Crash (The Brazen Bulls MC Book 1)

by Susan Fanetti

  “Let’s go…here, come with me.” Willa led him to a small room, like a closet that somebody had put an old sofa in, and sat him down.

  She sat at his side and stared at him for a second or two, her hazel eyes wide. Rad noticed that her color was high as well. She looked scared. This was not helping his sense of calm.

  “Jesus fuck, Wills. What?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  His brain had been frantically running through scenarios: Had she seen somebody suspicious? Had there been some kind of contact? Had somebody actively threatened her? Now it skidded to a full stop.

  Not a single brain cell had snagged that possibility. They used condoms all the time. Almost. A miss here or there. They’d had that one talk about whether they wanted kids, but that talk hadn’t been about kids so much as it had been about their relationship and where they were headed. That had been the first time they’d said I love you.

  “Rad?”

  “Sorry…just…shit, baby.” That was all he had. He couldn’t get his brain restarted. She was pregnant?

  When Dahlia had made the same statement, about five years ago, she’d stormed into the station to throw a test stick at him and shout the words in front of half his brothers and about six customers.

  They’d been about a year and a half from breaking up, about two years from being fully quit of each other, but they’d already been in trouble. They’d been in trouble from a few months after they’d gotten married.

  Vegas wedding. Such a fucking idiotic thing to do.

  He’d taken the news with anger first—at her insatiable need for drama, at his inability to think with his brain and not his dick around her—and then with horror. The fear that she’d want to keep it had turned his blood to slush. Dahlia as a mother? Him as a father? Them as parents together? No. What kind of a monster would they have turned that kid into?

  But she hadn’t wanted it, either. They’d actually had a few months of calm sailing after she’d ended the pregnancy. The scare, and their instant agreement on what to do about it, had settled them both for a while, and for half a second, Rad had almost believed they’d make it.

  Damn, was he glad they hadn’t. What he had with Willa, already, not yet three months in, was better than any moment he’d ever had with Dahlia.

  And Willa would be a great mother.

  But did he want to be a father? Should he be a father?

  Willa took a deep breath and crossed her arms over her chest as if she’d felt a chill. “Look, I know you don’t want kids, and I have no idea if I do, so I don’t know what to do now. If I terminate, or if we have a kid together, I just want to decide together, both of us listening to each other. I don’t want to be alone in this, either way.”

  He loosened her hand from its death grip around her arm and held it. “You’re not. I’m here. I just…I don’t know what to think.”

  “We don’t have to decide right now. I’m just a few weeks, so we have some time to figure it out. I needed to tell you so I could stop fretting about telling you and get my head back in the game here.”

  He laughed. It was like she’d passed him a hot potato—maybe she could get her head in her game now, but his game had just been totally fucked.

  ~oOo~

  He spent the afternoon straddling two different worlds. One side of him worked on the brake job and got it done. The other side stared off into space and thought about Willa’s news. By the time he went to pick her up and relieve Wally, he’d made little progress toward understanding what he wanted—and neither, it seemed, had she. They barely spoke on the way back to the clubhouse, where she would wait for him while he was in church, and they’d go home together after.

  Once there, Rad had about half an hour before church, so he caught her hand and took her upstairs, to the room they’d stayed in. He sat with her on the side of the bed.

  “I know you said we don’t have to make a decision right away, but I need to. That’s how I get my head back in the game, and we got the Russians tomorrow. I need to know. Can we talk this out?”

  She nodded. “We can try. I want to decide together. I want us both to want what we decide. It’s too big a deal for one of us to just give in. We need to really agree.”

  He understood; any resentment between them about something so big could ruin them completely. “Yeah, you’re right. What are you thinkin’, Wills?”

  “You ever notice how everything with us is so huge? These massive crises, one after the other, from the very first moment: the wreck, the brawl at the pool hall, Oklahoma City, Jesse, now this. What if that’s why we feel the way we feel—we’re always in crisis mode, so we’re reacting to that more than relating to each other.”

  Her words—their implication that what was between them wasn’t real—hurt, but Rad set it aside. He’d noticed the same thing, and he understood her musing. He’d thought it himself. But he’d come to a conclusion about it.

  “I think you’re seein’ it wrong, baby. I think it means we came together without our guards up. We went right through the bullshit and found the truth straight off. That’s how I see it. On the first night, we saw each other for real. Never been anything but real between us since.”

  With a smile, she said, “That’s a nice way to think about it.”

  “It’s a true way. You think what’s happenin’ now—that’s a crisis?”

  Asking that question, with the feeling that prompted him to do so, was Rad’s first inkling of an opinion on the matter before them. It didn’t seem like a crisis to him. A potential game-changer, certainly. But not a crisis. Dahlia’s announcement—that had been a crisis. He still remembered that awful dread, the way his brain had conjured up a dismal future for that child. And for its parents.

  He hadn’t felt that dread today. Confusion, worry, shock, but not dread.

  “Isn’t it?” Willa asked, deflecting the question back to him.

  “Not to me. As long as I’ve got you, nothin’s a crisis. We’ll work it out together, and that’s all I need. For us to be on the same page. What page are you on? Do you know?”

  “You said you don’t want kids.”

  “No, I said I never did before. I said I didn’t have a need to have kids. Those’re both different.”

  “How?”

  “Because you’re different. What we have is different. You bein’ pregnant doesn’t scare me. I can’t say I’d be a good dad, but I know you’d be a good mom.” He could feel his mind making itself up, easing toward one side of the dilemma.

  “You’d be a good dad.” She said it quietly, brushing her hand over his.

  “I don’t know. My dad was shit. Ice-cold and quick with the belt or anything else to hand. After my mom died and my brother came home from Vietnam in a box, he forgot all about me, and that was the best thing he did as my father. Soon’s I could, I left home and never went back. He was dead almost two years before I even knew it. Not sure I know what a good father’s supposed to do.”

  He’d told her a little about his family over their time together, but not in that way. He didn’t like to talk about the way his father had treated him. He didn’t feel sorry for himself, and it sounded so damn pitiful—my daddy didn’t love me, boohoo—so he usually just said his father had been a bastard and left it at that.

  Now, Willa scooted onto his lap and looped her arms around his neck. Combing her fingers through his hair as if she meant to comfort him, she said, “You’d be a good dad because you know how your dad hurt you. You know what you needed and didn’t get. And you’d be a good dad because you’re a good man. You know how to love.”

  “I know how to love you, that’s for damn sure.” He brought her mouth to his for a light kiss. “I just don’t want to fuck a kid up. And this life…it’s calm most of the time, but when it’s not, it’s chaos.”

  “Dane and Joanna’s girls seem pretty normal.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, that’s true. As normal as teenage girls can be, I guess.” Cecily and Clara had Dane firml
y where they wanted him and always had. Rad saw the way the VP looked at his girls—no one, not even his old lady, got a look full of such wide-open adoration as his girls did.

  A little girl with Willa’s blonde hair. Or a boy with her hazel eyes. His heart gave a kick at the thought.

  “What do you want, Wills?” he asked, his throat thick and his voice hoarse.

  “I think I want to have your baby,” she whispered shakily.

  “I think I want you to,” he murmured back.

  ~oOo~

  The next day was hot and humid, the kind of humidity that gave the air weight, so it sat on the skin like spit. Rad could feel sweat trickling through his beard, and he wiped his face with a frustrated swipe. They were still a week shy of the official beginning of summer. This kind of heat so soon boded poorly for the rest of the season.

  They were a six-hour ride north of Tulsa, outside a little Nebraska town just southwest of Lincoln, standing in a barn that had been recently fitted as a stash point for a wide assortment of Russian steel.

  In a sweltering, muggy barn that smelled of rotten hay stood six Bulls, four Russians, including Kirill Volkov, and six members of the Great Plains Riders, a small MC out of Lincoln.

  The Riders were going outlaw for the first time with this gig, and it was no starter job. This was like a benchwarmer on a single-A ball team getting called up to The Show.

  Rad and Eight Ball had a lot riding on this personally, because it had been their recon, and their recommendation, that had the Riders, this little club, collecting the guns from the Bulls, storing them until called to move, and then getting them into Canada.

  They’d landed on this club because of what was going on with the Night Horde. Delaney had convinced Kirill to bring that little club on board by pointing out that using a small club without an outlaw rep had some major advantages—their low profile being topmost. They weren’t on anybody’s radar. When Rad and Eight had sat down with this club during their recon run, both men had been impressed.

  The Riders had two additional advantages: their VP was Canadian-born and had excellent contacts there, and three of their members had done time, so they were primed for outlaw work, even though they’d been riding recreationally for the past several years.

  Conventional wisdom said they should be working only with players familiar with stakes this high. But all those players had attention from all kinds of law enforcement. The Volkovs brought plenty of attention themselves, and any opportunity to diffuse it worked in their favor.

  The Bulls had managed to deflect most of that kind of attention by not being greedy glory hounds—by staying as small-time as possible, giving their legit work its due, and keeping their local relationships healthy. Some one-percenter clubs wanted the notoriety to spread far and wide, reasoning that fear gave them space and power.

  Delaney’s philosophy was different. He wanted the Bulls’ rep to be about relationships and results. They hadn’t become outlaws to swing their dicks. They were just trying to keep everybody fed and healthy.

  Using Delaney’s own reasoning on him, Rad and Eight Ball had persuaded their president, and then their club, to take a chance on another tiny club. Delaney had persuaded Kirill, who, Rad supposed, had persuaded his mother.

  And here they were, for the inaugural handoff. In his usual way, Kirill wanted to make an event out of it, so they’d all shared vodka and a Russian toast, and now he was standing in this dusty old barn in his custom suit and polished shoes, watching the Riders stow the guns the Bulls had delivered. The Volkovs had trailed the Bulls run, driving behind them, at an inconspicuous distance, in a big, black Ford Expedition—which was, Rad guessed, about as downscale as Kirill could bring himself to endure.

  When the last of the guns was stowed, before Cooper, the Riders’ president, had settled the trap door in place, Kirill stepped forward. “I will see first,” he said and made his way down the ladder into the storage bunker.

  The Bulls had already inspected the empty bunker—and come away with ideas for improving their own storage. Kirill had checked it when they’d arrived, but he was nothing if not careful and thorough. So the Bulls, Riders, and Volkov men stood, all of them silent, and waited for Kirill to return to the surface.

  He did, brushing his hands. “Is good. Cooper, your work pleases me. I hope will please me next as well.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cooper. “Canadian contacts are set and waitin’ for your green light.”

  “Excellent.” He turned to Delaney and gave him a small smile. “Brian, always your instincts are strong.”

  Delaney tipped his head, accepting the compliment. Rad sensed a slight reaction from Eight—he’d wanted some recognition for the idea—but Rad was happy not have been called out. He didn’t need to be singled out for Kirill Volkov’s notice.

  A couple of Riders closed the trap door and spread greying straw over the floor. No sign that a million dollars’ worth of illegal Russian weapons sat below.

  “Come! We drink!”

  ~oOo~

  It was a long-ass day, but they headed home that afternoon. It was always best to get clear of a job as quickly and cleanly as possible.

  Their work was over, but the Volkovs trailed them back anyway. Kirill and his men never flew into or out of the nearest airport to the place he did business. In this case, they’d come from New York to Tulsa via DFW, so for most of the journey, they were going the same way the Bulls were. They’d split up around Oklahoma City.

  The ride was smooth, and the traffic light almost to the point of nonexistence. Rad felt good. The new route looked sound, the new club seemed steady. The Volkovs were pleased. Willa was pregnant, and that, wonder of wonders, was a good thing. Jumping the gun a little, they’d spent some time last night up on her little, gabled second floor, which she’d been working on making a guest room. Now it was going to be a baby’s room.

  Jesus. A father? Him? He’d have been lying if he’d said the thought didn’t freak him out. He could only hope Willa would balance his sure-to-be-terrible parenting out.

  They weren’t telling anyone, mainly because he doubted he was ready to take the shit he’d get—and he would get a lot of it—calmly. Not yet. He needed to settle into the idea first.

  He was in that long-ride place, paying attention to the road and his brothers with the top of his mind, but otherwise lost his in his thoughts, not really thinking about riding. With that top mind layer, he noticed a rest stop turnoff as they passed it and registered that they were about an hour north of Oklahoma City. About two and a half hours to home.

  It was dusk; it would be well dark when they got home. Rad liked riding at night—it was more dangerous in populated areas, but the world quieted down and the sky got closer when the sun left, and he found riding country roads or empty highways even more calming in the dark.

  All around him, all day, had been the unmistakable roar of Harley engines, but suddenly it took on a new, more riotous clamor—more bikes. Rad’s whole brain kicked in and he looked around—yeah, a cluster of bikes coming up on their ass, their headlights obscuring the view, but Rad counted at least six, probably more.

  He turned to Eight Ball, riding at his side, and saw that he, too, had taken notice.

  The new riders slid in behind the Bulls and ahead of the box truck Slick was driving. The Volkovs were back about a mile or more, keeping their inconspicuous distance, and Rad didn’t know if they’d detected anything amiss.

  The new riders’ formation told Rad that they were trouble. Far too organized to be casual, which meant they had an agenda. Only one agenda they could possibly have: trouble for the Bulls.

  At almost eighty miles an hour, he pulled his piece from its shoulder holster and gestured to Eight to do the same. Then he swung out of his lane and slowed, letting Ox pull up with him—he, too, had noticed. Becker, at Ox’s side, saw Rad and caught on, pulling his piece. Now Rad had all of his enforcers. He goosed the throttle and pulled up with Delaney and Dane, showing his piece,
knowing they’d understand.

  Apollo, the other Bull on this run, was riding behind the truck. Rad didn’t know what he knew or if he was already in trouble.

  They were on a highway in rural Oklahoma—no other traffic on this side of the road at the moment, but that could change at any time, and there was light traffic on the other side. He didn’t want bullets flying at all if he could help it, but he knew he hadn’t misread the situation. Those riders meant trouble.

  They’d come from behind. Had they followed from Nebraska? Was this a Riders beef they were caught up in? Something they’d missed in their research?

  No. He knew what it was. As he turned and rode back that direction on the inner shoulder, hearing his enforcers following behind him, he knew exactly who they were facing: Dirty Rats.