His Property (Iron Bandits MC)

It was the best worst mistake I’d ever made.

But I was paying for it ever since—and would be, for who knew how long. That cost might go on for years: a forever-awkward tension between myself and little Peter’s mama.

Jeezus, is this what it was like to be a baby-daddy who split with his baby-mama? How many families went through this shit? Fuck. Avoiding this mess had been the whole purpose of the agreement.

Now that I had already gone and fucked it up, there was a part of me that tried to argue that continuing to fuck it up—and thereby, continuing to get to fuck the delectable, beautiful, insanely hot woman I wanted—would be no worse than what I had already done, so why not continue the course, at least for the six months we were going to remain married?

There was actually a line of sense in there. It was buried, but it was in there.

But I knew that wasn’t what Ellie wanted. She wanted nothing more to do with me. She’d made that much very clear, with her silent censure. Crystal.

I had no idea what had been going through Ellie’s mind in the couple of weeks since the explosion. —And yeah, that was what I was calling it. It seemed apt.

Now, she barely spoke to me. She walked around me as if she were on eggshells. She rarely looked me in the eye. She wasn’t rude, but she was short with the small talk, which suited me just as well, too. And she had stopped smiling at me altogether.

When she blushed—which still happened—I knew it wasn’t something she could control. Then she’d avoid eye contact that much more, and she got a fierce look on her face, like she was angry with herself. I could hardly blame her. I had a similar problem, but mine was only slightly easier to hide under cover of untucked shirts.

All in all, it was a fucking miserable situation.

# # #

“Jack-o, man, you got a call! Line two, it’s Ellie!” Trini’s voice was like a drill in my skull. —But wait, Ellie was calling me? Shit, something had to be wrong. She wouldn’t be calling me otherwise. I knew that in my gut.

I picked up, fast as. “Ellie? What’s wrong?”

“He’s gone. Peter’s gone! I don’t know wher—“

“What the fuck do you mean, Peter’s gone? How can—“

“I don’t know! He’s not here! I put him down an hour ago, then was doing laundry and cleaning up, and I came back in here, and—“

“Is he crawling yet? Did he start? Did you look in the closet, in the hall—“

“Jack! No! He’s gone! As in, he’s not in his basket, he’s not in the bed, he’s not in the hou—“

“Well where the fuck could he—“

“Stop yelling at me! Jack, please. Help me find my baby. Just, help me—“

“Stay there. I’m coming. Be there in five.”

As I grabbed my keys and wallet from my desk, I yelled out to Grath, who had obviously overheard and was already at my office door, looking like he was about to bust some balls, “I’m going back to the house. Ellie’s totally freaked. Peter’s missing. Call the boys, get ’em over there. If Peter’s been taken, we ride. Can’t think but it must be McAfee. We gotta canvas, or something.”

“On it.” And he was gone.

I ran out the door to my bike, and I made it home in four.

Chapter 20

Ellie

I’d never in my life been so scared. Twenty-six hours, and nothing. Not a peep. No baby sounds, no cries, no gurgles, no groans. No Peter. I was about to rip my hair out and absolutely lose my fucking mind.

The whole MC was out in force—and had been, ever since yesterday, when they all came pouring into the front yard, about ten to fifteen minutes after I had first called Jack at the shop. They all came running, like Peter was their own. That still amazed me. But I didn’t get lost in that thought—the crushing reality of my baby missing from the house, from my life, took priority over anything else that was going on.

I was a mess—all anxiety mixed with zombie, going through the motions because there was nothing else I could do. I wasn’t mindfully present. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, could barely answer questions.

Every time the phone rang, I jumped. Every time I heard a bike or a car pull up, I ran to the door, throwing it open, hoping against hope that it would be someone—anyone—with news of my baby, of where he was, how he was, when I would have him back.

Nothing. Not a goddamned peep.

We all figured it had to have been psycho Brian who had taken my baby, when I was in the laundry area inside the garage. It was the only rationale that made sense of Peter’s absence.