Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(42)

The second last thing was scaring the hell out of poor Alex worse than I already had. He'd started crying as soon as he realized something was wrong, about a split second before I saw Joker's bike tear through the bushes.

By the time I picked him up, the lone, deafening gunshot had rang out. Hatch was screaming on the phone, snarling and cursing like a mad dog. I picked it up off the floor and hurled it at the wall as hard as I could, silencing it forever.

I walked across the debris, feeling the satisfying crunch underfoot. The demon who'd threatened my son would be twice as hellbent on killing us tomorrow, but today, he'd lost.

There was about thirty seconds of satisfaction before Jackson's heavy boot kicked down the door. He came in, staring at us, his eyes glued to the baby in my arms.

I wasn't sure how I kept it together. Everything I'd tried to hide away was out in the open, lost in an instant, forever torn away from me by that wild, scary energy in his eyes.

They'd been so dead, so haunted, for so f*cking long. But when he saw Alex, before he told me to shut up and leave with him, I saw something I never thought I'd see swirling in those intense hazel eyes ever again.

Life.

He knew the kid was ours. He knew I'd hid him. And I'd probably be dismembered for doing it by the end of the night.



*

Joker didn't say a word when I followed him into a cracked parking lot. It belonged to a tall, worn looking building.

He got off his bike and motioned, leaving me to park the car in an empty space nearby, then collect Alex. I followed him to the door he unlocked, and we stepped into a tiny lobby lined with big mailboxes.

At least it was cleaner in here than it looked on the outside. Better than the place I'd been living, under the Deadhands' gun.

He shot me an angry look over his shoulder, checking to make sure I was following as he headed for a big, winding staircase.

Little Alex yawned in my arms. I walked slowly, careful not to wake him, hoping he'd finally get some sleep after all the excitement.

He wasn't scared anymore. That counted for something. But now it was like I'd taken his innocent terror, feeling my blood turn to ice with every step I took toward Joker's apartment.

Mine wasn't nearly as innocent. Maybe I deserved whatever was coming, the barrage of abuse, but I'd only tried to protect my son from a man so dangerous, so broken, a normal family life wasn't in his makeup.

Upstairs, he stopped next to a big wooden door, jammed the key into the lock, and threw it open. He held it open, waving us in, while he pulled out his phone.

“Sixty, it's me,” I heard him say. “Feed Bingo for me tonight. Won't be coming back to the clubhouse to pick him up 'til tomorrow sometime.”

I looked around for a place to sit. His apartment was surprisingly spartan, and I walked toward the big couch in the middle of the room, never seeing any of the beer bottles or busted pizza boxes I'd expected.

“Shit, bro, you okay?” I heard the other man say through the phone. “Must've found your own f*ckin' party – we were keeping your bottle warm! Whatever, long as you're happy, fed, and deep in *. Out.”

Joker killed the call with a grunt. A tense silence blanketed the small, cozy space between us. I watched him take a lap around the coffee table like a lion deep in thought, before he finally sat in the black leather recliner across from us.

I licked my lips, tasting fear in my own sweat. “I don't know where to begin,” I said.

“At the f*ckin' beginning, babe. You tell me a story. I'll sit here and listen real quiet – just like your little boy.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, the wild eyes he shared with my son stabbing through me. “Maybe by the time you get to the end, you can put him down for a nap in my room. Then we can talk about more serious shit.”

I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat before I started. Had to do it several more times throughout my story. I told him about the Deads rolling into Seddon, coming into my store, roughing up whoever they didn't like, and walking out half the time without paying for anything.

Nobody challenged them. Nobody dared.

I told him about the drugs, how bad it got since mama died and he left for Tennessee, what life was like, living in a building half-full of junkies.

He heard about how long I suffered alone, doing my best to raise Alex on my shoestring budget and some food stamps when I needed them, how I wished every day, every night, and every minute in between that mama was still alive to help.

I didn't tell him the truth about the boy, where he'd come from. Stupid when he knew – holy Christ, he knew – but the words caught in my throat every single time.

He watched the tears come down in silence, sitting up a little straighter, a mix of compassion and raw hatred in his eyes.

God, what a contrast.

What a storm.

Joker sucked in a sharp, brutal breath, one that made his entire chest ripple, reminding me how incredible he looked underneath his leather cut and thin club t-shirt.

No, no I couldn't think about that, though. I had to carry on.

“Then there was Hatch,” I said. “That's what he called himself.”

“President of the f*ckin' Deads in northern Georgia,” he growled, nodding.

He already knew. Hell, of course he did. None of this nightmare would've happened if I weren't plunged into the middle of a blood war between motorcycle clubs.