Page 25 of Friar
He set down the piece he was holding and looked directly at me, his gaze steady and sure in the lamplight.“No.Not for a second.”
The certainty in his voice made my chest tighten.For a man who claimed to struggle with fatherhood, he’d slipped into protector mode with remarkable ease.I wondered if he even realized it -- how naturally he’d adapted to having us in his life, the way he’d rearranged his space, his routines, his future plans to accommodate our presence.
“What kind of life do you want for your baby?”he asked, breaking the silence that had settled between us.“What are your dreams for the future?”
The question caught me off guard.I’d been so focused on the immediate crisis that I’d barely had time to think beyond the next few weeks.“I don’t know,” I admitted.“Something different from what I had, I guess.More freedom.More acceptance.”
“What else?”Friar prompted, his hands resuming their work, fitting the trigger assembly back into place.
I thought about it, trying to articulate the vague hopes that had been forming in my mind since the positive pregnancy test.“I want my child to feel loved unconditionally.To know they’re wanted, no matter what.I want them to be able to ask questions without fear, to make mistakes and know they’ll still be supported.”The words came easier now, flowing from some deep place I hadn’t fully explored until this moment.“I want them to have a family that chooses them every day, not out of obligation or appearances, but because they genuinely want them in their lives.”
Friar nodded, his expression thoughtful as he slid the barrel back into place with a satisfying click.“That’s a good start.”
“What about you?”I asked.“What kind of father do you want to be?”
His hands stilled again, resting on the now-complete weapon.“Better than mine,” he said simply.“Present.Supportive.The kind who shows up when it matters.”He set the gun down, his fingers lingering on the metal as if drawing strength from its solidity.“I want to be someone they can count on.Someone who protects them, teaches them, stands between them and anything that might hurt them.”
There was such conviction in his voice, such sincerity, that I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.This was a man who’d spent hours thinking about fatherhood, about the kind of parent he wanted to be.Not out of abstract obligation, but because he truly cared.
“You will be,” I said softly.“You already are.”
Our conversation drifted after that, flowing from topic to topic with the easy intimacy that comes in the small hours of the morning.We talked about our childhoods -- the happy memories before my parents died, even though they’d always been incredibly busy, and the rare good moments Friar had experienced with his family before things fell apart.We discussed the club, the hierarchy, the unwritten rules I was still learning to navigate.He told me about Beast’s wife, Lyssa, and how there were times she could be a bitch, but once she accepted me as part of the Reckless Kings family, I’d have her support and friendship for the rest of my life.
Neither of us mentioned the paternity test, or the trouble it could bring.In the quiet sanctuary of the dimly lit living room, that concern seemed distant, less immediate than the connection building between us with each exchanged story, each shared fear, each moment of vulnerability.
Outside, the darkness gradually gave way to the first hints of dawn.Pale light seeped through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the floor.Birds began their morning chorus, the sound filtering through the closed windows.The world was waking up around us, but inside, time seemed suspended, stretched thin in that magical space between night and day.
I found myself growing drowsy as the adrenaline from the nightmare finally wore off completely.My eyelids grew heavy, my responses slower.Friar noticed, his voice softening as he continued talking, sharing stories about his early days with the club.The steady cadence of his words washed over me like a lullaby, comforting and secure.
I didn’t remember falling asleep.One moment I was listening to Friar describe a cross-country ride with Beast, the next I was drifting, slipping sideways on the couch as consciousness ebbed away.I felt strong hands guiding me down, arranging my body in a more comfortable position.Something soft settled over me -- a blanket, tucked carefully around my shoulders.Fingers brushed hair from my face with a gentleness that made my heart ache even in the haze of near-sleep.
Through half-closed eyes, I saw Friar kneeling beside the couch, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it.The morning light caught in his hair, turning the reddish-blond strands to burnished gold.His lips moved, forming words I couldn’t quite hear -- a promise, perhaps, or a prayer.His hand rested briefly on my stomach, protective and possessive in a way that made me feel safer than I had in years.
As I drifted fully into sleep, one thought followed me down into dreams: This man -- this complicated, guarded, fiercely loyal man -- had crossed a point of no return in his feelings for me.For us.
Chapter Nine
Cheri
My heart pounded against my ribs as Friar guided me toward the clubhouse entrance, his motorcycle parked among dozens of others in the gravel lot.The heavy wooden door loomed before us like the entrance to a fortress, solid and intimidating.Music leaked through the cracks, a deep bass that vibrated in my chest even from outside.I wiped my damp palms against my jeans and took a steadying breath, knowing exactly what waited on the other side -- dozens of eyes, all fixed on the pregnant church girl who’d somehow claimed one of their brothers.
“You sure you’re ready for this?”Friar asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
“Remember what I told you,” he said, his hand finding the small of my back.“You’re mine now.My old lady.That means something here.”
“I know.”I squared my shoulders, drawing strength from his touch.“Let’s do this.”
Friar pushed the door open, and we stepped into a wall of sensory assault.The smell hit me first -- cigarette smoke so thick it formed a haze near the ceiling, stale beer soaked into the floorboards, and the rich, musky scent of well-worn leather.Music blasted some heavy rock song I didn’t recognize from unseen speakers, the guitar riffs cutting through the rumble of conversations and clinking bottles.
For one merciful second, no one noticed our entrance.I took in the familiar scene -- the long bar stretching along one wall, pool tables dominating the center of the room, scattered tables and chairs filled with leather-clad men and women in various states of intoxication.Then, like a wave, awareness spread through the room.
Conversations died mid-sentence.Heads turned.Glasses paused halfway to lips.The weight of dozens of stares pressed against me like a physical force, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.
Nugget stood at one of the pool tables, cue in hand, frozen in the act of lining up a shot.His eyes met mine for a brief, electric moment before he straightened abruptly, set his cue against the table with exaggerated care, and made a beeline for the bar.He kept his gaze fixed on the floor.The sight of him actively avoiding me made my stomach clench with a mixture of hurt and embarrassment.
Across the room, Nigel sat perched on a barstool, a beer bottle halfway to his lips.As recognition dawned, he inhaled at exactly the wrong moment, beer going down the wrong way.He choked, sputtering and coughing, before turning his back completely, suddenly fascinated by whatever the Prospect beside him was saying.His ears burned bright red, visible even in the dim light.
