Page 11 of Avenging Devil: Part 1

Weeks pass, but my fear that Duke won’t stop looking for me never fades. I shop only when I need to, and apart from going to work, keep away from anyone who might want to make a record of me. Since coming to San Diego, I’ve not visited a doctor. I’m healthy, I don’t need one, but as time passes, I do wonder about my child.

I’m five and a half months pregnant now, and I’ve got questions. Is he or she growing alright? Is it moving as much as it should? I’ve had none of the assurances normal moms get, not since I left the hospital, and that was still early.

I read pregnancy books by the bucketload and follow all the advice. But is it enough?

I know I need to make sure, and I long to find out what gender I’m carrying. I don’t want it to be a surprise. I want to know whether I’m having a boy or a girl. Not that I’ve a preference for either sex, but I’d like to think of names and start to prepare.

I’ve been in San Diego three months, and Duke hasn’t caught up with me. I must be safe, mustn’t I? Veering between thinking it’s a mistake, and knowing I have no choice, coming to a decision, I pick up the phone and make an appointment. Then, I sit back and smile, my hand rubbing my stomach.

Soon, baby, I’ll know what you are.Then I can start planning our life together.

That done, I pick up a catalogue I got from a baby store, and start looking at cribs and other paraphernalia, a kernel of excitement bubbling inside me.

In three and a half months, I’ll meet him or her.

I can’t wait.

Chapter Five

Niran

It had been an interesting discussion with Kink last night, not that I really got what he was talking about. Sex was sex, wasn’t it? Some good, some so-so, but not very often bad—for men, at least, who normally get off, women, possibly not so much, if they go with the wrong man or mislead him by faking it.

I can understand why when you add love into the mix, fucking transcends casual sex. But love isn’t what Kink’s talking about. All that negotiating rubbish seems to take the spontaneity out of that shit. If you go to a sex club, don’t you want to get fucked? If you wanted conversation, you’d go to a bar. Still, I suppose as I made do with my hand last night, any sex with another party might be good right now. I seem to be going through a dry spell. Maybe it’s time to rectify that. Perhaps I need to go into town and see if I can connect with someone.

No chance today, though. I grin to myself as I walk out of the clubhouse to where Pennywise, Salem and Hard Token are waiting by their bikes. As had been planned after my chat with Kink, today we’re just going to head out and see where the road takes us.

Can there ever be anything better than four guys out for a ride? Letting the wind blow away all thoughts other than how good our life is? Nah, not even sex.

Sunday passes in a whirl of pavement beneath our wheels, good food at a bar we find which we’ve never tried before, and great conversation when we park up and just enjoy the scenery and fresh air for a while.

I return to the clubhouse renewed and refreshed, my mind circling back to that conversation the night before. Who needs to jump out of a plane or control a sub to put their life back into balance? Riding my bike does exactly that.

Inside, the MC life just gets better. Patsy, the club’s first old lady, has gotten the club girls under her thumb in the kitchen, and we’re treated to a very passable pot roast. The evening is spent dissecting the day’s ride, playing cards and losing a game of pool to Bones.

I’d enjoyed my time as a Marine, thought I’d never find anything to replace it, but joining the club has come a close second, and sometimes even tops it. Sure, I’m not flying halfway around the world at the drop of a hat, but neither am I risking my life for a war I care nothing about.

The ride out was good but tiring, and when I start to yawn and feel my prosthesis rub against the stump which is all that remains of my leg, I bid my goodnights and take myself up to my room.

Stripping off, I exchange my prothesis for my cane, and ease onto my mattress. Snuggling under the covers, I think I’ve got everything I need in my life. Of course, if I had my way, I’d have two flesh-and-blood legs, but I’ve moved on from regretting the loss of it.

But maybe there is one thing missing. Turning onto my side, I gaze at the empty side of the bed. What would it be like to find an old lady? Is there really someone out there for me? Someone who’d be there just for me, someone to come home to?

I don’t want casual. I want to care about a woman and want her to care about me.

Once, I thought I would find someone, settle down, start a family like everyone else, but as it turns out, it wasn’t to be. First my service career had gotten in the way. I was never home long enough to find anyone. Now, I’m a biker with an extra complication. While I may have come to terms with it, any woman I find has got to be okay with my missing leg. I’m already aware for some, it’s a turnoff.

Still, if Grumbler can find a woman of his own, maybe there’s hope for me yet.

Hopefully I won’t have to wait as long as him.

In the darkness, I grin, moving into the centre of my king-sized bed, spreadeagling my arms and legs, happy that I can hog everything. Maybe there are benefits to sleeping alone. With that thought I turn over and stop thinking at all.

Monday dawns. I might love my job—working at the auto-shop owned by the club is like working for myself as I take a share of the profits we make—but like anyone else, I don’t particularly like the start of the work week. At the weekends, I can do what I want and when. During the week, I’m at the beck and call of anyone who wants their work done.

Despite all the years I was a Marine, dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn is not my idea of fun. Even though I retain the ability to leap into action as soon as the alarm goes off, it doesn’t mean I necessarily do so with good grace. Wiping sleep from my eyes, I reverse my bedtime routine—piss first, shower, then get myself dressed in some fresh clothes. Yawning widely, I descend the stairs.

Two of our prospects, Connor and Curtis, are in the kitchen doing their best to cook edible food. Seeing the bacon looks okay, the pancakes just this side of acceptable and the eggs are decidedly iffy, I help myself to a coffee and fill a plate deciding to leave the latter.

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