PREGNANT FOR A PRICE: Kings of Chaos MC

by Kathryn Thomas

  “All this work,” Nat whispers. “All this work for you. Why would he—”

  “He didn’t,” I say firmly. “I think I was duped. A painted-on bruise, a sob story. I didn’t even hear his side of it.”

  I close the word document and go to a simple text file. Maddox writes: “I have taken the liberty of finding someone who might be willing to fund your game for expansion after the dissertation submission. That means you could develop it into a commercial game for sale. Here is the number . . .”

  “Eden!” Nat cries. “This is massive. This is huge. If this is real—”

  “It is,” I breathe. “It is, Nat. Goddamn it, what have I done?”

  “Listen, I don’t know exactly what happened,” Nat says. “But I think you’re right: you need to hear his side of the story.”

  “Where’s my phone?” I mutter.

  Nat leans down under the bed, picks it up, and hands it to me. I have two texts, both from last night:

  We need to talk. Please.

  I can explain all of this. Cassandra is crazy. That bruise on her eye was makeup, Eden. Fucking makeup!

  “I knew it,” I mutter, showing the text to Nat. “Maybe she is mad.”

  I text back: I’ll listen now, Maddox.

  Chapter Forty Two

  Maddox

  When Markus knocks on the bathroom door, I climb to my feet, stretch my neck from side to side, and open and close my hands. I’ve sent Eden two texts, but I’ve had no response back. She’s probably asleep, drunk. She’ll talk to you in the morning.

  “Are you alright, Boss?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  I go to the sink, run the cold tap, and splash the cold water on my face. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see that my eyes are bloodshot, tired. I shake my head, rub the water away with a towel, and go to the door. Markus steps back into the hallway as I open it.

  “I’m sorry,” Markus mumbles.

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” I say. “Not you, anyway.”

  “It was… her?”

  “It was her,” I say. “Crazy bitch, painted a bruise on her face and grazes on her knuckles as far as I can tell. To make Eden feel guilty. Plus Eden was drunk, and that screensaver. She listened to us having…” I trail off. “But let’s get back to work, eh? This party isn’t going to guard itself.”

  “You can go, Boss. I’ll take over—”

  “You’re a good man, Markus,” I say. “But she won’t listen to me tonight. Maybe she’ll text me back in the morning.”

  Markus and I walk down the hallway and down the stairs. The party is still in full swing, with people dancing, drinking, and laughing. Like my goddamn life hasn’t just been sabotaged, I think bitterly. Markus splits off to the opposite end of the room, and I go and stand near the door, leaning against the wall and watching the room closely. Nobody else has made trouble yet, and nobody seems to be close to making any, either. A woman with two strings of pearls around her neck, a glittery bow in her hair, and sparkling silver heels stumbles across the floor, falling into one group and now the other. But that’s the only sign of debauchery I can see. As I watch, a man takes her arm. I look at their hands: they’re wearing wedding bands. The woman smiles, and the man smiles back.

  Mason Abraham waddles over to me. “Evening, Maddox,” he says.

  “Evening, Mason,” I reply.

  I want to warn this poor old man about Cassandra, but I can see it in his glassy eyes. He loves her. She’s hooked him, truly hooked him, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Once Cassandra puts on her act, there’s little anybody can do. Sociopathic bitch.

  “Have you seen my beloved?” Mason asks.

  “Afraid not,” I say.

  His lips twist, and he studies me closely. “You’re a big man, aren’t you?”

  I turn to him. “Something wrong, Mason?”

  He looks up at me with shaking lips, his bald head shiny with sweat. “I saw you talking to her earlier,” he says.

  “She came up to me,” I reply. Don’t push me, old man, not now, not after the night I’ve had. Just let me get on with my work.

  “What was she saying? She looked… excited.”

  “She was lecturing me about the security,” I say. “Telling me I need to station more men outside. It was dead out there, so I told her it wasn’t needed. But she insisted. Turns out she was right, ’cause that Harvard boy ran out there, didn’t he?”

  “Oh.” Mason nods highhandedly, as though he’s just concluded an important piece of business. “My Cassandra is very good, isn’t she?”

  “Very,” I croak.

  “I trust her implicitly, you know.”

  How much have you had to drink, old man?

  I stay silent, and Mason goes on, “She’s got a bit of a wild streak in her, but so have I. We’re closer than I was even with my ex-wife.”

  “Good for you,” I grunt.

  “Oh, it’s a wonderful romance. A real blossoming romance. A real, true love.” He leans into me, and champagne and whiskey waft from between his lips, mingling with the pipe smoke. “If anyone ever hurt her, you know, there would be hell to pay.”

  “I’m sure there would,” I say.

  “Well, enjoy yourself, good man.” He taps me on the shoulder, and all at once I want to grab him by the wrist and twist it, break the bone, and see him wince. I stop myself, letting the anger roll inward. I’m angry with her, not her toy.

  Mason waddles away, and I take my place back against the wall. I search the crowd for Cassandra, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Probably washing off that makeup. What other tricks has she got up her sleeve?

  I keep thinking about Eden, about how she left the party, wondering if this is it, if she never wants to talk to me again. I wouldn’t be able to take that. It’d break me. I need Eden, I realize, shocked. I need her like I’ve never needed any other woman, like I never dreamed I’d need another woman. And she, that crazy witch lady, ruined it.

  If she was a man…

  If she was a man!

  She’d be dead, and that’s a fact. She’d be stone cold under the earth.

  Knives appears at my shoulder. “That guy is home safe,” he says. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Not much,” I grunt. “Just you-know-who being crazy.”

  Knives frowns. “Ah. Where’s your girl?”

  “Gone, had too much to drink.”

  “Everything alright? Need me to do anything?”

  “Kick the shit out of me, eh? I need some distraction.”

  Knives grins, all teeth. “Wouldn’t dare, Boss. Don’t fancy a spell in hospital, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Then go and check on the boys downstairs. Make sure Irish is on his best behavior.”

  Knives paces through the party, away from me.

  Then the candelabra lights set into the walls shimmer—and then go black.

  The room fills with screams.

  Chapter Forty Three

  I raise my voice above the screams, “Everybody calm down! It’s just the lights! Listen to me! Everybody listen!”

  The crowd has become a series of dim shapes shifting in front of me. Like a herd of cattle in the middle of a starless, moonless night. “Quiet!” I roar, but they continue to scream and shout, pressing together in the dark. I shout across the room, “Markus!”

  “Boss!” he calls back.

  “Shut them up, will you?”

  Markus’ voice is like a boom box. He shouts into the room, a voice that rattles the wall and jingles the chandelier. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

  Slowly, the crowd goes quiet.

  “Right,” I say, as the dim black shapes stop their panicking. “You all need to congregate at the front of the house. We need to make sure everyone is here. Think of it like a fire drill. Markus, go and get Irish and the boys—”

  “We’re here, Boss,” Irish says.

  “Alright, good,” I say. “Get a couple of men and go check on the power, eh? Th
e rest of you, come with me outside. We need to secure the house.”

  “Yeah, Boss.”

  “Okay, everyone,” I say, addressing the shadowed crowd. “Follow my voice to the exit. We’ll sort this out in no time. Probably just a power cut, nothing to worry about, but we have to be sure. Okay, come on.”

  I begin backing toward the doorway, but then a voice giggles from the top of the stairs: “Oh, he-he-he-he, what a clever boy he is!” There are tears in the voice, bitter tears, and everyone stops moving and looks up the stairs. And then the lights flicker and bloom into life. Markus stands on one side of the crowd, arms spread to stop them from dispersing. Irish, Knives, and the men from downstairs stand just beside the staircase, looking up uncertainly.

  Cassandra stands at the top of the stairs. Her dress is torn and ragged, fluttering around her legs. A huge gouge goes up the middle right to her belly, exposing her bare vagina. Blood marks the insides of her thighs. A line of blood is pressed into her neck. And her face is battered with two, big black eyes.

  No. Cassandra, no.

  She lifts a trembling finger, and the crowd turns their heads. All of them, turning their heads directly to me. “He—he tried to rape me!” Cassandra cries, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He tried to rape me! And when I fought, he did this!”

  The crowd gasps and stares hatefully at me; stares at me like I’m a piece of dirt, like I’m already in the prison yard, like my guilt is unquestionable.

  ***

  “Monster!”

  Mason climbs up the stairs to Cassandra, takes off his jacket, and places it around her shoulders. She nods timidly, playing the part of a woman who’s just been assaulted brilliantly. I look over the crowd, taking in their expressions. None of them are in any doubt. They are all certain I did what she said I did. Several people take out cell phones and start dialing.

  Irish and Knives step forward. “Boss?” Irish says. “Shall we get the phones?”

  “I didn’t do this, lads,” I whisper. “I didn’t fuckin’ do this.”

  “Yeah—no shit,” Irish says. “But the phones?”

  “No.” I bite down and then shake my head violently. “No, stand down. Don’t want anyone else getting in trouble. Stand down.”

  I turn and glare at the men, and all of them shrink back from my gaze. More makeup? I think desperately. More makeup.

  “Mason!” I call. “Mason, listen to me—it’s makeup. The bruises are makeup! The blood is probably fake blood!”

  “What a poor excuse for a man!” Mason barks. “What a poor excuse!”

  “No, fine, he wants to turn me into a liar!” Cassandra lips her finger and rubs the bruise under her eye, licks her finger again, rubs it again. Can I be the only one who sees that little smile? The bruises don’t flake or come away. It’s not makeup. Jesus Christ, she did this to herself. “You see!” she sobs, forced tears sliding down real bruises. “You see! Your games won’t work here!”

  “Your games won’t work here!” Mason repeats.

  “Police,” somebody in the crowd mutters. “I think there’s been a rape—or an attempted rape. We’re at…”

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Irish roars. “You don’t talk about Boss like that—”

  “Irish!” I snarl. “You’re making it worse. Be quiet. Markus, Irish, Knives, come here.”

  The crowd parts as Markus pushes through it. The three men stand in a half-circle around me. “Listen,” I whisper, so only they can hear. They lean in close to me. “This is bullshit. We all know it. But we also know that the men and women in this room have considerable influence. We have to play this smart. That means no fighting, no arguing. When the police get here, complete co-operation?” Markus and Knives nod, downcast. “Irish,” I hiss.

  “The fuckin’ pigs’ll do you,” Irish mutters.

  “Maybe for a little while, but I didn’t do this.”

  “And if they fix you up?”

  “We’ll deal with that when it comes to it, alright?” Irish doesn’t respond. I grab him by the shoulder, shaking him. “Alright?”

  “Alright,” he sighs.

  “You three are in charge while I’m gone. All three of you have operational control, but Markus has final say on everything. He’s Boss for the time being.”

  All of them nod. I step back, lean against the wall, and wait.

  The room splits into two: the rich guests gathering in a huddle on one side, my men on the other. Soon, sirens blare out across the night air toward us.

  When the police get here, Cassandra lets out a long wail and throws herself into theatrical sobs.

  I’m cuffed, shoved into a police car, and driven away.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Eden

  When I get back to my apartment at about midday, I still haven’t received a response from Maddox. I stand in the shower, letting the warm water wash away the anger and the pain from last night, and when I step out from it, dripping water onto the tiles, I glance at my phone: no notifications, no response.

  I’m dressed, sitting on my couch, tossing my phone from hand to hand. The curtains and pulled shut and I set in semi-darkness. Why won’t he text back? Is he angry with me? Is he done with me? But I was right. It was makeup. And he knew, too. She made it up. Why else paint herself like that? Why else make a play for my sympathy? She made it up! It must’ve been her who set that screensaver. I don’t know how she knew I would be up there, but she did, and...

  I check my phone again, and again there are no messages.

  Finally, after around an hour of sitting and not doing much of anything except thinking and drinking water to try and fight the hangover, I call him. The ring of the phone is like a cawing bird in my ear, far too loud, far too urgent. I set it to loudspeaker and place the phone on my knee, looking down at it. It rings for two minutes, and nobody answers. I imagine Maddox sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at my name and shaking his head.

  “Had your chance,” I hear him say. “Had you chance, and you ruined it.”

  I wait until around four o’clock to ring him again, and again he doesn’t answer.

  He’s angry. He’s angry and he’s done with me. I should’ve known with a man like him, shouldn’t I? I should’ve known that he wouldn’t stick around for something like this. Too much drama for a man like him.

  I go into the bedroom and slump down on the bed and close my eyes.

  Maddox. Maddox, it was an argument. Relationships don’t end after arguments, you silly, cocky man! We can work through this!

  But he doesn’t text back at all that day, and I know that he’s furious with me. Or, worse, he isn’t angry but just apathetic. He doesn’t care enough to text back. He doesn’t want the hassle. He found himself feeling something for me, but it’s gotten too real too fast. He’s not the type of man to stick around after this, is he?

  Maddox Owens, outlaw, isn’t the type of man to endure this.

  But then why text me? Why say you want to talk? Goddamn, Maddox, just call me! Just text me! I’m going crazy here!

  ***

  Four days pass. Four days during which I text Maddox a grand total of nine times, and call him five times. Each time, he does not respond, and he does not answer. I see him in my mind clearly. I see him sitting at his desk, the same desk behind which we first fucked, looking down at his phone buzzing with my name. And I see him curse under his breath and turn away from the phone, his bright blue eyes full of pain. I see him chuck the phone across the room. But that’s wishful thinking because that would require some passion and I’m sure he’s repressed any feeling he had for me: pushed it down until there’s nothing left.

  I spend most of my time absorbed in the code, inserting Maddox’s fixes and improving it based on his suggestions. On the fourth day, I submit the dissertation and my professor calls me into her office. She grins at me like I’m a prize.

  “Excellent,” she says, her voice full of disbelief. “Just—excellent! How did you pull this off? A gam
e, you said, and I thought to myself: a small little thing, a tiny little game with some text about gender theory. But you’ve made a full game, a full game whose characters are a picture of feminine diversity! You’ve given them dialogue, which if strung together would equal more words than the essays I’m receiving. Just—excellent!”

  I know I should be glowing under the praise, but at the back of my mind, Maddox lurks. I leave the office and college feeling oddly numb. I’ve worked toward this moment for the past year, but now it’s come, all I want to do is be with Maddox to celebrate it. I want to fall into his arms, kiss, fuck, and then stay up late at night talking about coding. Because he did this for me. Not some coder friend. But him. Oh, the game would’ve been finished anyhow. But he made it better.