Pregnant with a Bikers Baby

One Bad Decision

Elena POV

One month later.

The world had narrowed down to the cold, white porcelain of the toilet bowl and the rhythmic, heaving convulsion of my stomach. I was draped over it like a discarded ragdoll, my forehead pressed against the cool seat, sweating through a dress that had cost me three days' wages.

*Baby shower.*

The irony wasn't lost on me. I was supposed to be capturing soft, pastel moments of new life—the anticipation, the tiny socks, the glowing mother-to-be—while my own body was violently rejecting the biological reality of that one reckless night.

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the next wave of nausea to pass. It had been three days of this. Three days of saltines and ginger ale that did nothing but make me feel like a bloated whale. I’d tried to write it off as stomach flu, or maybe food poisoning from that questionable taco truck I’d hit after a shoot. But deep down, beneath the denial and the terror, I’d known.

I pushed myself up, my legs trembling, and caught my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.

I looked like death. Not the romantic, goth kind I curated for my aesthetic, but the actual, physical reality of it. My skin was paper-white, a stark contrast to the severe, V-cut black dress I’d squeezed myself into for the gig. The neckline plunged low, exposing the tops of my breasts, but even the heavy concealer I’d caked on couldn’t hide the dark circles bruising the skin beneath my eyes. The dress was tight, clinging to my ribs and hips, and as I stared at my reflection, my hand drifted down to rest flat against my abdomen.

It felt flat. Normal. But the plastic stick resting on the edge of the sink told a different story.

I reached for it, my fingers trembling so badly the plastic rattled against the ceramic. Two pink lines. Bold. Unmistakable. Permanent.

I stared at those two pink lines until they blurred, my grip on the plastic stick turning my knuckles white. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat, tasting of bile and terror.

*Congratulations, it’s a biker.*

I sank down onto the edge of the bathtub, the cheap vinyl of my dress catching on the side of the tub. This was a joke. It had to be. One night. One reckless, impulsive, mistake of a night in a dive bar bathroom, and this was the receipt? The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

I stared at the test, willing those two pink lines to rearrange themselves into a minus sign. But they stayed there, stark and undeniable, a pink neon sign pointing to a future I hadn't signed up for.

A baby.

I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to physically push back the throbbing headache. I didn't even know his last name. *Jax.* Just Jax. The President of "Death Row." That was it. Pretty much everything on his jacket. That was the sum total of information I had about the father of my child.

A father.

The word felt foreign, heavy, like a stone dropped in a deep well. I thought of Mark—safe, reliable, boring Mark—and how we’d spent years discussing the *perfect* time to start a family. We needed the right house, the right savings account, the right life. We never would have taken the leap without a safety net.

But safety nets were for people who didn't get knocked up by outlaw bikers in dive bar bathrooms.

I stood up, the room tilting dangerously before righting itself. The black V-cut dress felt less like a fashion choice and more like a shroud now. I needed to get it off. I needed to scrub the scent of the baby shower—frosting and floral perfume—from my skin and replace it with something real. Something that could face a man like Jax.

I caught a glimpse of my camera bag sitting on the counter, the worn leather bulging with lenses and the heavy weight of my Leica. It was my anchor. It was how I made sense of the world. If I was going to do this—if I was going to walk back into the lion's den—I needed my armor.

I stripped off the dress with frantic, uncoordinated hands, letting it pool on the bathroom floor like black oil. I didn't want to look at it anymore. I didn't want to look at the reflection of the woman who was supposed to be documenting someone else’s perfect moment while her own life was imploding.

I pulled on the first things my hands found in the chaotic pile of clean laundry—a pair of torn grey skinny jeans and a oversized, black band t-shirt I’d stolen from an ex years ago. I ran a brush through my hair, wincing as it snagged on the tangles, and slapped some water on my face. The cold shock helped, bringing the color back to my cheeks and sharpening my gaze. I put the test in my pocket.

I looked in the mirror again. The goth doll was gone. In her place was someone harder. Someone with a pair of steel ovaries and a ticking clock.