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“Fuckin’ Reilly. Shut the fuck up.”
She laughed again. It quickly faded when the baby began to cry softly. “Oh, I think Duchess wants another bottle.”
“How fuckin’ much can a little shit factory like her eat?”
Reilly shrugged, lifted her cell phone, pushed a button and asked, “Google, how often do newborns eat?”
A computerized voice came back through the phone’s speaker. “Most newborns eat every two to three hours, or eight to twelve times every twenty-four hours.”
“Holy shit,” Reilly whispered.
“Fuck,” Cage groaned.
Reilly’s head spun toward him. “Reese wasn’t even eleven yet when I was born. She had to feed me that much?”
Cage shot her a surprised glance. “Your mom didn’t feed you at all?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, still whispering. “I’ll have to ask Reese.”
“Look, Reese musta did all right and you didn’t fuckin’ die since you’re sittin’ in that seat, so let’s get back to worryin’ about me,” he glanced in the rearview mirror at the occupied car seat, “and her. What am I gonna do?”
“You’re asking me?” she squeaked.
“I sure as shit ain’t askin’ the fuckin’ baby.”
“Well, I guess you’re going to feed her as soon as we get back to the garage and then change her diaper when she squirts all that milk back out.” Reilly wrinkled her nose. “I’m not doing it again. Your turn. You need to learn.”
“Should I even be touching a girl down there?”
“She’s your daughter.”
His fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter as he shouted, “We don’t even fuckin’ know that! What the fuck!”
Did she giggle at his suffering?
“Cassie has experience with babies. Maybe she can give you a few lessons.”
That was more like it. Some real advice. “Apparently, so does Stella.”
“She does?”
“Yeah, nobody talks about it but I heard she had a kid.”
Reilly turned wide green eyes to him. “What happened to it?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know, Reilly. Back to my problems...”
“Okay, then there you go. You call them when we get back and have them stop over to show you some pointers.”
He groaned. Just what he needed, the prez and the enforcer’s ol’ ladies coming over and then spilling the beans to the two people who’ll want to knock his fucking block off for breaking the club’s Cardinal sin of not dicking with the Amish chicks.
The baby’s cry got louder, so he turned up the music.
Reilly turned the music back down. “You can’t just drown her out. She’s crying for a reason.”
He gave her the side-eye. “Okay, expert, what’s the reason?”
Reilly hit the side button on her phone again and asked loudly, “Google, why do babies cry?”
Cage gritted his teeth as the computer voice began to list the one million reasons why babies might cry.
On reason one hundred and fifty-three, he turned the Honda into the garage lot and instantly slammed on the brakes. “Oh fuck,” he whispered.
“Oooh. You’re in trouble now.”
“Like I wasn’t before?” he asked as he stared through the windshield at the lineup of bikes in front of the garage. His asshole actually squeezed the tiniest bit tighter.
As he shifted the car into Reverse, Judge and Trip both stepped out of one of the open garage bay doors and out into the daylight. They stared straight at him.
“Fuck.” He wasn’t a pussy. He wouldn’t run like a coward. However, today? He’d already dealt with one too many surprises. The day was turning into a nightmare that wouldn’t end.
“Are you going to pull up, or am I getting out here?” Reilly asked.
“They all know already,” he whispered.
“Well, of course they do. You guys are like a bunch of clucking hens. Gossip didn’t travel this fast when I was in high school.”
“Reilly...”
“No, I’m serious. You guys are worse than Italian grandmothers.”
Cage shook his head and reluctantly put the Honda back into Drive and slowly pulled into an empty spot.
“I’ll go in and get a bottle ready. You get Duchess out of the car.”
“Stop callin’ her that.”
“Well then, pick a name! Can’t just call her ‘baby.’”
“Why not?”
“Because... You just can’t. Pick something.”
His eyes landed on his Shovelhead parked nearby. “Harley.”
She scrunched up her face. “What? No! That’s too stereotypical.”
“I like it.” What biker didn’t want to name his kid Harley? A kid, not his.
“No. Pick something better.”
“This ain’t your kid.”
“And as you told me a few times already—and everyone else, too—she might not be yours, either,” she insisted.
Cage closed his eyes and took a huge inhale, beating back his impatience and a little bit of panic, too. “Just get out.”
Reilly rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She pushed the passenger door open and climbed out. Before she closed it, she leaned in and peered into the back seat. “You can’t sit in the car forever and she’s hungry.” The door slammed shut.
Cage rubbed at his forehead. His headache was no longer due to his hangover, it was now due to a crying baby and also what—or who—was waiting for him.
