Pregnant with a Bikers Baby

The bar

Elena POV

I drove on autopilot, the neon-drenched streets blurring into streaks of red and gold. My mind was racing, replaying the encounter at the Rusty Nail, the rough graze of his hands, the coldness in his voice when he’d dismissed me. *Club business.* The words echoed in my head, mocking me. I was about to insert myself into a world that had zero patience for civilians, let alone pregnant ones, all because of a biochemical reaction to a one-night stand.

The highway faded away as I took the exit ramp, the transition from smooth asphalt to the pitted, gravel-strewn road leading to the *Rusty Nail* jarring my teeth. The bar looked exactly the same as it had that night—a lone, neon eye flickering in the darkness, surrounded by a sea of cracked asphalt and rusted-out trucks.

But as I pulled my Mustang into a spot near the door, the atmosphere felt different. Heavier.

The parking lot was overflowing. Harleys lined the front of the building like a metal barricade, chrome gleaming dully under the sickly yellow light of the streetlamps. I counted at least a dozen bikes, some tricked out with custom paint jobs, others looking like they’d been salvaged from a junkyard and held together by duct tape and spite.

The roar of engines didn't just hum in the air; it vibrated in the soles of my boots. I sat in the car for a moment, my hand resting on the reassuring leather of my camera bag, staring at the fortress of chrome and leather.

What was I doing? I was a photographer. I took pictures of other people’s lives, I didn't insert myself into the middle of organized crime syndicates. A sane woman would turn the key, drive back to the city, and figure out how to be a single mother on her own terms.

A sane woman wouldn't be able to feel the phantom trace of Jax's hands on her skin a month later.

I took a steadying breath, the air in the cab suddenly feeling too thin. My heart wasn't just hammering; it was trying to beat its way out of my ribcage. I stared at the heavy steel door of the bar, a rectangle of light spilling out onto the wet pavement. Behind it was noise, smoke, and the man who had turned my life upside down without even trying.

*Club business.*

The memory of his dismissal, the cold indifference in his eyes after the heat had faded, should have been the deterrent I needed to put the car in reverse and never look back. But the plastic stick in my pocket burned against my hip, a constant, sharp reminder that "reverse" wasn't an option anymore. My path had forked a month ago in that bathroom, and whether I liked it or not, I was walking down the rougher branch now.

I killed the ignition, the silence of the cab instantly replaced by the muffled, heavy bass of music from inside the bar. It wasn't the bluesy wail of the jukebox from last time; this was a low, aggressive thrum that vibrated against the windshield. Rock music, loud and angry.

I grabbed my bag, checking the pocket to make sure the test was still there. It was. My hand trembled as I pushed the door open, the cool night air doing nothing to settle the nausea rolling in my gut.

The walk to the entrance felt like a death march. My boots crunched on the gravel, the sound echoing too loudly in the lot. As I got closer, the smell hit me—exhaust fumes, stale beer, and the distinct, acrid tang of m*******a smoke. This wasn't just a Tuesday night crowd; this was an event.

I reached for the handle, the metal cool against my palm, and pulled.

The door didn't just open; it exploded outward. A wall of sound hit me—a wall of noise, heat, and the overwhelming smell of leather, whiskey, and testosterone. The bar was packed. Every table was occupied, the pool table was surrounded by a cheering mob, and the air was thick with a haze of cigarette smoke that stung my eyes.

I froze just inside the threshold, my grip tightening on my camera bag. This wasn't the loose gathering of locals and drifters from last month. This was an occupation. The place was swarming with them—men in leather cuts with the *Death Row* patch emblazoned across the back. They were loud, large, and radiated a collective violence that made the hair on my arms stand up.

I felt like a gazelle walking into a lion's den, but worse—I felt like a gazelle wearing a giant neon sign that said *EAT ME*.

The silence that fell over the room wasn't immediate, but it was rapid, like a ripple moving through water. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. The clack of pool balls stopped. Dozens of eyes, hard and assessing, locked onto me. I was the only thing in the room that wasn't covered in leather or denim. I was softness in a room made of steel, and the contrast was jarring.

I tightened my grip on the strap of my camera bag, using it like a shield across my chest. I scanned the room, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, looking for the familiar shock of dark hair and the imposing posture that belonged to Jax.