Page 5 of Always My Fate

Blackie

Blackie’s mind drifted as he held Peaches close on the porch swing, the gentle creak of the chains blending with the night sounds. The memory pulled him back like it did when things got quiet—back to that moment when everything changed again.

The clubhouse on the outskirts of Longview smelled like stale beer and second chances.

Blackie came out to stand on the porch when an unpatched biker rolled up the driveway. The moment he saw Peaches—his Peaches—riding behind some unaffiliated rider, something inside him snapped. Especially when he’d registered the unmistakable swell of her belly.

He was off the porch and across the yard in seconds. His fist connected with Slate’s face before the man could even get off the bike, sending him crashing to the gravel.

“Blackie!” Peaches cried, scrambling around, palms held out in a placating move.

Blackie stood over the downed man, chest heaving, fists still clenched. “You knock her up and then bring her here on your fuckin’ bike? You got some balls, asshole.”

Slate groaned, holding his ribs. “Not mine, man. I’m just the ride. Let her tell her story.”

Peaches stepped between them, placing a hand on Blackie’s chest. When he finally looked at her, really looked, the fury drained out of him, replaced by raw, aching need.

“Peaches...” His voice cracked as he reached for her. He pulled her close, one big hand spreading protectively over her belly. “Goddamn, woman. I thought I’d lost you for good.”

She melted into him, fingers curling into his cut. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I came...can we talk?”

“Anything you need, baby girl.”

They moved inside, Blackie half-supporting her as they went to the kitchen. He sat her down carefully in a chair, then moved around the small space like a man on a mission—filling the kettle, bringing out her favorite tea, opening beers for himself and Slate.

Once the tea was steeping in front of her, Blackie dropped into the chair beside Peaches and took her hand.

“Talk to me, baby girl,” he said, voice rough. “If it ain’t his, then whose? It ain’t your ex, I know that for dead certain.”

Peaches swallowed hard, then held his gaze. “The father isn’t in the picture. He’s in Ohio. It wasn’t anything bad, simply a failed birth control. Neither of us planned for this, but here it is...and here he’s not.”

Blackie stared at her for a long moment, then leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers.

“You’re mine,” he said fiercely, voice thick with emotion. “This baby is mine. You and this little one—you’re all mine. I’m never letting you leave again, Peaches. Not you, not our family.”

She smiled through the tears gathering in her eyes and whispered, “And you’re mine.”

He hadn’t forgotten those words. Not for a single fucking day since.

Blackie blinked, pulling himself to the present. He pressed a slow kiss to Peaches’ temple.

“My love. My lover,” he murmured against her skin, the phrase carrying the same weight they had that day Slate forced their paths to cross again.

Peaches tilted her head, brushing her lips across his jaw. “Always,” she whispered back, soft and sure.

Chapter Three

Blackie

Blackie slammed the gavel down on the scarred table in the Longview clubhouse, the sharp crack cutting through the low rumble of conversation like a gunshot. More than a dozen patched members filled the room, the air thick with cigarette smoke, leather, and the faint tang of engine grease. Gunny lounged in a chair near the end of the table, arms crossed over his broad chest, that shit-eating grin of his already in place. Their visiting brother from Florida had rolled in earlier that morning, claiming he was “just passing through,” but Blackie knew better. Gunny never traveled anywhere without stirring up something. When keeping the peace, a good man remembered Gunny was well-connected in their two-wheeled world, having been an officer in the Rebel Wayfarers before patching over to Blackie’s Freed Riders.

“All right, you bunch of shit-for-brains, settle down,” Blackie barked, leaning forwards with his elbows on the table. “We got real business tonight, not your usual circle-jerk about who’s got the biggest dick in the yard.”

Rook snorted beside him, and Oaky leaned back in his chair with a smirk. Blackie’s gaze swept the room, landing on each man in turn—his officers, his brothers, the backbone of the Mother Chapter. He gave a sharp nod towards Gunny. “Good to have you at the table, brother. Even if you’re just here to bust my balls.”

Gunny’s grin widened. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Prez. Heard you got some fresh trouble brewing down in Belle. Figured I’d come see if Horse was still alive after you handed him that chapter.”

Blackie flipped him off without heat and straightened in his chair. “Speaking of Belle—that’s why we’re here. Horse is solid, but the transition’s been tighter than a nun’s twat. We’re voting on formal support for the next ninety days. Extra runs and a bunch more bodies if those MDMC ghosts start rattling chains again. Oaky, walk us through it.”