the crook of my arm. Sunlight fades as we lie there, but neither of us think about getting up.
“I never thought I’d be here,” Daisy says. “I’m so happy. But I’m scared, too.”
“Scared?” I look down at her. She’s staring up at me with a look that reminds me of how lucky I am every time I see it.
“Scared that I’ll start taking it for granted. Scared that it will become normal.”
“It will become normal, but that’s nothing to be scared about.” I kiss her on the forehead. “I’d rather have this normal than the one before.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Yeah, that’s true. Alright. Maybe we ought to get back to work. Unless…” She grins wickedly. “Unless, do you want to go get a beer and unwind at the strip club?”
I’m on my feet in a second, paintbrush in hand.
“Hell, no,” I say, painting like a madman. “I can’t think of anything worse.”
THE END
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BAD BOY’S SURPRISE BABY: The Choppers MC
By Kathryn Thomas
I WANTED ADVENTURE. HE WANTED A BABY.
WE BOTH GOT WHAT WE WANTED.
Devin owned me from the second he walked into my shop.
He was like something out of a romance novel.
And I wanted to see where our story went.
I just never guessed it would end with his baby in my belly.
It was obvious from the second our eyes met:
Devin wouldn’t take no for an answer.
He saw something in me that he wanted…
And I was powerless to deny him.
But that was before I knew the kinds of people who were after Devin’s blood.
Bad men.
Evil men.
Men who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me, too.
I never signed up for all this.
But when Devin puts his seed inside me…
I’m stuck going along for the ride.
Chapter One
Camille
The store was quiet. In fact, it had been quiet for the past two hours. Camille had been watching the clock tick, following every movement of the minute hand with her steely blue eyes. It was only several minutes later after she had been standing behind the desk, staring at the clock on the wall, that she realized she had been drumming her fingertips on the glass-top counter.
She couldn’t believe how bored she was. Bored was one of her emotions; the other was anxiety. Camille had taken a huge leap of faith by opening up a comic bookstore. She was only twenty-five, which meant that her other friends were out there in the real world, climbing corporate ladders, and making more money than they could spend. Basically, they were living a normal adult life; a life that she had been brought up to lead.
She had the education for it, with a Business degree, and even had the work experience too. After college, Camille had slogged away at a financial firm for a year, until one fine day she realized that this was not the life she wanted. And quit her job. At the time, she had been twenty-three and thankfully had some money in the bank, which she hadn’t spent on “nights out” and an unprecedented amount of alcohol, like so many other of her colleagues had.
So she had found herself with enough money to chase her crazy dream of opening a comic book store.
Now, here she was, apparently living the dream. The only problem was that not everybody shared her dream. Camille’s clientele was small and scattered, and her store was more often empty than busy. For the longest time, she kept her hopes up. It would work out. Business would pick up. But eventually, after two years of waiting behind her desk, praying to make a sale… Camille realized that it was too much to ask for. She had accepted the fact that she wouldn’t make more than ten sales a day, on a good day.
Camille sighed as she stopped drumming her fingers. She tore her face away from the wall clock and decided to re-analyze her life, as she had done on thousands of other occasions.
The question was: am I happy? Camille caught the reflection of herself in the store window across from her. Her tight blonde curls lay in a high halo around her face, and even in the dim reflection of herself, she could make out the tired look in her blue eyes. She didn’t bother with makeup anymore, so her lips were a natural pale pink, and her face looked dry and a little washed out. She was happy in her simple denim cut-offs and the sweatshirt she was wearing, but she then noticed a dried pasta sauce stain on her shirt. She eventually shrugged it off; it’s not like she had any customers to make an impression on.
Camille sighed again. This self-contemplation was getting her nowhere. She needed to occupy her brain with something else. She rummaged around on the desk until she found a blank scrap of paper, and she started doodling.
She was sketching subconsciously, mindlessly… and as always, she doodled Cammy.
Cammy was the heroine of her own comics. A plain-Jane small
town country girl by day, who fought corruption and male chauvinism by night. Well, not quite in those simple terms, but Camille wanted Cammy to be the symbol of female empowerment, not like the usual comic book stereotype. Cammy didn’t have any super powers, and she didn’t fight the usual kind of comic book villain either. The villains in Camille’s comics were misogynists, men who abused their wives and girlfriends and mistreated women in general.
It was no surprise, therefore, that Country Crowns had sold only twenty copies in the past eight months since she started publishing them. The comics didn’t exactly fit into any tapped market of readers.
But in any case, Camille was happy in knowing that there were at least twenty people out there in the world who had read her work, probably even appreciated her artwork, and whose lives she may have touched through her characters.
BABY FOR A PRICE Page 34