The Biker's Baby

by N. Alleman

  The Biker's Baby

  Normandie Alleman writing as N. Alleman

  J. Chase

  Contents

  1. Jake

  2. Daisy

  3. Jake

  4. Daisy

  5. Jake

  6. Daisy

  7. Jake

  8. Daisy

  9. Jake

  10. Jake

  11. Jake

  12. Daisy

  13. Jake

  14. Daisy

  15. Jake

  16. Daisy

  17. Jake

  18. Daisy

  19. Daisy

  20. Jake

  21. Daisy

  22. Jake

  23. Jake

  24. Daisy

  25. Jake

  26. Daisy

  27. Jake

  28. Jake

  29. Daisy

  30. Jake

  31. Jake

  32. Daisy

  33. Daisy

  34. Jake

  35. Jake

  36. Daisy

  37. Jake

  38. Daisy

  Epilogue

  The Baller’s Secret Baby

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About N. Alleman

  About J. Chase

  Also by Normandie Alleman

  Copyright 2019 © Normandie Alleman and Southern Scribe Press

  The Biker’s Baby by Normandie Alleman and J Chase

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Jake

  I’ve killed before, and I might need to kill again.

  But this blood isn’t on my hands.

  Exhausted and nauseated, my head pounding, I leave my bike behind the dumpster outside the crappy motel that I’ve been assured is a safe place I can stay the night. My bike's an 883 Sportster, and she’s about the only thing I’ve got left that’s worth anything.

  I pull some crumpled bills from my wallet and walk into the tiny lobby like I own the fucking place.

  I may be a broke as hell fugitive, and I may be in deep shit, but I’m still Jake fucking Malone.

  Nothing can break me. Many things and many people have tried, but nothing and no one has ever succeeded.

  I hear the low buzz of an old television set. A bored woman sits at a rickety, old reception desk staring blankly at the screen.

  I glance around, wondering what she thinks about her job in this cramped shithole, surrounded by yellowing magazines and stale cigarette butts. She’s young enough to make something more of her life, but she doesn’t look like she wants to. Could a person really be happy with a life like that?

  Fuck me. Like I thought my life was going to turn out like this.

  “A room,” I growl at the woman, throwing some cash on the desk. She shoots me a disgusted look, probably thanks to my bad attitude, but that quickly turns to a lusty gaze as soon as her eyes take me in.

  The same reaction, every fucking time. I could make this woman crawl across the floor and beg to suck my dick if I wanted to, and we both know it.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind her, while she fiddles nervously with the room keys. I can even manage to attract a woman when I look like shit.

  My dark hair is too long and messy. A few days’ worth of stubble on my jaw, and I probably reek of musk. I need a goddamned shower, and I could use a woman’s mouth to relieve the stress.

  I stare at her as she tries to straighten out the cash. She blushes, feeling the intensity of my gaze.

  She knows what’s on my mind. It’s written all over her face.

  She’s good looking enough. But then she has on far too much makeup. It makes her look old. Cheap.

  When she speaks, her raspy voice tells me the majority of the cigarette butts belong to her. Her fingertips are yellow too. I mean, I’m pretty desperate for a release, but I don’t think so.

  She grins widely, keys in hand, trying to persuade me with her eyes. But then the TV comes to life between us.

  “Outlaw Jake Malone has been on the run for the past twenty-seven hours. If you see him, alert the police immediately. He is considered armed and dangerous…” The news anchor’s tone is grave, and I lean over to take a look at the screen, just in time to see my photograph flash across it.

  The receptionist and I exchange looks. Hers—one of terror, mine—one of warning. Her hand lingers between us, dangling the keys. I reach for them, and she cowers from my touch.

  Anger swells inside me.

  I rip the keys from her, incensed at how readily she believes what she hears on the news.

  She whimpers in fear.

  “Thank you, darlin’.” I flash her a fake smile. As annoyed as I am, I need this girl on my side. If she rats on me, I’m fucked.

  I wait a few seconds for her to respond.

  Fortunately, she doesn’t disappoint.

  That coy smile creeps across her face, and I feel a massive sense of relief. We’re good—she won’t sell me out tonight.

  Instead, she’ll fantasize about me ravaging her raw.

  I blow her a kiss, giving her something to think about before I get the fuck out of there.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Any other day, I would've been all over that chick, yanking her hair and ramming my dick down her willing throat in a side alley somewhere. I wouldn’t have taken a second to consider whether she was ‘good enough’; I’d have just done it.

  But today, I can't make myself look at her twice.

  It's not even that she isn't my type—I don't even have a type.

  A nice body and a warm pussy—that’s all I’ve ever needed.

  But I’ve got more on my mind tonight.

  I pound up the stairs, heading past all the shitty doors hiding their sordid secrets before I arrive in front of room 114.

  I unlock the door and kick it open. The room is cramped and reeks of smoke, but aside from that, it looks clean enough.

  It’s not exactly like I have options. It’ll do for tonight.

  Sitting on the bed, I bury my head in my hands, and for a minute I let my situation get the best of me.

  In the past, I always had choices, friends, and money. Now I’ve got none of that.

  I’m a wanted man, and I can’t see any way out.

  Even walking down the street is dangerous for me. Anyone could recognize me and put in a call to the police.

  I can’t get locked up for this shit. I didn’t do it, for fuck’s sake!

  I know I should stay where it’s safe, but I’m far too hot-blooded for that. Too temperamental to be caged like an animal. Any minute now I’ll start ramming my body against the bars, begging for my freedom.

  Pacing the room, I try to convince myself to do the sensible thing, but I already know that I won’t. I’ve already got a plan.

  May as well head over to the bar next doo
r that I spotted on my way in.

  I take off my sweat-soaked shirt, glancing at myself in the mirror.

  Despite the fact that my muscles are more ripped than ever before, all I see are the scars.

  I hate them. They remind me of who I am. What I am.

  It’s one of the reasons I prefer hooking up with random chicks—there’s usually not enough time for me to take my clothes off, so I avoid the dreaded question ‘where did those come from’?

  I jump into the shower, allowing the dribbling stream of lukewarm water to wash off the past few days. Not as satisfying as a powerful jet of hot water, but it beats nothing.

  Once I’m as close to clean as I’m going to get, I dry myself off, get dressed, and pull a hoodie on over my clothes before pulling the hood up. I may be risking it by going out, but I at least intend to help myself by having a slight disguise.

  Finally, I head outside into the fresh, cool air. My hands stay buried in the pockets of my jeans, and I keep my head bowed. I try not to look suspicious, but I avoid eye contact as best I can.

  As I wander into the bar, the noise and potent smells assault my senses. Stale cigarette smoke, alcohol, and cheap perfume make a nasty, yet familiar combination.

  Then I pick up on a slightly softer, sweeter smell underneath it. I can’t help but become intrigued by this.

  It doesn’t fit in with its surroundings.

  The bar is packed full of people; drunks and druggies, whores and desperate fucks like me. Whoever the smell belongs to, it must be someone very unusual.

  I raise my head like a bloodhound, forgetting all of my promises to myself, and I start sniffing the air, trying to locate that unfamiliar scent. I need to know where it’s coming from.

  I walk over to the bar and barely glancing up, say to the bartender, “Whiskey on the rocks, double.”

  He nods as I hand him a crumpled bill from my pocket. I'm pretty much fucked tomorrow, but right now, I don’t give a shit.

  As the bartender slides my drink across the bar, the smell hits me again. It’s more powerful now, and it’s absolutely intoxicating—not because it’s heady or sexy, but because it’s innocent and mysterious.

  I glance around, trying to locate the girl wearing this citrusy perfume, but I come up empty. None of the women I see look like they wear perfume. I imagine they wear cheap, supermarket body spray.

  I’m just about ready to give up when my eyes land on a shadowy figure in a corner booth. The girl there is facing the wall, so all I can make out is the back of her head, but I’m already certain it has to be her.

  She’s huddled over her drink, and her platinum blonde hair falls around her face, forming a protective barrier between her and the rest of the world.

  Despite the fact that she obviously doesn’t want to be bothered, I walk toward her. With each step, the scent gets stronger and stronger.

  It smells so good. So fucking good.

  My mouth waters as I draw closer.

  By the time I’m standing behind her, I’ve already decided that I want her.

  I don’t even need to see her to know that I’ve got to have her.

  And I always get what I want.

  2

  Daisy

  I’m nobody in this town. Nobody here knows my name or anything about me. Nobody knows what I'm doing here and who I'm searching for—which is how I like it.

  Despite all that, I feel a little lost.

  I don’t really belong here, and that becomes increasingly obvious every day. But I can’t go back.

  My purpose is clear, and I need to get to the bottom of this mess.

  Six months ago, my older sister disappeared, and I haven't heard a word from her since. We said goodbye, or rather we went our separate ways, after encountering an awful situation. I regret the way we left things, and I’m scared I’ll never get the opportunity to make things right.

  After she vanished, I finished school. I had no idea where she went, and I knew that she’d want me to finish my education. I thought if I stayed put, she’d come back for me.

  But she never did.

  I had no one else—our parents were killed in a car accident a few years back, and it had just been me and Karen ever since—so I had to sleep on my friend’s couch. It was okay for a while, but as soon as I finished school and became ‘legal’, Clarissa wanted me to join her as an exotic dancer in the strip club where she worked.

  I could never have done that, so I decided to leave, to head to the place where I thought Karen was.

  I drove straight here with nothing, a stupid decision really. My piece of junk car is down to its last few drops of gas.

  The seedy motel where I stopped was even too expensive for me. Now I’m cursing myself for not having planned better. The only thing I had enough money for was a drink so I made another dumb decision to come to the bar next door and spent what I had.

  My emotions are raw, but I’m too tired to even cry, so I just find a corner and try to avoid the attention of other people.

  I am seriously broke. A small backpack of clothes, that’s the extent of my belongings.

  What am I going to do?

  I close my eyes for a second, wanting to block everything out. Not just the past few days, or even the past month, but everything. My entire life has been a train-wreck. I’d give anything to hit a restart button.

  I allow myself to doze off, hoping to find a place that’s wonderful and perfect. But all I find are nightmares.

  I quietly close the front door and tiptoe inside. My sister is an exotic dancer, and she works horrible hours, so I don't want to wake her up if she’s napping. I may not like what she does for a living, but her income is what puts food on the table.

  Tossing my backpack on the couch in the tiny living room, I tiptoe toward the bedroom. I peek inside, thinking I'll find my sister stretched out on the bed in one of her seemingly impossible sleeping positions, but I don’t.

  "Karen?" I whisper softly, patting the sheets. No, she’s definitely not there.

  Immediately, my head fills with worry, even though I've spent years training it not to do that. After our parents passed away, I suffered from a lot of anxiety. It’s taken me a long time to return to an almost-normal, functioning person.

  This time I can’t control it. I know something's wrong.

  “Karen?” I cry out once more before spotting her figure slumped in the corner of the room.

  I shriek loudly, but before I can get another word out, a heavy, sweaty hand clamps over my mouth.

  I can’t breathe, but I try to bite into the meaty palm. It doesn’t work. The hand’s too big.

  "Quiet," a male voice barks in my ear. The smell of alcohol seeps up my nostrils. "Be quiet, or I'll hurt her more… You wouldn’t want that, would you?"

  My eyes find Karen again. Her head is slumped to the side, and a huge bruise blooms on her right cheek. A small trail of blood is running down her face—evidence that her nose has been broken. Her eyes are so swollen from crying that I doubt she can even see.

  Despite the fact that she’s barely conscious, she makes the effort to speak to me. "It is okay, Daisy," she whispers brokenly. “I’m okay.”

  The fact that she’s so clearly not okay makes me want to scream even more, but the man has his hand wrapped too tightly across my face.

  Manny. I’m sure it’s Manny.

  Karen and Manny were together for a while, but she broke it off when he started being abusive. She’s mentioned that he’s been harassing her, but I thought she meant online and in text messages. I wasn’t aware that he was actually stalking her.

  He sits down on the bed, dragging me down with him.

  “Manny…” I try to beg, but I can’t get another word out.

  Then I feel his other hand creep down my body, ever-so-slowly, and things get much worse.

  I’m dressed in my school uniform —a white blouse and a pleated navy-blue skirt. Normally I wear pantyhose, but I decided against it this morning because of the he
at. That was a decision I’m bitterly regretting now.

  Manny's hand slaps my legs apart, and his fingers find their way onto my inner thigh. I gasp in fear, and he groans into my ear, excited by my terror. Horrified, I realize I'm turning him on, that this forceful shit actually works for him. Nausea flares in my gut, and I wish I could disappear. Anything to escape this.

  How is this happening to me and Karen? Haven’t we been through enough?

  "Be a good girl," Manny whispers in my ear. "Be quiet and just let this happen. You always knew it was going to, eventually..."

  I whimper, and my eyes roll back into my head as he fights his way between my legs. I do my best to keep my thighs together, but he keeps ripping them apart.

  I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and disappear into my imagination, trying to escape my body as his fingers find my panties. The same thoughts keep racing through my brain:

  I'm barely eighteen.

  This can't be happening.

  He's my sister's ex-boyfriend, not mine.

  She dumped him months ago. He’s supposed to be gone; it's just a dream.

  A very bad fucking dream.

  Stop, stop, stop!

  But it doesn't stop, and I can feel his fingers ripping at my underwear.

  I try to scream, but once again, he muffles it with his palm.

  Wincing, I prepare myself for the worst, when, to my surprise, his fingers fall away. His grip on me loosens, and a loud thud echoes throughout the room.