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Chapter four
Naomi
Not gonna lie, I was way off when it came down to what I should expect. I had all sorts of vivid details conjured up, thinking Sons of Anarchy-type of clubhouse. Yeah, I couldn’t have been more wrong—it’s nothing in comparison. Spin calls it the compound, and this place definitely fits the name as it’s large, taken care of, and well-protected.
We slowly ride through a gated entrance with another biker standing guard to unlock it and let us in. A tall chain-link fence from either direction matches the entrance gate and seems to span around the entire property. Spin says it’s to keep people out so we’re always safe. I can’t help but wonder if it’s to keep people inside as well. I’m trying to take it all in with a grain of salt and be open-minded, but it’s a bit of culture shock.
The few half-naked women we passed while walking through the common area were quick to give me a once-over and turn away uninterested. I have a feeling if I were male, I’d have been welcomed differently. Spin assures me most of the MC members have an ol’ lady, so there are no other club whores around. His words, not mine. I’d never call a woman a club whore, but again, not judging. I’m here hoping for help, not to chastise them on their club terms and way of life.
Now I’m sitting in Spin’s room, minding my own business. Or at least striving to, as every bone in my body is screeching at me to get up and poke around in his stuff to find out every detail I can about him. One thing that’s for certain, without me having to snoop around, is the man loves art, and I’m not talking about any old designs. First of all, one wall is dark purple, another gray, and the final two are white. His bedspread is jet black, along with his curtains and pillows. His dresser and desk are both littered with multiple sketch pads, charcoal pencils, oil paints, markers, tattoo ink, some weird-shaped rulers, white erasers, smudge sticks, and other artsy-type stuff. There are large, elaborate hand drawings in frames on the walls, a few paintings, as well as one in ink and an easel off to the side. Something tells me this is all him—his personal works of art.
He should be selling these in galleries in big cities, not locking them away. Such creations deserve to be shared with the world, which tells me there’s a story behind him locking them away.
Who are you, Spin?
What’s your story?
Spin told me to stay in his room until he comes to get me and gives me the “all clear” or else I’d be walking around right now, checking out the entire space. After lying in the hospital bed for hours, I want to stretch my limbs a bit and explore. And don’t get me started on the ride over here. It was completely exhilarating. I can’t remember the last time I felt so peaceful and free. No wonder people love motorcycles as much as they do. I didn’t mention it to Spin, but that was my first time riding. I figured it might freak him out too badly to let me ride. He was already concerned with me being pregnant, so I kept my mouth shut about never having been on a motorcycle before.
I’ll never forget it, or him.
A knock interrupts my thoughts, making me sit up straight. It could be anyone, as I highly doubt Spin would knock on his own bedroom door to come inside. “Uh, Spin’s not here! He’ll be back soon,” I yell instead. Whoever it is, hopefully they’ll come back later.
“It’s Sadie. I want to speak with you.”
“Of course! Please come in,” I call through the door and watch as it opens. A tiny sprite of a woman enters, flashing a warm smile. She reminds me of a biker Tinkerbell, but I have a feeling her bite is a lot sharper than Tink’s.
“Hi, I’m Sadie.”
Standing, I hold my hand out. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Naomi, and I hope I didn’t stir up any trouble by coming here.” I plop back down on the comfy chair. I’m much bigger than her, and I don’t want her to feel like I’m being overbearing by randomly showing up or from my size.
“Trouble? No way. You caught everyone off guard, but it’s good to have them on their toes occasionally.” She sits on the chair’s arm, right next to me, gesturing to my stomach. “How far along are you?” she questions, and I feel like she’s genuinely curious, not just trying to fill the silence. Finding people who truly care about strangers is hard to come by these days, and it instantly notches up my respect for her to another level.
“I’m past my six-month mark. I swear it’s taking forever for my due date to get here, and this kid loves to play kickball with my bladder.”
She laughs. “It’ll be here before you know it, then you’ll be scrambling. Trust me, I felt the same way with mine. You want them to hurry up and come out, then you miss them and wish they were still in your belly at times. Motherhood is unlike any experience I’ve ever had. Never thought I could love a tiny human so much when I first met them.”
My smile’s wide by the time she stops talking. “I can’t wait for everything you just said,” I admit. I’ll have my own little person to shower with love and cuddles.
“So, Naomi, tell me what brought you here.”
