He Doesn’t Care: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Motorcycle Club Romance (Fourstroke Fiends MC)

by Naomi West

  “Now,” said Bethany, wiping a tear away. “Let’s wait for this thing to tell us some good news.”

  The minutes passed like hours, and after a time Honey checked the test and saw that her fears were true—she was pregnant.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Honey, standing up and pacing around the apartment. “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m really pregnant with the baby of a man I barely know.”

  “It’s okay,” said Bethany, stopping Honey from pacing around by putting her hand on her shoulder and pulling her close. “It’s gonna be great, you’ll see.”

  “How do you know?” said Honey. “How do you know that this isn’t gonna end up with me living in a fucking alley somewhere, begging for money to live, barely able to support my own baby? Or what if I become one of those stripper single moms, one of those women who’re bringing home strange men in front of their kids. What if she turns out to be a stripper, too?”

  “Oh,” said Bethany, the hint of a smile forming on her face. “That mean you want a little girl?”

  “I … don’t know,” said Honey, now thinking about it. “I, um, I think I do.”

  “This is a little person that you’re carrying right now, sweetie,” said Bethany. “Not a burden, and not a shame. This is a big deal, sure, but the only thing that you have to know now is that this means you’re about to have someone else to worry about, someone bigger than you. Your life isn’t just about yourself anymore. But it’s going to be for the best; I know it.”

  Bethany’s words calmed Honey. She placed her hand on her belly and looked down; she couldn’t believe that there was really a person growing inside of her, a little boy or girl.

  “But … what about Grit?”

  “Who?” asked Bethany.

  “Sorry,” said Honey. “That’s the guy’s name—Grit.”

  “Weird fucking name,” said Bethany.

  “No weirder than ‘Honey’.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Bethany with a smile. “It’s like the DJ says every night—it’s because you’re so damn sweet.”

  Honey smiled.

  “It’ll be fine,” said Bethany. “If he’s a good man, he’ll do the right thing. But … maybe just wait a little while to tell him. You need to do some processing on your own before you lay it all at his feet. Go to him like you’re two people on the same team, not like you’re a woman in pieces who needs him to put you back together.”

  Honey nodded, seeing the wisdom of Bethany’s words. She plopped down onto the nearby couch and shook her head.

  “Things are gonna be different now,” said Honey. “I’m gonna need to make some changes in my life. But I think it’ll be for the best, you know? I can make my life better and give this kid a good life of her own. Maybe.”

  Bethany sat down next to her and slipped her arm around Honey’s shoulders.

  “I know you can, Honey.’

  Honey looked up into the eyes of her friend and smiled. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt hopeful.

  Chapter Ten

  Grit

  Grit gazed down at the body of Pitt, feeling a sense of disbelief. It felt like he was in some kind of terrible dream, that he wasn’t really looking at the body of his friend and brother in the Vandals, a man who’d ridden with Grit for nearly ten years, a man who’d been at his side through thick and thin.

  “How the fuck did this happen?” asked Grit, turning to Stone, his eyes blazing with anger.

  “It’s that same shit,” said Razor. “That same shitty product that’s been on the streets.”

  Grit clenched his jaw hard and turned away from the body of his friend. He looked around the shitty apartment where Pitt had been living for the last few months, noting the signs of drug use along with the rest the mess. Grit knew that Pitt had always had trouble with substance abuse, but as far as Grit knew, Pitt had been clean for the last year.

  “I hadn’t seen him drink so much as fucking Bud Light,” said Grit, shaking his head as he looked around.

  “I thought he was good,” said Stone. “I thought he’d gotten his demons straightened out, you know?”

  Grit had thought the same thing.

  “When people use after a while,” said Razor, “they think that they can handle the same dose, you know? But their tolerance is way down. And then when it’s fucking shitty product like this …”

  Grit bent down and picked up the small case of drugs near Pitt’s body. He looked over the product, knowing he was looking at the murder weapon that’d taken his friend from him. Whoever’d done this was to Grit no more than a common killer, and he swore he’d bring them to justice.

  “Let’s get him taken care of,” said Grit. “No cops. Get the rest of the boys.”

  “You got it, boss,” said Stone.

  Hours later, Grit was at Hammer’s, one of the Vandals’ usual haunts. His whiskey in hand, Grit turned in his seat at the bar to face the rest of the place, watching the other brothers in his club drink and carouse, knowing they were all dealing with the loss of Pitt in their own way. And Grit knew that it was what Pitt would’ve wanted—a bunch of guys sitting around crying into their beers would’ve made Pitt sick enough to puke. He’d want to go out in true style, and that’s what Grit had in mind.

  Razor plopped into the seat next to Grit, a large mug of dark beer in his hands. Grit could tell that he was already three sheets to the wind, and he didn’t blame him one bit. Razor and Pitt had been closer than most brothers in the Vandals, and the Vandals were already one of the tightest crews in Vegas.

  “Can’t … fuckin’ believe it,” he said, his eyes glassy and his voice slurred. “Alive one minute, dead the … fuckin’ … next.”

  Grit reached over and slapped Razor on the shoulder. He was feeling grief tug at his heart too, but he knew that as the president he didn’t have the luxury of letting his emotions show. He had to be the rock for the rest of the crew. And he was damn good at it.

  “I’m sorry, Razor,” said Grit, his voice sincere. “He was one of our best.”

  “You’re … goddamn right he was,” said Razor, wavering back and forth in his seat. “One of the best fuckin’ men in this goddamn crew. And now he’s gone.”

  Grit could tell that Razor, while drunk about to fall off his seat, was trying to keep up a brave face. But Grit knew that not a man there that night would’ve held it against him if he blubbered like a kid with a skinned knee.

  “We gotta …” started Razor. “We gotta … do something about those fuckers. We gotta get ’em. We gotta get that shit off the streets.”

  Grit nodded.

  “You’re goddamn right we do,” he said, his voice taking a hard edge. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Tonight, we mourn, but tomorrow, we take the fight right to these fuckers.”

  Razor extended an unsteady hand towards Grit and placed it on his shoulder. Then, he slowly nodded. Grit could tell that Razor was obliterated past the point of any sort of coherence, but he could tell that it was just what Razor wanted to hear.

  And right at that moment, Grit felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He slipped it out and saw that it was a text from Honey.

  Hey. We need to talk ASAP. It’s important.

  Shit, he thought. Maybe she’s finally got info on the strip club. Maybe we can finally make a move on those pricks.

  But Grit knew that he couldn’t leave without saying something to the men. He gathered the attention of everyone there and spoke a few words about Pitt. He told the men about how when he first met him, Pitt was just some skinny punk with a bad attitude straight out of juvie. Grit spoke about how he had taken the kid under his wing and turned him into one of the best men in the crew. He talked about Pitt’s loyalty, and how the Vandals were a family to him. Finally, he spoke about honoring his memory and swearing to all of them that they’d bring to justice whoever put the poison on the streets. By the time he was done, the Vandals were ready to go out and crack some skulls.


  His speech made, Grit left the bar, climbed on his bike, and headed to the usual meeting place. Normally, he’d be thinking about just what he wanted to do with Honey, how badly he wanted to fuck her, but tonight he was all business. All he wanted was information that he could act on.

  A time later, he was at the hotel. He rapped on the door, and Honey called for him to come in.

  Stepping into the room, he could see that Honey wasn’t in the mood for love either. She was seated on the chair nearest to the window, her legs pulled up to her body and her arms wrapped around them. Honey stared out the window towards the neon expanse of Vegas outside of the window, her worried eyes snapping onto Grit as he entered.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Grit gave her a brusque nod as he took a seat on the bed.

  “You look … preoccupied,” said Honey.

  “Just had a rough fuckin’ night,” he said.

  “Oh?” asked Honey. “What happened?”

  Grit debated whether or not to tell her, and decided to do it, figuring it might push Honey in the right direction.

  “One of our men died tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on Honey.

  “Oh my God,” said Honey, her voice heavy with concern. “What happened?”

  “Well, you know that shit that’s been out on the streets? That poison that some fuck’s been cooking up? One of my men shot that shit into his veins and died. You knew him—it was Pitt.”

  Honey’s eyes went wide.

  “Oh my God,” she repeated. “I can’t believe it. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Grit held up a hand.

  “Just told you so you’d know,” he said. “I don’t need anything else from you.”

  “I … I know,” said Honey, apparently taken a little aback by Grit’s gruff response.

  But it was true; the idea of anyone feeling sorry for him made Grit’s skin crawl. Especially some woman.

  “I just, um, if you need to talk about anything, I’m here,” she said.

  “Noted,” said Grit, eager to move past the topic.

  “It’s weird,” she said. “I’m kind of dealing with the same thing.”

  “Huh?” asked Grit. “Someone you know died?”

  “No, no,” said Honey. “Nothing that severe. But one of my friends at the club, Bethany, started using again, and I’m just worried that something’s going to happen to her. She’s been sober for so long, and then all of a sudden she started using again. And I just told her, “Bethany, just because Charlie gave you some free drugs doesn’t mean you have to do them’ and—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” said Grit, holding up his hands. “You mean to tell me that the bartender at your fuckin’ job was giving out smack?”

  The color drained out of Honey’s face. Grit knew right then and there that something was seriously amiss. He stood up from the bed, stepped over to Honey, looming over her where she sat.

  “When did this happen? Tell me, now.”

  “Um, a week or so ago, maybe more.”

  “‘Maybe’?” he demanded. “You knew this whole fuckin’ time that your boss was handing out drugs and you didn’t think that I might want to know about this little goddam piece of information?”

  “I, um, I just, um.”

  It was clear as day to Grit that Honey knew that she was backstroking in a sea of wrong. She’d fucked up, and it was painted right on her face.

  “I can’t fucking believe this,” said Grit, his face tight with anger as he stormed over to one of the chairs in the room and shoved it over, the thing hitting the ground with a clatter. “What the fuck did you think, we were just having some fucking booty calls every now and then? I’m paying you money—good money—for information, and now I find out that you were hiding something that could’ve saved my friend’s life!”

  Tears formed in Honey’s eyes. It was clear that she didn’t have a word to say in her defense.

  “Pitt—a man you knew—is dead because of that shit. And if I would’ve known what you just told me earlier I could’ve made a move and shut that fuckin’ place down for good.”

  “I … I just …”

  “You just what?” demanded Grit. “I gotta hear this.”

  “I just wanted to give my boss a chance to prove that he wasn’t the man he turned out to be! I didn’t believe that someone like him could’ve been a … a …fucking drug pusher!”

  “Well, you’d better start fucking believing it,” said Grit. “’Cause I got some news for you: If you’re looking for stand-up guys, you’re not gonna find them behind the bar at a fucking strip club!”

  Grit closed his mouth as he paced around the room. He knew that he needed to take a second to calm himself down. After all, there was information that he needed to get.

  “So,” said Grit. “Tell me now. Tell me everything you know. And no goddamn bullshit.”

  “Charlie, the bartender,” started Honey, still shaken, “gave drugs to Bethany.”

  “I know that,” said Grit. “Tell me why. He just gave her drugs out of the kindness of his heart?”

  “No,” said Honey. “He said that he’d been working on some new stuff and that he wanted her to try it, since she’d had experience with that kind of thing.”

  “Fuck!” shouted Grit.

  He wanted to slam his fist into the wall as hard as he could.

  “That’s what I needed to know,” said Grit. “That’s the proof that I could’ve used two fucking weeks ago. That’s the proof I could’ve used to shut that goddamn place down for good.”

  Honey didn’t say a word.

  “If there’s anything else you have to tell me, you’d better say it now. Because after this, you and I are done. We’re fucking done.”

  Honey opened her mouth to say something. But nothing came out.

  “No,” she said. “That was it.”

  “Then get out. And you’d better quit that fucking job of yours, if you know what’s good for you. Fantasies isn’t going to be open for business much longer. And if you’re thinking about saying a word to your boss about this, just remember what kind of man you’d be doing a favor.”

  “But—”

  Grit held up his hand.

  “No buts,” he said, his tone stern and uncompromising. “Get out. Now.”

  Honey seemed to realize that there wasn’t thing she could say to get Grit to budge. She stood up slowly, took a breath, and gave herself a moment to compose herself. Then, she walked slowly to the hotel room door and left, Grit glaring at her all the while.

  Once the door was shut, the restraint that Grit had been exercising over the last few minutes cracked.

  “God-fucking-dammit!” he yelled, his voice booming.

  He reached for the nearest lamp, grabbed it, and threw it hard against the wall, the light in the room dimming as he pulled it out of its socket. The thing shattered into a thousand pieces. Grit breathed in heavily and slowly. He was full of pent-up anger from everything, and all he could think about was getting revenge for Razor.

  Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow the boys and I break into that fucking place and do what needs to be done. We’ve been playing it safe for too long, and if what Honey said is true, then that’s all the proof I need to move in.

  But as soon as Honey’s name moved through his mind, Grit found himself gripped by a heavy melancholy.

  Was I too fucking hard on her? he wondered. She’s just some stupid, scared kid, after all. This was all a shitload for her to get involved in, and the only mistake she made was trusting her boss’ better nature.

  As Grit considered the situation, he opened the minibar and snatched out a bottle of whiskey. He yanked the top off and swigged, draining nearly half of the bottle. All he wanted to do was drink and fight.

  She fucked up, he thought, she fucked up so badly that one of my men died pointlessly. And God knows how many others have died in the last few weeks from that fucking poison Charlie’s shipping out every day. I was right to be hard on her; she needed to know that her action
s had consequences.

  He took another pull of the whiskey, his temper still flaring. Storming out onto the balcony, he looked out over the city. Without thinking, his eyes tracked down to the street below, and he realized instantly that part of him was hoping to catch a glimpse of Honey as she left, as though it was the last time he’d see her.

  The tugging at Grit’s heart only increased in intensity as he considered the possibility that Honey was gone for good.

  She was the one fucking thing I had going for me right now, he thought. I haven’t known a woman like her in God knows how long. And I just threw it away like it was nothing.