PREGNANT FOR A PRICE: Kings of Chaos MC

by Kathryn Thomas

  I climb out of the car, and Mom opens the front door. She’s wearing a bathrobe tied tightly around her thin hips. Her hair is gray-red, and her face is like mine, only with more wrinkles and sharper features. She’s thin, like me, but her thinness has turned to jaggedness over the years. Her knuckles poke out of her skin as she grips the edge of the doorframe. Her eyes are the only things untouched by her age. They are bright red-brown, just like mine. She leans out of the front door, showing bare leg, looking at me with an expression I have no clue how to read.

  I walk right up to the step with my bag slung over my shoulder.

  We stare at each other for perhaps a minute, the slow-setting sun throwing orange rays over the top of the house into my face.

  Then her face crumples in upon itself. “Eden!” she cries.

  “Mom,” I say, stepping up on the front step.

  She takes one step forward, and then another. It’s like she’s falling on her feet, not walking. When she’s within touching distance, she drops the rest of the way. I catch her and prop her up, holding her close to me. Tears stream down her wrinkled cheeks, and she lets out a series of moans, crying into my chest. I stroke her hair, holding her.

  When the crying is done, she looks up into my face. “Shall we go inside?” she says. “I’ll fix some tea and some sandwiches. You should’ve called!” She steps back, and suddenly she’s the mother I remember from childhood. A housewife, sure, but a no-nonsense housewife, a housewife with teeth. “Come on!” she snaps.

  I’m herded into the house, and the door is closed behind me.

  ***

  We sit in the front room, both clasping mugs of steaming coffee. The shabby front of the house is deceiving; the inside of the house is immaculate. Not a single particle of dust rests on anything. The front room is like a staging area: two armchairs and a couch, the cushions fluffed up, clean; a bookshelf with a neatly-arranged series of romance novels, historical novels, and non-fiction on various topics; and a small TV in the corner, with a VHS—a VHS! On the walls hang photographs of Mom and me but none of Dad. Can’t blame her. He did leave, after all.

  “So,” she says. “What have you been up to?”

  Where do I start?

  I launch into the past year, starting with my dissertation and ending with Maddox. But I leave out the part where a psychotic ex-girlfriend accused him of rape, and just tell her that I’ve met a man, a biker, and I think I’m falling for him. Even that’s an understatement because I’ve already fallen for him.

  Mom sips her tea, and then lays it on the coffee table, which sits between the chairs, the couch, and the TV. She takes a neat stack of coasters and places the mug on top of one of them. “A boyfriend?” she muses. “A boyfriend,” she repeats. “I thought you lot didn’t go in for all that boyfriend stuff? I remember you saying to me you never wanted a boyfriend, ever.”

  “I was nine, Mom,” I sigh. “People say all sorts of stuff when they’re nine.”

  “I suppose so,” Mom says. “But a biker? A tattooed biker? I thought your type would be more of the fedora-wearing, scarf-wearing sort? You know, the sort of man you see sitting in a coffee shop working on a novel, which he’s never going to finish because the only reason he’s sitting there is so he can be seen writing a novel?”

  I roll my eyes. “I forgot how witty you were, Mother,” I mutter.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I’m glad, really. There’s nothing wrong with having a strong man. But make sure—” She flinches, and I know she’s thinking about Dad. “Make sure he’s in it for real, Eden. Make sure he’s in all the way before you put yourself in all the way, or one day you’ll find out he’s fallen out of love with you, and he’s on his way to Malta.”

  I reach across the table and place my hand on Mom’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I say. “About Dad, about the argument, about everything.”

  Mom shakes her head and waves a hand at me. “That’s okay,” she says. “No need to say sorry to me. I just get on with it.”

  “Still.” I rub her shoulder. “If it means anything, I am sorry.”

  She murmurs: “Thank you.” She reaches up and squeezes my hand. I’m shocked all over again by how knobby her hands are. “I was just angry, dear. He left me. That’s all. He left me when he said he was going to be with me forever. And he’s in Malta and—” She lets go of my hand and smiles bravely at me. I can see the pain beneath the smile, but I know she doesn’t want me to. She’s pulled down a mask. And so I smile back.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “You can stay as long as you want.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say. “That means a lot.”

  She smiles again, and without thinking about it, I lean across and kiss her wrinkled cheek. When I lean back, she touches her cheek as though in shock.

  “Anyway,” I say, making my voice high-pitched to lighten the mood. “Where’s your boyfriend, Mother? I think it’s time we found you some hunky man to keep you busy. You must go crazy sitting around here all day.”

  “Oh, no,” Mom muttered. “I don’t need much, you know. Not me—I can survive on very little.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing, and we sit for a while in silence.

  Chapter Forty Nine

  On my third day there, I wake to a rattling on the roof of the house. I roll out of bed and rub my eyes, go to the window, and look outside. It’s ten o’clock, my phone tells me, but the sun is bright and unflinching like it’s midday. It shines directly in my eyes. I squint and cover my face with my hands, and then make my way downstairs in shorts and a t-shirt. “Mom?” I call as I walk, but there’s no answer.

  “Mom?” I repeat, when I’m in the kitchen. I search downstairs rooms, the living room and the kitchen and the bathroom, but she’s nowhere. Then the noise from the roof repeats. It sounds like there are tiny feet scampering over it, like a creature has been released above our heads.

  I head outside, walk down the steps, and look up. A ladder is propped against the side of the house and Mom is fiddling with the tiles of the roof.

  “Mom,” I say, quietly because I don’t want to startle her. “What are you doing?”

  “Just clearing some loose shingles!” she calls down. “I’m getting the roof redone in a few days, but these loose shingles are giving me a headache. I can’t sleep for thinking about them!”

  I look at the outside of the house, at its shabbiness, and think, What’s brought this on?

  “The workman will sort that,” I say. “That’s what they get paid for. Can you come down? Seeing you at the top of a ladder is freaking me out.”

  “I’m alright!” she snaps.

  She looks like a wingless old bird up there, all bone and skin, tottering precariously, unable to find its balance. Each time she makes a grab for the roof, the ladder wobbles, her knees shake, and her feet tap against the rung. “Ah,” she grunts, making another reach for the roof, her hand coming away empty. I see that her hand has come away empty every time; there are no shingles at the bottom of the ladder.

  “Mom!” I hiss. “Get down, please. I don’t see you for a year, and now you want to kill yourself!”

  “Oh, nonsense!”

  “Mom, please!” My voice is low, angry, and something in it causes Mom to pause. She half-turns and I walk to the bottom of the ladder, hold it still.

  “Fine,” she huffs, and begins to climb down slowly.

  My heart hammers with each step, but finally, she reaches the bottom. She walks away from the ladder, wiping her hands on her jeans, and grins sideways at me. “You’re such a worrier,” she says. “Nothing was going to happen to me, you know.”

  “How do you know?” I say. “It didn’t exactly look safe up there. What were you doing, anyway?”

  She waves a hand at the house. “Look at it!” she breathes. “Look at the state of it! Your father dealt with the outside, you know. We were very old-fashioned in that way, I suppose. But this morning I woke up, and I came out here, and I lo
oked at it and—ugh, look at it. So I called some workman up. But I couldn’t stand to leave it until then.”

  “Why now, though?” I ask. “Surely it’s been like this for a while.”

  Mom shrugs. “Maybe it’s you,” she muses. “You being here, I mean. My daughter shouldn’t have to return to her home looking like this.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders and lead her toward the house. She follows reluctantly, casting glances back at the ladder. “The workmen will sort all of that,” I say. “It’s their job. Don’t rob them of it.”

  “You think I’m old,” Mom comments as I take her into the kitchen. I put the kettle on the boil and scoop coffee into two mugs. Mom sits at the table, tapping against it with her fingers and smiling softly at me. “I’m not old,” she goes on, with determination in her voice.

  “You’ve certainly proved that,” I say. “Look at you. Spider-Woman, climbing up the side of the house at ten o’clock in the morning. But you didn’t see how that ladder was shaking.”

  “Maybe I just wanted proof that you still cared about your old mother.” She raises her eyebrows, playful like a little girl.

  “Ha-ha, of course I do, you silly woman.”

  The kettle whistles and I pour the coffee, tip in the sugar, and splash in the milk.

  We sit opposite each other at the coffee table.

  “Something’s on your mind,” Mom says. “I can see it. Something’s going round and round in your mind. It’s like when you were a girl, and you had a test the next day. You have that same faraway look. Is it—him?”

  “Maddox?” I stare into the coffee mug. “Sort of. But don’t worry about it. Everything will be alright.”

  Do you believe that? I ask myself. Do you really believe it will be as easy as that? What if everything is not all right? What if Maddox’s plan doesn’t work and he goes to prison? Not that holding cell, but full-on, proper prison? What then?

  I shiver, and Mom watches me with all-seeing eyes, but then she looks down at her coffee, and I do the same.

  “It will be alright,” I say, as though speaking the words aloud make them truer. “It will.”

  ***

  The next evening, I go downstairs into the living room when Mom is watching the news. She isn’t a devout news-watcher, like some old people, but she’ll watch it in the evening with a matter-of-fact expression, as though nothing, no matter how cruel or horrible, can surprise her anymore.

  I sit beside her as the caster is talking about a spree of car theft. And then the graphic flashes and the background changes from a dark CCTV camera of a car whizzing down the street—to Cassandra and Mason.

  My breath catches, I lean forward and grip my knees, and my heart suddenly speeds up my chest, as though trying to beat out of my throat.

  The picture is of Cassandra and Mason at some well-to-do event. Mason is dressed in a suit, and Cassandra is wearing a sparkling dress. They’re grinning at the camera. The headline reads: Corporate Couple Flee from Embezzlement Charges.

  “Turn it up, please,” I whisper. Mom picks up the remote and notches the volume up.

  The caster goes on in his solemn voice, “Cassandra Beatrice Caraway and Mason Simon Abraham fled their mansion house in Silicon Valley after evidence of their complicity in embezzlement was leaked to the press early yesterday morning. Police said they were on their way to apprehend the couple when a squad car reported one of Mason Abraham’s many vehicles fleeing the city. The squad car tried to pull them over but Mason’s car – a brand-new Lamborghini – outpaced him and disappeared. The car was later found ditched in the car park of a school.”

  “What’s this, then? Bonnie and Clyde wannabes?” Mom laughs.

  I laugh, too, but it rings hollow in my ears.

  “An APB has been announced publicly, and police urge anyone who sees either Mason or Cassandra to call the police immediately. While their crimes are not violent, police do urge the public to not approach the couple. News of their crimes emerged after a group of online hackers released the information. Police then probed deeper, and found ample evidence to arrest the pair on charges of embezzlement and corporate theft.”

  “The rich always want more,” Mom sighs. She turns to me. “Do you want a hot chocolate?” she asks. “I have some powder. I’ll make it with milk, like I did when you were a girl. How about that?”

  I nod, numb, and then stand up. “Yeah, sure, just need the toilet.”

  ***

  They could be anywhere, I think, sitting on the edge of the toilet seat. Goddamn it, they could be anywhere! I wrap my arms around my knees and rest my head on my thighs, hugging myself. More than anything I want to be with Maddox, want to wrap my arms around him, want to be with him. I want him to hold me close and whisper to me, “Everything with be alright, Red. I’m here. Don’t worry.”

  But he’s not here, and I don’t have that comfort. Does he even know they’re missing? Would the police tell him? Or have Mason’s friends bribed them so effectively that they would still keep him in the dark even after the supposed victim has fled? I want to go and see him, to answer these questions, but he told me to stay somewhere hidden and now I see why. It’s possible that Cassandra is watching the police station.

  A fugitive staking out a police station? It’s mad, but like Maddox said, Cassandra is mad. If there’s one thing that she would do, it’s that. I realize that I can’t put anything past her now. After all, this is the woman who punched her own eyes out – really did it, without makeup – to get her ex-boyfriend in trouble. What else would she do?

  I stand up slowly, stretching my arms, and leave the bathroom. When I get to the top of the stairs, I see that Mom is at the bottom with a mug of steaming hot chocolate in her hand.

  “Is everything alright?” she asks uncertainly. “You look as white as a sheet.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I say, and somehow my voice stays steady.

  Mom nods, but I can see it in her face, in the way her eyes seem to peer through me. She doesn’t believe me.

  “It’s that woman on the TV,” I say, as I walk down the stairs.

  “The embezzler?”

  “That’s the one,” I say, taking the hot chocolate from her. “I know her. She’s—”

  But I stop, looking at Mom’s face, at the wrinkles, at the pain written across her features. If I tell her that there’s a psychopath on the loose who wants to find and hurt me, she’ll make me go to the police. And if Cassandra really is staking out the station, she’ll see, and—

  And what? Attack you outside a police station?

  The thing is, that doesn’t seem so ridiculous after everything she’s done. And anyway, nobody knows I’m here. Cassandra doesn’t know where Mom lives. If I’m safe anywhere, it’s right here.

  “She’s what?” Mom asks.

  “An old friend from school,” I say. “It just shocked me seeing her on the news like that.”

  “Oh, were you close?” Mom asks as we sit on the couch.

  “Sort of,” I say. “We fought over the same boy once.”

  “Well, it seems she’s graduated from fighting over boys, doesn’t it!”

  I laugh, making it sound as real as possible, like fear isn’t lancing through my chest. “Yes, it seems so!”

  Chapter Fifty

  Maddox

  The cage sits next to an office, where Officer Richards sits, half-watching the TV and half-watching me. The TV is mounted to the wall with a metal arm and bends around so that Richards can keep one eye on both of us. The cage is empty apart from me and some drunk guy who crashed his car. The drunk man sleeps on one of the benches, snoring loudly. Officer Richards has his office door open, and I can hear the TV. When I hear he’s listening to the news, I stand up and wander to the bars, listening closely.

  News items roll past, the usual stuff; the world being a black, dark place like my asshole dad taught me when I was a kid. And then I’m gripping the bars of the cage so hard my knuckles turn bone-white, and I growl bet
ween clenched teeth.

  That bitch, I think. That fucking bitch!

  “Cassandra Caraway and Mason . . . fled . . . missing . . .”

  “Richards!” I bark.

  He glances at me and then glances back at the TV.

  “Richards!” I snarl, my voice deep and booming, but he ignores me.