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CHAPTER NINE
Gabriel
I just don’t have time for this.
God, I hate thinking that way about Cayla but it’s true.
I don’t know what she’s got in her head but after four days of her refusing to let me enter the house and saying nothing other than more comments about me fucking my biker chicks, I’m making no headway with her at all. It’s killing me but I can’t be distracted right now. There’s a chance the Ridge Devils are going to war, not with the rival biker club—Shotgun decides to go with a sitdown and the rival leader wisely decides to back off—but with a gang that’s decided our interests in the city are contrary to theirs.
This is a time I need to show decisive leadership.
This is not the time for me to display any kind of distracted attitude.
Don’t get me wrong. Shotgun is going to make me the next president. Right now, a vote will be unanimous. Even if nobody wants me, Shotgun’s recommendation will get me more than half the votes. The problem isn’t whether or not I become president. The problem is whether or not I have the backing of the men once I’m in position. All of my plans rely on them buying in.
I can’t be distracted right now. At the least, I can’t appear to be distracted.
God, I wish I was guilty of whatever Cayla’s pissed about. At the very least, that would tell me what the hell is wrong. I mean, I know she thinks I’m cheating on her but why now? Not only is it not true but she knows a little about the clubs now and there’s a rule that says if I screw one of the sweetbutts, it’s something that’s never discussed. I mean, it’s essentially permission she gives thinking there’s no way for me to resist readily available pussy.
I do resist it, though, and I don’t know what the hell is going on.
And I have to keep those thoughts in the back of my head as I try to work with Shotgun on strategies for the upcoming conflict. The beer I drink while I stand at the bar in the club isn’t doing anything to make me feel better. “Guardian!” a voice calls. I turn and see Little Paul. There’s nothing little about this hulk of a man.
“What’s up?”
“You know Tiny Tina?” I nod and he says, “she took a spill. There’s a chance she’s going to lose the baby.”
That’s kind of a big deal. At least six guys in the club might be the baby’s father. Maybe more. Once it’s born, one will either claim her and the baby or Shotgun will hold a lottery to pick which one is her Old Man and the father of the baby. In some cases, there might be paternity tests, especially if more than one guy wants her, but that’s not typically how things are done. Trust in a club like ours is as important as status and appearances. Right now, the technicalities don’t matter, since everyone who thinks he might be the father is facing the loss of his baby.
“Here or in the city?”
“She’s at the urgent care but they’re probably going to have to transfer her. Listen, Gabe,” he says. Guys don’t call me Gabe under ordinary circumstances. In the club, your nickname becomes your identity. The reason he uses my real name is clear when he says, “She might not make it. They’re talking about saving the baby, maybe even keeping her alive on life support for another month if they can.”
“Come with me,” I say, immediately standing and heading for the door. “Bring everyone who has a chance of being the baby’s father.”
“All right,” he calls. “Chip, Styx, Whale, Charlie Charlie, Hammer, and Hulk, come with me.”
The guys look up questioningly, but when they see him follow me outside, they stand and join us. When we’re outside, Little Paul briefly explains what’s going on with Tina. Everyone’s eyes widen and Chip in particular appears crushed but holds it together as we get on our bikes and head to the hospital.
When we reach the building, the receptionist has wristbands waiting for us. The club has donated millions of dollars to the hospital over the years and the workers here know all of us. We head upstairs to the ICUs and check in with the charge nurse.
The news isn’t good. Tina took a turn for the worse and isn’t expected to survive the night. They had to perform an emergency c-section to save the baby, a girl. The baby is fine, but since there is no old lady to go with the baby, it’s not likely any of the men—even Chip—will step up to take her.
I call all the men outside and say, “All right. You’re all taking paternity tests and whoever is father to that baby is going to be the best damn Dad the world has ever seen.”
Whale opens his mouth to protest, but a look from Little Paul silences him. The men shuffle inside and check in with the attending physician, who orders paternity tests for each of them. They take turns going to bloodwork and getting the tests done.
We take shifts over the next three days, keeping watch and waiting for the paternity tests to come back. I stay there the entire time, leaving only to shower.
After three days, the test comes back. Chip is the father. We make sure we get his real name—Jonah Blake—printed on the birth certificate and send him to meet his daughter.
Just in time. As soon as he leaves the room, we get the news that Tina has finally passed.
I manage to keep myself composed while we break the news to Chip. He nods and puts on a show of strength like any biker would, but I see tears shining in his eyes. I make sure he and the baby are okay, then leave.
I feel numb. I didn’t like Tina, but this is a shitty way for anyone to go.
I don’t realize that I’ve gone to Cayla’s house until I stand in front of the door and hear her say, “Get the fuck out of here, asshole!”
“One of the girls died,” I say through the door. “Can we talk, please?”
There’s silence for a while, but finally, the door opens and Cayla says, “All right.”
I sit at the table, and she pours me a shot of bourbon. I take a sip, then take a deep breath and begin to talk.
