2. Gator #2
I chuckle. “Yeah, baby, I’m serious. Where else are we going to put all those kids you want?
I’m going to need to have the talk with your dad and publicly claim you as my ol’ lady before I really knock you up and move you into your dream house.
Your dad might shoot my kneecaps out instead of just kicking my ass if things go the other way around.
I’m serious, Pet.” She wants three kids, two boys and a girl.
I couldn’t give a shit less what we have, as long as I get to make a family with her.
The thought of seeing her knocked up with my kid gets me hard as a rock all over again.
See, it’s become an uncontrollable urge.
She beams at me with a smile so big I’m sure it puts the sun to shame.
Before worry sets in, Emma starts making that face, biting her bottom lip.
I know the wheel of anxiety is spinning, and I need to shut it down quick.
“You sure it’s not too soon?” She strokes her hands up and down my abs and arms, trying to ground herself.
The self-doubt I see on her face kills me a little inside, and I know that for the rest of my life I want to do my part to make sure she’s the most secure and cherished woman to ever grace this earth.
I tuck a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear, looking into her big blue eyes.
“I love you, my pet. I don’t care about how long we’ve been together.
I know you’re it for me.” With my dick still inside of her, I pump into her a few times, getting myself hard again.
“You can go do whatever you want, pet. I make enough money from the club and tattooing to support both of us. Just keep being my old lady, give me some babies, do whatever makes you happy, as long as you stay mine.”
She moans from the sensations I’m rekindling as I drag my dick in and out of her pussy slowly. “I’ll always be yours,” she moans.
***
Present…
If only I had known it would be the last night I spent with her.
I would have done a million things differently, starting with never leaving the safety bubble we had built.
Instead, I became the jackass who broke her heart and crushed all the plans and dreams we had for our future, simply by trying to be a good guy.
That shit is overrated, and our justice system is fucked.
The next night, I went out on a collection run in the city and made plans with Emma to sneak into her room when I got back. It was a simple run. A guy who had borrowed money from the club was due to pay back five grand on a fifteen-grand note. I pulled into the parking lot with a prospect in tow.
The bar was unusually crowded, and it took me a second to find an empty spot for us.
As soon as we parked the bikes and stepped off, I noticed two people arguing loudly near the entrance.
The large man yelling in a woman’s face just so happened to be John, the guy who owed me money, and the woman I found out later was his wife.
As I got closer to the altercation, John swung his fist and started beating the shit out of his wife.
I’m talking full-on, no holding back, whaling on this small woman.
They fell to the ground after John’s first swing, and he kept beating on her.
I kicked him in the jaw to get him off her, in one swift motion.
It turns out that when they started arguing inside the bar, someone had already called the cops.
As luck would have it, as a reward for being a good citizen on that lady's behalf, a cop pulled in just as my foot connected with the fucker's face.
I got booked into county jail, and they threw the book at me.
Case closed. I broke his jaw so badly it had to be surgically reconstructed.
John lived, and his wife took the worthless piece of shit back.
Luck paid me back again when I did eighteen months in prison for aggravated assault after breaking it off with the love of my life for her own good.
Do I regret it? Every day of my miserable ass-fucking life.
Was it the right decision? Who the fuck knows.
I just have to hope that every day I don’t have her in my arms, my suffering is traded for her being happy with someone else, all because I saved a bitch who apparently didn’t want to be saved.
Super fucked, I know, but me losing my girl got better. Last I heard, Emma has a kid now.
Now I’m a miserable piece of shit, doomed to fuck endless pussy for the rest of my life, because I damn sure will never take another ol’ lady.
But at least she got the family she wanted after all.
Can’t say it hasn’t made me a jealous, miserable motherfucker to think about it.
Every time I think of someone else touching her, my blood boils.
That summer with her was the best time of my life.
I hope her man knows how good he’s got it.
If not, I’d gladly kill him with a smile on my face, just for the fun of it, and then take his place if the opportunity ever arose.
I’ve been out of prison for almost two years now.
Until three days ago, things in my daily life had been okay enough that I hadn’t been waking up EVERY morning contemplating eating a bullet, just most mornings.
I’ll level with you. Living without my soul has been rotting me from the inside out since the day I walked away from her in that visitation room years ago.
The nights spent thinking of her lying in another man’s arms are enough to make me feel rabid and out of control.
I’m angry and bitter on the best of days, but most of the time I’m just bone-tired of wearing this mask, saying, “I’m just fine over here, guys, no need to worry. ”
To torture myself further, I had the house I wanted to build for Emma completed, just in case.
But my luck never works that way. I made all the decisions I could from behind bars and trusted my sister to handle the rest, because deep down I knew Harley knew the house was always for Emma. She was just kind enough not to say it.
After spending so much time in the joint, I wanted a house to come home to, not a room at the clubhouse, surrounded by testosterone-fueled bikers.
Even if the woman who was going to make it a home would never see it, I wanted to see it.
A glimpse of what might have been. It's a two-story farmhouse with five bedrooms, three baths, and a screened-in porch with a bed swing. Just the way she wanted it.
I’ve been doing runs and stacking my money, keeping my head down for the most part.
When I got out of the big house, I was just a mean fucker no one really wanted to be around, but I’m trying to work on it.
I’m making new plans for my future, including getting a tattoo studio up and running once it’s legal here in Oklahoma.
I’m working on laughing more and letting my guard down more often.
My new little stepbrother, Cole, has helped me more than he knows with my bitterness.
The kid has given me a little bit of sunshine in this fucked-up world.
He follows me around the clubhouse, looking at me like I hung the moon.
His favorite thing is watching me tattoo.
It brings back memories of when I first started out.
Harley let me use her as a human scribble pad.
Dad lost his fucking shit the first time he found out, since she was only fifteen.
He told me that if I needed to practice on anyone, it could be him.
My father and the brothers offered up their skin as tribute and helped me perfect my craft.
In a few years, I might teach Cole how to start laying ink if he’s interested.
A few weeks ago, I hooked him up him a little four-wheeler so he could ride around the compound with the other kids.
It was one of my favorite things to do growing up.
I figured it would be a good way for him to find his place among the other kids running around here.
He's taken my dad being shot and his household being turned upside down in stride. I’m proud of the kid.
Things have been going well for me, even though most days I feel like I’m spiraling.
But what’s the saying? When it rains, it pours.
My dad, the reigning national president, was shot three days ago.
I’m sitting here thinking it’s a real possibility I’ll lose the only parent who gave a shit.
As the Vice President, I’m in charge of the club for the time being.
Everyone is looking to me for answers I don’t know how to give, while my dad is in a coma, fighting for his life.
I feel like I’m just treading water right now.
If I stop swimming, I won’t come back up for air.
Given how these past few years have been, I feel like the last time I took a breath was that last night in the truck with Emma, because the next night the fucking life I had planned out fell apart.
I had to keep my head on a swivel in prison, not as much as some of the other guys, though, because of my sheer size and my affiliation with the club.
Being the cell-block tattoo artist paid well enough for commissary and kept my skills sharp.
I still lost count of how many fights I was in.
My pop or one of the brothers came to visit me every visitation day.
I had the brothers keep all the ladies away, though; they didn’t need to be in a place like that.
Every time Emma visited, I denied visitation, and every fucking letter I sent back killed me a little more. I was grateful when they finally stopped, because I didn’t know how many more ‘no’s’ I had left in me.