“Fuckin’ good work, Brother.” Salem accompanies his words with a wink.
Swift laughs and gives a genuine smile, and I see what attracted Road to her. “Yeah, the Utah brothers don’t know what to call me either. Sister doesn’t work.”
A chuckle from Salem, followed by, “Fuckin’ immense respect. I didn’t believe you could get him to spill all that without leaving a mark.”
“Oh, there’ll be a mark left,” she contradicts. “In here.” She taps her head. “Thinking you’re dying, not being able to stop it, and then that happening again, fucks with you in here.”
“But not with you,” I observe.
Swift sets her eyes on me and shrugs. “I’m made of stronger stuff. And, in my case, I could cheat. I knew I wasn’t going to die. It’s just at the time, it wasn’t easy to remember it.”
As she’d had him tied up over his clothes, though the ropes must have bitten in, there’s probably limited bruising under the pants and jacket he is wearing. Also, apart from some dampness around the collar, and a urine stain by his zipper, his clothes are barely wet. As a torture technique, it’s impressive.
Freed, Devon rolls onto his knees, then vomits on the floor in front of him. He’s incapable of standing, and just stays on his hands and knees, breathing shallowly, making me think his lungs must be screaming.
He’s still not recovered by the time Prez takes a call, which involves him giving permission. Shortly after, there’s the sound of a vehicle arriving outside the hangar. The back door opens, and Curtis shows the newcomers in.
“Prospect?” Lost calls, then points to the vomit. “Come back and clean that up when we’re out of here.”
“You got it, Prez,” Curtis replies.
The man who’s entered has a shock of blond hair, and twinkling eyes. There’s also a woman with him. He steps forward.
“Sean Cooper and this is my wife, Nessa.”
Bolt’s eyes lighten up and he’s the first to step forward and greet them. “Nice to meet you in the flesh. You’ve helped us a time or two. I’m Bolt.”
“As have you.” Sean pumps his hand enthusiastically. “Nice to put a name to the face.”
“This him?” Nessa’s eyes are on Devon. She raises them to Swift.
“That’s him. You got your instructions?” Utah’s enforcer confirms.
“Yeah. Devil’s sorted it and the feds are waiting for their package to be delivered. Hey, nice to meet a fellow limey.” Ness grins at Swift, and I note she doesn’t seem to be intimidated at all by her. “Swift, I presume? We’ve talked before.”
“We have,” Swift confirms with a quick grin. “You’ve got quite the brain for analysis.”
The members from Utah and the newcomers put their heads together for a moment, then it all happens fast. Devon’s put in handcuffs again—a pair that’s appeared out of Sean’s pocket. Then they start toward the door, stopped by a call from Kink.
“Hey.” He approaches them, his eyes gleaming. “You work for Devil? You know anything about that BDSM club he owns?”
Nessa’s eyes drop, but Sean’s meet Kink’s head on. “Sure do, man. You ever in the UK, give me a call. I can get you set up with an invitation.”
Kink looks like all his dreams have come true. “You for real? Club Tiacapan has one hell of a reputation.”
“And well deserved, man. Well deserved.”
After they disappear, Bolt and Swift escorting Devon out to whatever vehicle the British pair have brought along, Dart shakes his head.
“Really, Kink?”
Kink laughs. “That man’s a Dom through and through. It was a safe bet. And that woman? Well, he’s collared her for sure. She’s submissive to the core.”
Swift chooses that point to return. “Submissive to her man, maybe, but don’t underestimate Nessa. She’s a qualified Close Protection officer, even though neither of them work in the field anymore. They’re on Devil’s personal team.”
“What’s Devon’s long-term prognosis?” My eyes zero in on Swift.
Without missing a beat, she confirms, “Once he’s sent to the pen, he won’t last long. Child abusers aren’t popular inside.” She raises her chin slightly, a narrowed stare speaking volumes. It’s so cold it almost makes me shiver, but instead I raise my chin back to her, knowing she’s just made me a promise.
Prez walks up. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could use a drink.”
“See?” Bolt nudges Swift. “These San Diego boys ain’t all heathens.”
I chuckle and step beside the prez, noticing Salem has positioned himself next to Swift. They seem to be talking animatedly to each other.
Numerous pairs of boots echo behind us as we walk to the clubhouse, and it’s only then I notice the sun is already rising in the sky. It seems a lifetime ago I rolled out of bed answering that summons to church. No wonder I feel so damn tired.
I’m getting too old for this shit.
No, I’m not. Better buckle up. If Mary’s pregnant, I’m in for a lot of interrupted nights.
One thing’s for certain, if she is, then what we’ve done tonight has made the world a slightly safer place to bring up a kid in, if only for a short while.
Once we’ve got beers in our hands, I corner Bolt. “When can those videos come down?”
“Your daughter’s?” I don’t correct him. I’m starting to think of her as that now. If I’m claiming her mom, I’m claiming her too. She’s part of the package, and hell, I’ll be damned if I don’t like it.
“Yeah.”
Bolt thinks for a moment. “Feds will start casting their net, trying to catch everyone red-handed. Can’t afford to give anyone the heads-up. But one video getting corrupted? Doubt anyone will think much of that. And, in the scheme of things, while it was fuckin’ terrible to happen to her, it was almost innocent considering some of the other shit on those servers. I’ll get Honor and Duty onto it.”
I breathe out deeply. “Thank you, Brother.”
“Nah, only glad we could help.” Bolt raises his bottle to his lips, then takes a long swig. “You know? I’ve enjoyed seeing how another chapter ticks. I think Swift has too.” His eyes soften on his colleague who, now reunited with her dog, is still talking to Salem. “I did wonder how you were going to take to her.”
I choose my words carefully, knowing what I want to express, but not exactly how to voice it. In the end I settle for, “Couldn’t understand how a woman could wear a Satan’s Devils patch, Brother. But she’s one in a million, isn’t she?”
I seem to have summed her up to his satisfaction.
“That she is, Brother. That she fuckin’ is.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mary
Nearly two weeks have passed since the Monday that I went to bed worried about where Grumbler was and what he was doing. I don’t think I’ve been as concerned about anyone in my life, easily equalling any unrest felt when Alicia’s stayed out late at night. Maybe it’s because I lost Dave so unexpectedly that I couldn’t stop worrying that I might just as quickly lose the new man in my life.
It would have been so unfair, I’d thought to myself. Just when he’d made me love him, he could disappear from our lives.
When the phone had rung at dawn, waking me from the fitful sleep I’d eventually fallen into, I was beside myself with relief that he was still alive and unharmed.
I was over the moon with his assurances that everything had been sorted out. The video of Alicia would be taken down and destroyed, hopefully in the next twenty-four hours. And better still, Devon’s been delivered, without injury, to the feds. I’d been certain the Devils would have killed him and had worried I may end up starting our relationship visiting Grumbler in jail.
While tired, I could dress and go to work feeling more lighthearted than I had for days.
Grumbler had returned that evening with a bag full of clothes. He moved into my room and we hadn’t spent any night apart since, which, I had found, was just how I wanted it. The following
weekend he’d taken me up to his place—a house nestled against the backdrop of trees and desert. It was neatly maintained, by the prospects he told me, but had an unlived in feel. Casting my eye around with a feminine eye, I could spy cobwebs and dust which must have passed the prospects by.
“How often do you come here?”
“Once every two or three weeks,” he replied. “When I want to let loose in music for a while.” He found a key on his key ring and opened a cupboard. Three guitars were propped against their stands inside.
Alicia’s eyes had opened wide. “Can I play one?”
“Alicia—” I didn’t know much about the instrument, but they looked expensive to me. A cut above the cheap one I’d bought for her.
“Go ahead,” Grumbler replied, at the same time. Then he turned to me and offered an aside. “Kid knows how to treat them with respect.”
While Alicia sat with a guitar held reverently on her lap, I continued nosing around. There are four bedrooms, two with en suites, a family bath and a half bath too. All except one bedroom is empty of furniture, and that one only includes a bed, fancy enough though it is. It looked hand carved, a thing of beauty. I couldn’t help having visions of what Grumbler and I could do on that.
“Why did you buy this place if you don’t live in it?”
He shrugged. “I bought it up cheap, oh, twenty-five years or so ago, did a lot of the work. It seemed the sensible thing to do. I told myself it was a refuge when I needed time away from my brothers. Turned out, apart from playing my guitar, there’s not much I want solitude for. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Told myself I didn’t need company, but maybe I was kidding myself. Maybe at the back of my mind was a picture of a woman in my home. That never happened. Never even came close.”
It is a family home. It would be utterly stunning given some love. All the basics are here, not much of the decoration I’d want to change. New furniture, maybe use some of mine. Wait. Was I really imagining moving in?
I forced myself to think of the practicalities. “It’s further for me to drive to work, and there’s Alicia’s school to consider. I doubt her bus stops near here.”
“Up to you,” he’d said. “Whether you could make it work, but Alicia could have her own car. Have a little independence herself.”
Living where we do, she doesn’t need it. But she did have her learner’s permit, and I’ve allowed her to drive mine. The thought of Alicia driving herself around sent chills through me, but she’s getting older. I can’t keep her tied down forever.
Mindful of where the house is situated, I had one more question. “What’s the fire risk?”
He raised his chin as though glad I’d asked the question. “There’s a two-hundred-foot firebreak all around. The prospects keep the shrub cleared back. I’ve no propane tank, so to answer your question, minimal.”
“What do you do for power?”
He gives another grin. “Solar panels on the roof, a few more out back in the yard. And,” he pulled me to the rear window, “out there, see?” It’s a freaking windmill. Far enough away from the house so it wouldn’t be loud. “Power-wise I’m pretty independent. Sun or wind powers my home.”
I heard a noise and turned around to see Alicia putting away the guitar. “If we move here, could we have a dog? And chickens?”
“Whoa.” Grumbler laughed. “You’ll want us to have our own cow next.”
“Maybe a horse?” Alicia asked, quite seriously.
Instead of laughing at her, Grumbler smiled. “There’s a riding stable right up the road there. How about you start with having a few lessons?”
It hadn’t taken me long to decide an extra half hour onto my journey would be worth it. Alicia had been over the moon to move to what she called the country, but which was only just outside the city limits. Hence, this coming weekend we would be moving.
But first, I’ve got to get through today.
Two days ago, I’d taken a pregnancy test. I’d nearly fainted when I’d seen the results, showing me, although unlikely, that Grumbler’s seed was growing inside me. I’d rushed out, bought another test, and then a third. What are the chances of three false readings?
I’d told Grumbler immediately. So convinced I had nothing to worry about, I’d taken the tests while he wasn’t around. Just to confirm what we already knew, that we couldn’t possibly be pregnant, but as it turned out, we were.
He’d held me as I cried. Admonished me slightly for not waiting for him to be there. He’d continued to hold me as I incredulously laughed. Him, me and a baby? We’d discussed our options, whether I’d regretted not doing something about it before, whether he did and now blamed me, but Grumbler’s the good man I’d believed he was. I knew he’d stand by me in every decision, but would try not to influence me. As he said, it was my body the baby would be renting out for a further eight months. And while he wished he could go through the pain instead, it would be me who’d have to give birth.
He’d convinced me to get a doctor’s appointment as soon as I could, and that’s where we’re heading today.
Part of me hopes the doctor will say it’s menopause causing a wrong result, and there’s no baby after all. Part of me is terrified that she will say exactly that, or, that I’m too old and a pregnancy is too risky, either to me or the child.
I need Grumbler with me. As he drives, he holds my hand, the tactile support encouraging.
“We’re in this together. Whatever happens, Mary, never doubt that.”
“You’re a good man, Grumbler.”
He grunts. I’m not sure what to make of that. But whether or not he believes it, I’m convinced. I’m also sure he’d make a good dad. I only need to watch him with Alicia to see proof of that. He seems to know just how to handle her—when to be firm, or when to jokingly try to coax her out of a snit. He’s more inclined to offer her a reward for good behaviour, than want to punish the bad. He even tries to help her with her homework, though, at her age, she’s beyond both of us.
In the waiting room, I sit alongside pregnant women, all younger than me by two decades or more. I fidget, wondering if they’re wondering why I’m here. Grumbler picks up a baby magazine—the only kind on offer—and starts flicking through that. He’s not self-absorbed, instead he includes me.
“Will you look at that?” He points out a crib. “Electric. It’s even got a built in MP3 player and rocks the baby to fuckin’ sleep.”
I get the feeling that raising a baby seventeen years after my last would be a somewhat different experience.
“Of course,” he continues in a serious tone, “it would have to be a Harley Davidson one.”
“Do they make them?”
“Fuck knows,” he chuckles. “But nothing would surprise me now.”
“Mrs Styles?”
Hearing my name, I stand, suddenly feeling shaky. I still have no idea what I want the doctor to say.
Well, the long and short of it is that I am pregnant, but only four weeks—too soon for a sonogram to pick up a heartbeat.
Whether I should continue with the pregnancy, well that’s quite a different thing. Miscarriage is highly likely. Weirdly, if I was forty-five, the problems would be less, but those two years apparently make a heck of a difference, or so the doctor said.
Grumbler, hands clasped between his knees, is listening to everything, and now adds a question of his own.
“I’m fifty-seven, Doc. I smoke occasionally, much less so than in the past. I’ve ridden a motorbike for damn near forty years. Even thought my swimmers might be fried, I’m not an angel, I drink. Not enough to be an alcoholic, but enough. What’s the chances of my sperm causing a defective baby?”
Doctor Woodward smiles, and starts drily, “Seems like your sperm are working perfectly, Grumbler. Though, it’s a valid point. There is some research that shows there is a higher risk of babies being born with genetic abnormalities once a man is over forty. That goes for the woman as well. So, in your case, your chances are increased of
having a baby with birth defects or health problems. These could show up before birth, or once the baby is born.”
“Is there a chance the baby will be healthy? Or is everything stacked against it?” he asks.
“Of course there is.” The doctor smiles at us. “You might notice I’m no spring chicken myself. I’ve seen many births in my time, and babies often surprise me.”
“But it’s a risk?”
She nods. “One you should take into consideration.” Her features rearrange into a frown. “You asked me to paint a picture of what you’re in for should you go ahead with this pregnancy, so I’m trying to do that. First, Mary, it will have great demands on your body. You’ve been pregnant before. Well, this time, fatigue is likely to hit you badly. You may have to give up work, and that’s if you get very far along in your pregnancy. Mother Nature often steps in. If a foetus isn’t viable, you may lose it, however careful you are.” She pauses, then resumes, “There is a high chance that the baby won’t form properly, and we may need to step in, and perform an abortion.”
I shake my head. “If I continue with this baby and don’t lose it naturally, I wouldn’t want to abort it. I’d want it to be born.”
She nods, not upset by my outburst. “Quite right. And we’d do everything we can to facilitate that. But, worst-case scenario? I’ve seen a case, not age-related, just sheer bad luck, where a baby’s organs formed outside its skeleton. There was no chance the baby would survive. We can work miracles with surgery, but to correct that when the brain, liver, kidneys and lungs are all outside the skull and rib cage? Impossible. If the baby is born, it will live minutes, maybe hours, and in excruciating agony.”
“What about in the womb?” Grumbler asks. “Would it be in pain there?”
“There is evidence they can feel pain at twenty weeks.”
I want to understand everything. “Say my baby was badly deformed as you say. If I carried it to term, would that mean it might be in agony for another twenty weeks?” If so, I’d be sentencing it to a living hell even before it’s born.
“To what extent, I can’t say. But on the other hand, you may go on to deliver a baby that’s perfectly healthy. We’d help you all the way. You may need to be induced early to give him or her the best chance to survive and may need a C-section in any event as your uterine muscles may be too weak to push the baby out. But Mrs Styles, we have a lot of experience with pregnancies. If you want to continue, we’ll do all we can to achieve a healthy result.”
Grumbler's Ride: Satan's Devils MC San Diego #2 Page 33