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“Sometimes it can’t be helped, brother,” I said. “You can still be involved in your kid’s life. Still be a good father.”
“I know. But she’s a sweet girl. I’m not sayin’ I’m in love after one night together, but we could work at it. See if it’s something.”
“She’s right though, Bronto,” Deacon said, “You don’t need to get married.”
“She won’t even entertain the idea of goin’ on a date, though. Says she doesn’t wanna be tied down. Doesn’t want me getting the wrong idea. Do I give off a vibe I’d be clingy or some shit?”
“Maybe,” I replied.
“Yeah, maybe,” Bront agreed and put his head in his hands. “Her sister says she’s still wrapping her mind around the idea of bein’ pregnant, that I should be patient.”
“Sounds like good advice,” Deacon said.
Scott came in then, throwin’ his arm around Bront. “Just heard. Congrats, man. You good?”
Bront blew out a long exhale. “Dunno. A little stunned. Somethin’ else has me fucked up, too, though.”
“What’s that?” Scott asked, signaling Little John who was manning the bar.
“That girl Dina called me the other day,” Bront said.
“Yeah?” I jutted my chin up. “Warned you. That one’s bad news. You fucked her, didn’t you?”
Bront laughed. He laughed for a long time. It was kind of manic.
“Bront?” I checked.
“Yeah. I fucked Dina. She told me she’s pregnant, too.”
Deacon choked on his beer.
“Didn’t wanna bring it up until I know for sure. Might not be mine. Said it could be mine or it could be Blow’s. Said she’ll ask the doc for a paternity test with my sample. If it’s not mine, she’ll know it’s Blow’s.”
Thank fuck I put a rubber on when I was with her.
“You don’t know to put a sock on it, Bronto?” Deacon asked. “In this day and age?”
“I did with Dina. And she told me Blow wore one, too. She doesn’t know how it happened or whose it is.”
“What about with Lulu?” I asked. “No glove?”
“Couldn’t find any in my room. Had a fresh box of them too.”
I had a lightbulb moment. “Fucked Dina before Lulu?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Dina probably took ‘em. Had rubbers go missing from my wallet after the last time I fucked her,” I said.
I suspected that chick had a screw loose.
“Shit. Well, we were in the heat of the moment, and I told Lulu I’d just pull out. I was really drunk and I didn’t pull out quite in time.”
“Shit,” Scott muttered. “Got no rhythm.”
Bront snickered but then sobered. “I got one, maybe even two kids on the way. What the fuck do I do with this?”
Deacon clapped him on the back. “Birds and bees, my brother.”
“Bikers and babes,” Scott said.
“Most biker babes know better and are on the pill,” Deacon stated.
We raised our glasses.
“Cheers to biker babes,” I said.
Me, Deacon, and Scott laughed. Bront didn’t.
***
A few of the other guys joined us, and I stayed for a few beers before I headed to my girl, who was in bed with her guitar.
“How’s Bronto?” she asked.
“Shellshocked. He’ll be okay, though. He’s got lots of us at his back. Remember that chick Dina?”
“The one that asked for the threesome?”
“Yep. She’s knocked-up too. Could be Bront’s, could be Blow’s.”
“Holy shit. Jojo’s pregnant too. The next generation of Dominion Brotherhood bikers could be cooking in the cauldron.”
“Yup.”
“I love babies,” she said sadly. “I don’t want to die all alone, nobody by my side, miserable about my regrets like Aunt Francie would’ve been if I hadn’t called Aunt Tammy. Maybe she’d have been happier if she’d had kids.”
“Then don’t push away people that give a shit about you. Simple as that. Be someone people will give a shit about. You’ve got that down pat already.”
“And maybe have about ten kids so that I’ve got a whack of family around me when I’m old.”
“Ten kids, huh?”
She gave me a sheepish grin and shrugged.
“Better put that guitar down and let me put that first baby in you now, then.”
She laughed. “Not quite yet.”
“No?” I asked, taking the guitar and putting it in the recently purchased guitar stand beside the bed. “Soon?” I asked.
“Maybe four or five years,” she suggested. But something in her eyes wasn’t right.
“Works for me. But, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”
She sighed.
I lay down beside her and propped my head on my elbow.
“Talk to your captor, hostage.”
“Just writing a song. It’s got me in my feelings, I guess. The not-so-nice ones.”
“What’s the song about?”
“Sometimes my past makes me feel dirty. Thinking on it reminds me of what people probably say about me, think of me. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it makes me numb. But always, dirty. Like there’s grit on my skin that I can’t get off.”
“There isn’t, G.”
“I know. Recently figured out that when I feel like that I only need one look into your eyes when you’ve got your arms around me and the way you look at me when you hold me, it makes me feel like I’m washed clean.”
