Page 1 of Nanny for the Bikers

1

KIP

“So, Kipper, you gonna tell us about that chick at the bar or what?” Teller arches an eyebrow mischievously at me. “From what I saw, she had tits to brag about.”

It’s honestly a shock to me that Teller was home tonight…since when does he pass on the opportunity of following a chick home?

I sit perched on a worn barstool in the living room of our townhouse, slightly lightheaded from all the beer but with no plans of stopping anytime soon. If there’s anything my childhood taught me; it’s how to hold my alcohol. My fingers wrap around the chilled beer bottle as I lift it to my lips, savoring the smooth sensation as I take my third swig. The couch creaks under the weight of Clay while Teller lounges in the armchair, his long legs dangling over the side.

I chuckle and lean back, riding the buzz of the alcohol. “Nah, man, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Pshh, gentleman, my ass!” Clay scoffs playfully. “Since when have you ever been one to pass up bragging about your conquests?”

I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Hey now, I’m turning over a new leaf. Trying to keep an air of mystery, ya know?”

They both burst out laughing and I can’t help but join in. I take another drink with a grin on my lips. He’s right. I’ve got a huge mouth.

“Sure, you are buddy!” Teller teases. “Don’t leave us hanging. Tell us what happened,” and I can’t help but to indulge.

“She was something else in that tight little dress.” Thinking about her has me starting to come alive beneath the belt. I lean back on the barstool, balancing precariously as I gesture with my near-empty bottle. “I’m telling’ ya, guys, I could’ve had her eating out of the palm of my hand.” The words come out a bit more slurred than I intend, but I press on, determined to sell my story. “But you know me, always leave ‘em wanting more.”

Clay raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and skepticism. “Is that so? Sounds more like she left you high and dry, buddy.”

I clutch my chest in mock offense, nearly toppling off the stool in the process. “Be fucking serious, Clay. What woman is able to resist all of this?” I take another swig, the cool liquid soothing my bruised ego. “I’ll have you know I’m a master of the art of seduction.”

Teller snorts, his usually stoic face cracking into a grin. “More like a master of delusion, Kip.”

I flip him the bird, but I can’t help the laughter that bubbles up from my chest. “Laugh it up, assholes. Just wait ’til next time. I’ll have her begging for more.”

A knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts, the sound echoing through the room.

“I got it,” I say, pushing myself up from the barstool. The room sways slightly as I stand, the beer making its presence known. I steady myself with a hand on the counter, then make my way to the door.

“Bet it’s that chick from the bar,” I call over my shoulder, my words slurring slightly. “She couldn’t resist my charm after all.”

Clay rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Sure, Kip. And I’m the Queen of England.”

I flip him off again, then turn back to the door. What if it really is her? What if she’s here to take me up on my offer, to let me show her just how good I can make her feel? I yank the door open, a cocky grin already spreading across my face. But the smile dies on my lips as I take in the sight before me.

There’s no one there.

I blink, confusion washing over me like a cold shower. I poke my head out, glancing left and right, but there’s nobody. “What the hell?” I mutter, scratching the back of my neck. Maybe I’m drunker than I thought.

Or maybe this is some kind of prank, a joke at my expense. Whatever. I’m too drunk for this.

I’m about to slam the door shut and head back inside when a soft sound catches my attention. It’s barely audible over the noise from the living room, but it’s there all the same.

A cry.

My heart stops, then kicks into overdrive. There, tucked against the wall beside the front door, is a sight that makes my blood run cold.

A car seat. And inside, a tiny, squirming bundle, its face scrunched up in distress.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Clay, Teller, get out here. Now.”

I kneel down, my hands shaking as I unbuckle the straps, revealing a little girl who can’t be more than six months old. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are wet with tears, but thankfully, she’s dressed warmly in a pink onesie and matching hat.

Beside the carrier, I spot a diaper bag, its bright colors a stark contrast to the drab ground. And there, tucked into the side pocket, is a folded piece of paper.

---