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Maggie pauses and sets her lips in a firm line. This is it — I’ve been responsible for Charlie for all of fifteen minutes, and I’m going to lose custody of him. And what hurts me just as much as the fact that Charlie may be taken away is thinking about the look on Hunter’s face as I tell him the news.
Maggie fixes Sophie with a glare so cold that it freezes her in place.
“You can’t afford it? That’s why you’re not providing your baby the care that he needs?”
It’s all Sophie can do to nod.
Maggie reaches into a pocket of her lab coat and takes out her cellphone. When Sophie tries to say something, she holds up one commanding finger and there’s an audible click as her mouth slams shut. I can’t say anything. I can’t even move. All I can do is watch as everything falls apart in front of my eyes.
“That’s a big problem. You and your baby aren’t going anywhere until I’ve made this phone call.”
Chapter Twelve
Hunter
I park my truck in the lot in front of The Noble Fir. Before coming here, I made the deliberate choice to leave my bike back at the house. To ride in here, sporting my old nomad cut, and on my bike might be too much. First impressions matter, and the last thing I want to do is make a bad one with the club that runs this town. No, better to be humble, and there are few things more humble than a twenty-something GMC Sierra. Beat-up, with faded paint, and a cargo bed that has just enough room for my bike, and no room at all for any ego. It shudders and spits a gout of steam as I kill the engine.
Yes, better to be humble, I think as I slam the door behind me. It’s a wonder this ride made it this far, and it’ll be good to be in with the TDMC and able to ride my Harley without risking their wrath, because I sure as hell don’t know how many more days this truck has left in it.
I go inside, passing through a modest crowd to find my way to the bar. The bar itself is like a nicer version of the old saloons that hearken back to the time when this part of the country was inhabited by fishermen, ranchers, and lumberjacks, except someone with a touch of class and money has made everything a little fresher and a lot less of a tetanus risk.
A woman with her red hair done up in some hard-edged hairstyle that reminds me of something out of one of those post-apocalyptic movies nods at me as I pull up a stool. “You’re new. What can I get you?”
“A beer. Something strong and not what strange people with annoying facial hair drink.”
I turn away from her, survey the crowd. In this packed bar, I want to know who’s a civilian, who’s a club member, and which one of them is the club president. In the blink of an eye, I spot several suspects and no definitive rank badges, and I then take a second to scout for exits, in case things take a wrong turn.
“Whatever it is, don’t even think about it.”
Her voice draws me around just as much as her tone; it’s nonchalant, almost disappointed, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking and knows exactly how it will end.
“What do you mean?”
“You have that tired, desperate look about you, like you’re ready to try something incredibly stupid. Let me tell you, the only thing you’ll get out of whatever you’re planning is dismembered and dead.” She plops the beer on the bar in front of me. “That’ll be six dollars and fifty cents.”
“And if I want to start a tab?”
“It wouldn’t be smart of me to let you start a tab if you’re just going to die later, would it? Nope. Suicidal idiots pay up front.”
I put the cash on the bar, despite her attitude. “Not planning on dying tonight. I got a baby at home I have to look after, and I doubt he would take kindly to me not being there for him.”
Her voice softens and warms. “You have a baby?”
“His name’s Charlie.”
“Do you have any pictures?” In a second, she’s gone from sounding like she wouldn’t bat an eye at my funeral, to having the enthusiasm of a Labrador with the zoomies. “Can I see them?”
I nod and take out my phone and open up my photos app. There are about fifty or sixty photos of Charlie on there. What started initially as a desire to build a cover story as his parent — because what parent doesn’t have a few pictures of their kid — and in case I ever misplaced the boy, because I will be the first to admit I’m not the ‘responsible dad’ type, morphed into having a whole hell of a lot of pictures of the kid because he’s damned cute. I may be a ruthless ex-Army Ranger and mercenary nomad biker for hire, but a cute baby is a cute fucking baby.
“I’ve got some,” I say as I hand the phone over. She oohs as she swipes through the photo album.
“How old is he?”
“Four months.”
“So cute,” she says. “I just want to pinch his cheeks and blow raspberries into his tummy.”
“Sure he’d enjoy that. Charlie loves the attention.”
