Prowler: Forsaken Ones MC (48 page)

Micah

Four Months Later

Paris was squeezing the living daylights out of my hand. “Jesus, you’re stronger than I would’ve guessed,” I said.

She glared at me. Her hair was slicked over her forehead with sweat, and both cheeks were flushed bright red.

“Not the time,” snapped a nurse to my right. “Move.”

I shuffled out of the way as the woman went over to check the IV bag on a stand next to the hospital bed. It was chaos in the room. Doctors and nurses were swirling around, Paris was moaning in pain with each contraction, and the air was filled with beeps and clicks of a thousand different machines. But goddamn, the girl could really grip. I’d lost all feeling in my fingertips.

“Push,” ordered the doctor, crouching between her legs.

“Come on, baby,” I said encouragingly. “You got this. I’m right here with you.”

A piercing wail broke the air and my heart stopped in place. Paris’s face scrunched up, then she slumped back in exhaustion. The doctor at the foot of the bed rose with a grime-covered infant in his hands. I looked at it in amazement. It was my son.

“Paris, baby, look,” I said, stroking her forearm gently. “Look at him. We made him. That’s ours.”

Her eyes fluttered open. The doctor brought me over to snip the umbilical cord before gently sponging away the slickness covering his skin. When he’d been dried off, he brought the baby over to Paris and laid him in her arms. I crouched over the head of the bed, my fingers resting on her shoulder, as I stared at my son. Words failed me. That was happening too often lately, but then again, this was never a direction I’d expected my life to go in. I was in a hospital room with my wife and son. Now there was a sentence I never thought I’d say.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

I kissed her on the forehead. “You are, too.”

She looked up at me and smiled. She looked dead tired, like she’d just fought a war, but there was so much beauty and power in those gray eyes of hers. Those otherworldly gray eyes, the ones that had caught my attention so long ago, sticking out of a crowd and demanding that I walk over and into her world. It meant so little at first. Now, it meant everything.

“I love you, Paris.”

“I love you, Micah.”

# # #

I pushed the wheelchair carefully through the double doors into the waiting room on the other side. Paris was seated in it, with our swaddled son nestled in the crook of her elbow. I kept glancing down at him. That skin was so perfect. He’d fallen asleep and I marveled at how calm and still he was, how flawless. I didn’t know what to call the emotions I was feeling.

As soon as we walked in, we were swarmed. Zeke, Bolt, Carter, and Bear were there, lingering on the back edge of the crowd, looking ridiculously out of place with their tattoos and leathers in the middle of this pristine white hospital. In front of them, Paris’s friend Katy had swooped to her knees in front of my wife and was clutching her arm and cooing at the baby.

I leaned down and planted a soft kiss on top of Paris’s head before walking over to my men. Zeke shook my hand. “Congratulations, prez,” he said with a grin. “Now you’re really in for it.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said.

“You ready to be a poppa?” Carter asked.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever ready, but being around you idiots has definitely given me experience in the dealing with children department.”

We all chuckled. Then I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. I turned around to see Valeriya. She was smiling, but her eyes were wet with emotion. “I just want to say thank you, Micah,” she said.

“I’ve told you a million times, Valeriya, you don’t need to thank me.”

“Without you, I would have no closure. I needed that.” She paused before correcting herself. “We needed that.” I looked down and saw her son, standing wobbly on two feet with her hand clasping his.

“He looks so big,” I said.

“He is going to be very strong and handsome. Just like his father.”

I laid my hand on her shoulder. “Without a doubt.”

She smiled again. “Congratulations on your son, Micah. I’ll let you get back to your wife.” Leaning down, she scooped up her son in her arms and kissed him on the cheek before strolling away.

I walked back over to Paris and crouched at her side. “You look exhausted, Par,” I said.

She groaned. “My whole body hurts. I want to sleep forever.”

“Ready to go?”

Her smile made my chest do that funny twinge, the one it had done the first time I’d seen Paris, and every time since. It didn’t show any signs of stopping. “Take me home, Micah.”

“As you wish, princess. Let’s go home.”

I stood up and pushed through the crowd, out the doors, and away into a future that looked as bright and pure as my son’s skin. I was a bastard and an outlaw, always had been. But maybe a little grit was what made my wife and child seem so shining and perfect in my eyes. There was redemption for everyone, I supposed. Even for a man like me.

Julia

“That’s it,” I said to myself as I put the last stack of folders on my new desk. I looked around my new office and felt a sense of pride. At just twenty-eight years old, I didn’t know anyone else who’d made it to my position.

In just a few short years, I had gone from being just a graduate student seeking my master’s degree in history to having worked my way up as a professor, and now a doctor of history at the University of Chicago. I had been granted the department chair position when I graduated with my PhD, and due to my continued research, I was now moving into my new office as a senior research fellow, meaning more pay, fewer courses, and a lot more field work.

“You’ve finally made it,” I said as I surveyed my new office.

Bookshelves lined the walls with cabinets underneath, running along the bottoms of the walls. Tall, floor-to-ceiling windows sat in the wall behind my new, dark wooden desk. They overlooked one of the campus courtyards. I had already filled most of the bookshelves up just from moving into the new office, and I still had a couple of boxes of books left. All of my paper files were stacked on my desk, waiting for a home.

The adrenaline of moving all of my stuff into the new office wore off, and I crashed into the thick, soft leather chair behind my desk. I sat and stared at the towers of folders on my desk and understood why some of the other young professors had pushed me so hard to get everything filed electronically. I was
not
looking forward to putting those files up.

I needed a break, a vacation. I needed to get out of the university and get back in the field. My focus was Russian history. From politics to religion, from the geographic and ideological isolation to the rich culture and language of the Russian people, I had immersed myself in anything and everything Russian.

And it had finally paid off!

I wanted to get out of the office and celebrate, but all of my research had left me short on friends to celebrate with. I felt like I should have been at a point where I could take some time for myself finally, but there didn’t seem to be much self to take time with. Everything I used to identify myself was sitting in the office with me.

I wanted to call my mom and to share the news, but she wouldn’t know I was even on the phone.

I stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the students and professors walking through the courtyard. Some were holding hands. Some had their arms around each other. I hoped one day that would be me, but I knew it was a long way out. I still had a lot of work ahead of me, and a lot of bills to pay between student loans and my mom’s medical expenses.

The reason I couldn’t call my mom was because she suffered from an early onset of Alzheimer’s, and it was advancing pretty rapidly. I’d moved her into a home while I was still working on my PhD. She required almost constant care, and as a student and research professor, I hadn’t been able to provide the kind of care she needed.

At times I found it easy to feel guilty, like I’d chosen my career over my family. But I reminded myself that she’d done the same, waiting until her late-twenties to settle down and start a family of her own, waiting until she had established herself as a doctor of linguistics.

I kept a picture of her on my wall from the day she graduated with her PhD, one of the proudest moments of her life. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. On a trip to Russia when I was a child, while she was studying some of the lesser known Eastern European languages that had re-emerged after the fall of the Soviet Union, I’d heard someone trying to talk to her in Russian, and I fell in love with the language. That was the beginning of my lifelong love affair with the people and their country, a country shrouded in mystery for most of my peers who had never visited it, thanks to the Cold War.

I pulled the picture out of a box and held it in my hand. “I’ve made it,” I told the young version of my mom, knowing that
she
would have understood what I was saying, and who was saying it.

There was a light knock at my door, bringing me back into the office. I turned around to see one of the professors’ assistants standing in my doorway, eagerly looking in on the boxes and stacks of papers cluttering the room.

“Dr. Danvers, there’s a gentleman here to see you,” the graduate student said uneasily. “Do you want me to tell him to come back?”

I looked around the room and sighed, dropping the picture of my mother back on top of the box it temporarily called home. “No, go ahead and send him in, I guess.”

“You got it,” he said, tapping the door frame and starting to turn away.

“Wait,” I said quickly, catching him before he could get away.

He poked his head back into my office. “What is it?”

“First, can you help me clear off my desk?” I asked him. “I don’t want to receive any visitors with this clutter in here. We don’t have to put this stuff away, but I’d like to look at least a little like my title.”

He laughed nervously. “I’ll be glad to.” He grabbed stacks of papers and set them on the floor in front of the cabinets along the bottom of one wall.

“Any idea who it is?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No clue.”

“Student or faculty?” was my next question.

“Neither.”

I set down the last stack of papers from my desk and tilted my head, wondering who was coming to see me. Today of all days. “Go ahead and send them in,” I told him.

I walked around behind my desk and stood with my hands on the back of the chair. Realizing it was almost a throne, the back of it tall enough that I felt like I was hiding behind it more than standing, I stepped to the side and waited for my guest.

A few moments after the teaching assistant left my new office, a tall, dark, musclebound mountain of a man entered the doorway. I let go of my grip on the back of my office chair as I looked him over. His body was a work of art. The definition of his muscles carried my eyes from his shoulders down his arms to the black leather cuffs on his wrists.

His face could have been chiseled from stone. He scowled with a hard, strong jawline and deeply set dark eyes. His dark hair was slicked back. He wore a closely cropped mustache and goatee.

He wore a bright, clean white t-shirt under an old black leather vest with patches on it. They looked like Boy Scout badges from hell. Tribal tattoos snaked out from underneath his short shirt sleeves and down his arms in thick black bands. He even had tattoos on his hands, most of them too small for me to see without getting up close, and I did not intend on doing that; I was close enough where I stood, thank you very much. He had something tattooed on each of his fingers in Gothic lettering, on both hands, but I couldn’t read it from where I stood.

“Dr. Danvers?” he asked in a husky voice as he entered.

I considered telling him she wasn’t in, that I was her secretary, and offering to take a message to deliver to myself after he left, but for some reason I decided against it. Something about this visit already had a very Indiana Jones feel to it. I could see this easily turning into an opportunity to get out into the field. It was likely he wasn’t here to ask about any of my past research.

“Yes, sir, how can I help you?” I replied, trying to sound willing instead of scared and shaky-kneed. I stepped from beside my chair and offered my guest a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk.

“Thank you,” he accepted, sliding the chair back and sitting down in his blue jeans and black leather boots. He rested one of his large hands on his knee and leaned forward with one of his massive arms on my desk, giving me a better shot at the tattoos on his arm and hand. The bold ink on his arm was certainly impressive, as was the definition of the muscle underneath.

I took my seat as well, feeling more comfortable sitting behind my desk, though if he wanted to get to me, it wouldn’t have taken much for him to get through the old solid wood. I adjusted my skirt and sweater nervously, repeating myself. “What can I do for you, Mr.…?”

“Noll,” he said. “Gage Noll. I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself.” He reached a hand across the desk. I offered him mine, and we shook. His thick, strong fingers wrapped around mine gently as his palm swallowed my small feminine hand. His touch was gentle, but I could still feel the strength he held back from me.

“Dr. Julia Danvers,” I said as we shook hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Noll.” With someone that big and burly sitting across from me, I wanted to be as polite and generous as possible.

“Now, what can I do for you?” I asked him a third time, sitting back and offering him a friendly smile.

“Dr. Danvers, I’m here because I need someone to translate Russian for me, and you come highly recommended as an expert on the language and culture,” he answered finally, dropping a bomb in my lap. His voice was stony, businesslike. I was impressed by how articulate he was.

I sat back in my chair, unsure of how exactly to respond. I searched his face to see if there was any possibility his proposition could have been a joke.

“I will pay you handsomely,” he added, reaching into his pocket.

“That’s not necessary,” I told him, holding a hand up to stop him. “I don’t need to see any money. Why did you come to me? Surely there are other translators in the city who could help you.”

“There are,” he agreed, but he didn’t say anything else, leaving me hanging on his words and expecting him to give me a little more explanation.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Noll. I’m having trouble understanding why you need me instead of someone who specializes in translation. I’m a history professor and a research fellow here at the university. I’m not just a translator,” I explained to him, leaning forward with my hands on the table.

“I understand you’re a reputable expert on Russian culture and language.” He looked around my office. “I’m assuming I’m not wrong.”

“No, sir, you are very right. Indeed, I’m flattered that you were sent to me. It’s just I usually only translate documents. I’m assuming you need live translation, and there are a few offices in the city offering that service. You might be better served by visiting one of those firms,” I suggested to him. “It all depends on your need.”

“I need live translation,” he admitted. “But, I need someone who understands how to talk to Russians. I’m not looking for someone to help me with a conversation I’m able to have. I’m looking for someone to help me say the right things instead of just saying them in Russian.” He paused a moment and leaned across the desk, lowering his voice as he continued. “I’m essentially doing research, and I need help persuading someone to give me information.”

Ice ran through my veins in the instant he said those words. What he was asking for sounded illegal. “I…I’m sorry, Mr. Noll,” I stammered. “I can’t help you with anything like that.”

I rose from my chair, ready to show him to the door, as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, spilling them onto the desk.

“Like I said, I can pay you handsomely. There is more where that came from.”

I sat back down and looked at the assortment of bills before me. Twenties, fifties, and hundreds stared at me from all across my desk. I couldn’t count it spread out like it was, but it did seem like quite a lot of money.

“They’re all unmarked,” he added. “That’s just a preview of how much you could make taking this job for me. And I’m sure you can find a use for this money.”

I could already think of a use for it. Just the money on the desk would help with my mom’s medical expenses. Despite the increase in my pay at my new position, her bills were going to continue to be difficult to pay off. Just the money spread out in front of me would have been enough to catch up, but the promise of more meant I could finally have some cushion against future expenses.

“Well, Mr. Noll,” I started.

“Gage, please,” he corrected me.

“Gage, this is a very generous offer indeed. I’ll be happy to meet with you later this week to go over the details of what you need and expect from me.” I wasn’t prepared to make a decision like this right away, especially without more details.