18. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Ginger
The evening light filtered weakly through the blinds of our suite, casting long shadows. I shifted on the sofa, as I watched KiKi fidget with the hem of her shirt. The air between us felt thick, charged with something I couldn't quite name but recognized all the same—the particular tension that comes before a confession.
"So the other girls are still giving you shit?" I asked, breaking the silence that had settled between us. The suite wasn't much, but it was larger than the single room we’d had before, and it was a haven from the chaos of the main room downstairs.
KiKi nodded, her gaze fixed on the carpet. "Sasha's the worst. She’s pissed I’m not entertaining the men, but she still has to. No one has told her I’m pregnant. They know the rules, and would expect Vegas to throw me out."
I leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Maybe she’s just jealous?"
"Fuck no." KiKi snorted. "She seems to like being with the men. I think she just feels like I’m getting special treatment and wants to know why."
I watched how KiKi's fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her drink—a bottle of water.
“You found a job or a place to live yet?” I asked.
She shook her head, looking defeated. I hated that for her. She’d been so strong and vibrant when I first arrived.
"You could stay here," I offered, knowing as I said it that it wasn't really my offer to make.
KiKi's hands stilled in her lap, fingers interlacing so tightly her knuckles went white. I knew that look—the one that said there was more, something worse lurking beneath the surface.
"What aren't you telling me?" I asked, my voice dropping lower though we were alone in the suite.
She looked up then, her eyes meeting mine for the first time since we'd started talking. There was fear there, raw and unmistakable. "I fucked up, Ginger."
The words hung between us, heavy with implication. KiKi's version of "fucked up" existed on an entirely different scale than most people's.
"Is it the same as last time?" I asked quietly, referencing abortion she’d had years before, when she’d been pregnant with Vegas’ baby.
The color drained from her face so quickly I thought she might pass out. Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again. When she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. "Vegas can never find out."
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.
"KiKi—"
The door flew open with a bang that made us both jump. Detroit filled the doorway, six-foot-four of solid muscle and barely contained violence. His cut was spotted with something dark that I deliberately didn't look too closely at. Blood had a way of looking different to people who'd seen too much of it; it stopped being shocking and started being just another stain to deal with.
Detroit's eyes, cold and assessing, swept the room before landing on KiKi. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted, a coiling of tension that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Detroit," I said, rising to my feet. Not out of respect—I wasn't a club girl who needed to bow and scrape—but because facing danger sitting down had always seemed like a bad idea.
He closed the door behind him with a deliberate click that somehow sounded more threatening than the slam had been. "Ginger." He nodded once in acknowledgment before his gaze returned to KiKi, who looked like she might be sick. "Got some business to discuss."
KiKi's eyes were wide, the whites showing all around like a spooked horse. "I was just leaving," she said, her voice an octave higher than normal.
"Sit the fuck down," Detroit said, the words quiet but carved from granite.
She sat, collapsing back onto the sofa as if her strings had been cut.
I felt the tension crawl up my spine, wrap around my throat. Detroit wasn't just the club's Sergeant-at-Arms; he was the man who handled problems when they needed handling permanently. His showing up alone, unannounced, with that particular look in his eye—it wasn't good.
"What's going on?" I asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
Detroit moved further into the room, his heavy boots silent on the carpet. He had a predator's way of moving, economical and purposeful. He stopped a few feet away, positioned so he could see both of us and the door.
"We need to have a serious talk," he said, his deep voice rumbling in the small space.
KiKi made a small sound, something between a whimper and a gasp. I forced myself not to look at her, keeping my eyes on Detroit instead. Show weakness to a man like him, and you became prey.
"About?" I kept my tone even, though my heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it.
Detroit's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "About your friend here, and the package she's holding that belongs to the club."
KiKi's breathing had gone shallow, her chest rising and falling in rapid, jerky movements. I could feel her panic radiating outward like heat from an engine about to blow.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, the words tumbling out too fast. "I haven't taken anything from the club, I swear to God."
Detroit's not-quite-smile didn't waver. "Didn't say you took it. Said you're holding it. But that's interesting that your mind went straight to theft." He took another step forward, and KiKi shrank back into the sofa cushions. "Almost like you've got a guilty conscience."
I moved slightly, placing myself between them without making it obvious. "Whatever this is about, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation."
Detroit's eyes flicked to me, assessing. "You may have old lady status now, Ginger, but this isn’t your fight."
"I'm just saying we should talk this through," I replied carefully. "Like reasonable people."
Detroit laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Reasonable. Yeah, that's what the club's known for." He reached inside his cut and pulled out a small piece of paper. "Found this under your mattress, KiKi. Care to tell me about the baby you’re hiding?"
The room went silent save for KiKi's increasingly panicked breathing. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. It didn’t seem like Vegas or Houston had told him. Why had he gone snooping through KiKi’s things? Were the other club members suspicious as well?
"I—I didn't—" KiKi stammered, her face now ashen. "I wasn’t hiding it. Vegas and Houston know. It’s why they let me work behind the bar. Just until I can find a job and place to live."
"Save it," Detroit cut her off. "You think I’m going to believe that bullshit? Not to mention, I heard you mention Vegas’ name. Something tells me that bun in your oven belongs to him. That something he’s aware of?"
Detroit studied KiKi for a long moment, his face unreadable. The silence stretched, thick with threat and possibility. Finally, he nodded, once. "Fine. Let’s say I believe that Vegas and Houston are aware of the situation. Did you tell him he’s the father?”
“No,” she said softly. “Please, Detroit. He can’t find out!”
KiKi was shaking now, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. I sat beside her, took her hand in mine. It was cold, clammy.
"Tell me the truth," I whispered, low enough that Detroit couldn't hear.
“Only one who came inside me without protection was Vegas. I can’t say one hundred percent for sure it’s his, but… he’s the most likely to be the father.”
I squeezed her hand, feeling the bones shift beneath her skin. "We'll figure this out," I promised, not believing it myself.
KiKi's laugh was hollow, haunted. "No one figures their way out of the hole I'm in, Ginger. No one. Vegas doesn’t want kids. He’s always made that clear to each of us. He’ll think I tried to trap him."
Detroit's expression darkened. Clearly he’d heard us. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the leather of his cut creaking with the movement. "So it is his."
"She doesn't know for sure," I said quickly. "And it doesn't matter who the father is. What matters is—"
"What matters," Detroit cut in, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, "is that Vegas has a right to know if there's a chance that kid is his."
The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in. I could hear the muffled sounds of the main room below—music thumping, voices raised in laughter—but it felt like we were in another world entirely, sealed away in this pressure cooker of secrets and lies.
"Please," KiKi whispered, her mascara running in dark rivulets down her cheeks. "You know what he'll do. Right now, he just knows I’m pregnant. He gave me a month to find a way to leave without ending up on the street. But if he finds out, then..."
Detroit's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. For all his brutality, I knew he had his own code. The club's rules were clear—the Dark Wrath owned the women who worked for them, body and soul. Getting pregnant was a betrayal that wouldn't be forgiven easily. Especially when that baby belonged to the club president.
"Maybe I do," he said finally. "But that's not my call to make."
I felt KiKi's hand go limp in mine. The resignation in her posture made my chest ache. I'd seen that look before—on women who'd given up, who knew there was no escape route left.
"What do you want, Detroit?" I asked, straightening my spine. "You could have gone straight to Vegas with this. Why come to us first?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, assessing me like I was a puzzle he hadn't expected. "Maybe I've got my own reasons."
"Such as?" I pressed.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Such as I don't particularly enjoy watching Vegas lose his shit on pregnant women."
A sliver of hope, thin as a razor. "So you're willing to help?"
Detroit laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "I didn't say that. I said I don't want to watch the show. Vegas and Memphis should be back within the hour. You've got until then to come up with a plan that doesn't end with her out on her ass or worse."
KiKi made a choked sound beside me.
"Or," Detroit continued, "you can tell him yourself. Might go easier if it comes from you."
I felt the weight of KiKi's gaze on me, desperate and pleading. The responsibility settled on my shoulders like a concrete slab.
"And if we don't?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Detroit's eyes glittered in the dim light. "Then I tell Vegas what I heard, and you both deal with the fallout. His temper isn't known for its reasonableness."
The threat hung in the air between us, as tangible as the scent of leather and gunpowder that clung to Detroit's clothes. I glanced at KiKi, whose face had gone from ashen to gray. Her hands cradled her still-flat stomach in an unconscious gesture of protection.
"Give us the hour," I said, meeting Detroit's gaze steadily. "And something to drink that isn't water."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face before he masked it. He reached inside his cut and pulled out a silver flask. "Whiskey. The good shit." He tossed it to me. "Don't say I never did nothing for you."
I caught it one-handed, the metal cool against my palm. "Why are you doing this? The real reason."
Detroit paused at the door, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of something haunted in his expression.
"Had a sister once. Similar situation, different club, different outcome." He didn't elaborate, but the tightness around his mouth told me everything I needed to know. "One hour. Make it count."
The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt like the first tick of a countdown clock.
KiKi's breathing had gone ragged, bordering on hyperventilation. "We're fucked," she whispered. "No, I’m fucked. So completely fucked."
I unscrewed the flask and took a long swallow, the whiskey burning a path down my throat. It was good—smoky and rich, the kind that cost more than most people made in a day. I handed it to KiKi, who shook her head.
"Baby," she reminded me.
"Right." I took another pull instead. "We need a plan."
KiKi laughed, a high, brittle sound that scraped against my nerves. "A plan? There's no plan for this, Ginger. Vegas finds out, and he'll think I tried to trap him. Best case, I'm out on the street this instant. Worst case..." She trailed off, but I could fill in the blanks.
The Dark Wrath MC had rules about lies and betrayal. None of them ended well for the betrayer.
"We don't know that," I said, though the words rang hollow even to my own ears. "Maybe he'll—"
"Don't." KiKi's voice cracked. "Don't pretend this can have a happy ending. I've been with the club long enough to know better. I've seen what happens to girls who cross the line."
I paced the room, the whiskey warming my blood, sharpening my thoughts. "Then we need to get you out of here.”
“And go where?” She sighed and closed her eyes. I watched as tears slipped down her cheeks. “This is the end of the line for me, Ginger. You know it, and I know it.”
I swallowed hard, wishing there was something I could do. I could only hope that Vegas would see reason.
The hour passed far too quickly. Detroit came back, his expression somber. “It’s time. He’s back.”
KiKi whimpered a little before pressing her hand to her mouth. I reached over to squeeze her hand, trying to reassure her. I wished like hell Bronx and Reno were back. Maybe they’d have been able to come up with a plan. Instead, KiKi would have to do this on her own.
No. Not entirely. “I’m going with you, KiKi.”
She shook her head. “He could get pissed at you.”
“If he is, then I’ll handle it. I’m not going to let you walk into the lion’s den alone.”
We stood and followed Detroit down to Vegas’ office. When we entered, he looked up from the papers on his desk.
"What's this?" he asked, leaning back in his leather chair. His voice was deceptively soft, a predator's purr. "Detroit bringing me presents?"
KiKi flinched beside me, her entire body trembling. I moved slightly closer to her, our shoulders brushing. A small gesture of solidarity that wouldn't go unnoticed by Vegas. Nothing ever did.
Detroit closed the door behind us with a quiet click. "Got something that needs discussing, Pres."
Vegas' gaze flicked between us, calculating. I could almost see the gears turning, assessing the situation, measuring our fear. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.
"Must be serious if you've dragged Bronx's and Reno’s woman into it," he said, setting down his pen with deliberate care. "Sit."
It wasn't an invitation. KiKi sank into one of the chairs facing his desk, her movements stiff, robotic. I remained standing, my hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
"I prefer to stand," I said, meeting his gaze directly.
Something flickered across Vegas' face—amusement, perhaps, or annoyance. It was gone too quickly to identify.
"Suit yourself." He turned his attention to KiKi, who looked like she might shatter if someone spoke too loudly. "What's this about, sweetheart?"
The endearment slithered from his lips like something toxic. KiKi's eyes stayed fixed on her lap, her hands clenched into bloodless fists.
"I—" Her voice broke. She swallowed hard and tried again. "Vegas, I need to tell you something."
He waited, silent and still. The only movement was the slow tap of his index finger against the polished surface of his desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a metronome counting down to execution.
KiKi looked up at me, her eyes pleading. I squeezed her shoulder gently. This had to come from her.
"The baby," she finally whispered. "It might be yours."
The tapping stopped.
The silence that followed was absolute, like the moment after a bomb detonates but before the sound reaches your ears. Vegas' expression didn't change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
"Might be," he repeated, each word precisely formed. "As in, you're not sure."
A tear slid down her cheek. “I’m pretty positive. You’re the only one who…”
“Who what?” he asked.
“You didn’t use a condom,” I said. “She said you’re the only one who came inside her without one. So, it’s likely the baby is yours.”
KiKi openly cried now, clearly terrified.
“Out,” Vegas said. “But not KiKi.”
“I’m not leaving her!” I gasped when he stood abruptly and glared at me. “I promised I’d come here with her.”
“And you did. Now, this is between me and her. You and Detroit get the fuck out.”
With no other choice, I did as he said, hoping KiKi would be okay.