Page 11 of Biker's Enemy

Nobody knows about the baby that showed up on my doorstep or the letter claiming the child is my daughter. I have folks in my family verifying the letter’s claims. Sure, the letter came with DNA test results, but those could be doctored. We need something more specific. Until then, I have the child out at the adobe house, guarded by the only person I trust with this information — Wyatt’s mom. My aunt.

Mom is too fragile to handle information like this. She will want this kid to be mine so fucking badly, she’ll make it happen. I just want the truth.

Aunt Deborah makes me categorize the women I’ve slept with and I give her a list of names that I can remember. I know it doesn’t portray me in the best light, but she takes down the names without judgment and plans to use discreet methods to track down the child’s mother and how this two year old ended up on my doorstep.

I don’t even know if she’s two.

I don’t even know her name. It feels wrong to give her one because she isn’t mine and it also feels wrong not to give her one.

This bullshit couldn’t have come at a worse time. Hunter and I need to iron out the details of this deal and then… the baby.

Even if I don’t know her identity or how the hell she ended up on my doorstep, I feel this strange, unusual attachment to her. It’s not like me. I don’t get attached to anything. Not women. Not children.

If there’s one thing I learned from my parents’ marriage it’s that love will fuck you up. They were crazy about each other… but I mean crazy. They fought as hard as they made up which is all well and good to acknowledge now that I’m a man.

But when I was a kid, most of what I remember is the fighting and how goddamn bad it would get. From the time I was twelve years old, I would steal whatever bikes I could get my hands on and just ride out until it was dark. Nobody even cared that I was out late.

As long as I made the varsity football team and kept my grades at a C average, neither of my parents gave a shit what I did.

If your own parents don’t give a shit about you, it makes it hard to trust that anyone else will.

The longer I stay away from the baby, the worse I feel.

When I leave Hunter’s place, I’m glad he doesn’t notice any change in me. But believe me, there was one.

It’s the only thing that has distracted me successfully from my anxious, clawing thoughts of the baby that showed up on my doorstep.

Quin Nash.

Hunter’s warning to stay away from her doesn’t stop me from conducting basic research from my hotel room. I have to check out before 11 a.m. tomorrow morning to head back to Arizona, leaving me plenty of time to think about Quin and what I’m going to do about her.

Because I have to do something.

She’s beautiful.

Not just that… I could use her.

She clearly needs some help or she wouldn’t be hiding away at Hunter and Juliette’s place. There’s nothing Hunter Sinclair can give her that I can’t. And she has no real connections to the club. No reason to betray the fact that I have a child to anyone.

I can’t stop myself from thinking about her for the next two hours in my hotel room. I find her on social media through Juliette’s page and catch myself up on every possible detail about her. She’s about Juliette’s age — twenty years old.

So too young for me, but not illegal. And she’s pretty. I like women who redefine the word thick and Quin fits the bill perfectly.

I convince myself that my primary desire for her isn’t about sex. I have a baby problem on my hands and a mystery to solve. And that baby needs a nanny. Normal folks might consider hiring a nanny but that opens up someone in my line of work to a hell of a lot of risk.

I would much rather have someone I can trust. Someone I can control.

Someone like Quin.

My aunt Deb calls just after I take my tenth screenshot of a photo from Quin’s public social media page.

“Hello?”

“Baby Avery is doing perfectly,” she says. “I’m putting her to bed right now.”

Avery? That’s new.

“Avery? Is that what we’re going with now?”

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