The Prez (Devil’s Mayhem MC #3)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

RAFAEL

Peals of laughter and clapping wake me from my slumber. I sit up quickly, reaching over to my nightstand to grab my gun. Then I remember Omari is here with Baby Rafael.

Blowing out a hard breath, I toss my legs over the side of the bed and put my head in my hands.

Fucking Omari.

I never thought I’d see him again and didn’t want to. When I saw him selling in my club, I wanted to toss him out on his ass, maybe give him a shiner to remember me by. But the longer I watched him, the more drawn to him I was. Don’t know why. I’ve never had an interest in men. But he had a quality about him that I noticed even from so far away. When he was sitting in my office, it was even more apparent. It’s part of the reason I watched him selling pills in my club for almost a month before I tossed him out. I had to get my fill of him before I banned his ass for good.

Omari is fucking stunning. His face, his body, his fucking attitude drove me crazy in the space of a few minutes in my office. I don’t usually have to be forceful with anyone, even if they don’t do as I say—that’s what the enforcer’s job is for. But Omari’s presence made me feel so unhinged that I exploded, grabbing him and shoving him against my office door.

But that was one of the worst decisions I ever made. The feel of the soft skin of his throat was permanently etched into the palm of my hand. Even now, I’m itching to touch him again, to see if his skin is soft everywhere.

Another burst of laughing and cheering snaps me out of my wicked thoughts. Dios, I need to get laid.

After sliding my pants back on, I step into the living room, searching for the reason for all the excitement.

Omari and Baby Rafael are lying on the floor. Baby Rafael is on his front, poised on his arms and teetering to the left. Beside him, Omari is laying on his side, his head resting on his palm.

“Come on, big man,” he whispers, smiling at the baby. “One more. You can do it. Come on.”

Baby Rafael babbles and screeches, lifting one of his tiny legs off the floor. Then his body pitches to the side and he rolls over. He gargles a laugh, reaching his hands up to grab at Omari.

“Good job, Little Raf,” Omari says to him, voice filled with pride.

My chest squeezes. Elena should be doing this. She should be seeing her son roll over, not some stranger that sells drugs in my club.

Not taking his eyes off the baby, Omari asks, “Did you sleep well?”

I grunt and walk past them, going to the kitchen to grab a beer. I pop it open and suck down half of it, letting the sting and burn ease my tumultuous thoughts. When I pull the bottle from my lips, I go back to the living room and settle on the couch. Omari looks at me, then does a double take, his eyes drifting down my chest. I undressed when I laid down for a nap and I didn’t bother to put a shirt on before I came out here. My skin heats under his attention.

I look down at my chest and see myself how Omari must see me—a canvas of bright colors, a mosaic of art. I got my first tattoo when I was sixteen, my mama’s name and the date of her death. Almost every year since then, I’ve added to it. A portrait of my first Harley, the date I joined the MC, flowers for all of my dead, a set of wings to symbolize the freedom I have when I ride. Those and more adorn my chest and back, up and down my arms and the back of my hands. Most of what I have can be covered by my shirts.

His eyes linger on the thick, jagged scar on my left side. A scar that all the tattoos in the world can’t cover. A scar that brings back bad memories. A scar I got the day I completely lost any innocence I tried to hold on to. A scar that reminds me of the day I lost my entire world.

I drop my arm to cover it, giving him a hard look, almost daring him to ask me where it came from so I can fucking snap.

Omari swallows roughly, then drags his eyes slowly up to meet mine. When I simply stare at him, he rolls his eyes. “I asked you a question.”

“Fine,” I answer, swigging my beer again.

He scoffs, shaking his head as he turns Baby Rafael back over to his belly. “While you were asleep,” he says but keeps looking at the baby, “I looked through Little Raf’s things.” I scowl at the stupid nickname, but don’t correct him. It’s whatever. “He needs diapers, wipes, and formula. I also noticed you don’t have a first aid kit for him. No meds. He’ll need?— ”

I cut him off. “Just tell me how much it’ll cost and you pick up all the shit he needs. Entendido?”

Omari turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “Okay,” he says, dragging the word out. “We should also child proof the house.” He picks the baby up, standing him on his feet so he can bounce. “Little man is going to start crawling soon and we don’t want him to get into anything he shouldn’t.”

“Whatever.” I finish my beer and take it to the kitchen. I go back to my room, scoop up my car keys and go back to the living room. “Here are the car keys. The new car seat is in the garage. I tossed the one from the accident.” By the time we were ready to leave the hospital with Baby Rafael, it was late and we were ready to get home. The police officers that were on the scene of Elena’s accident brought over the car seat, but I tossed it as soon as we got home and ordered a new one. It was harder to put in that the first one, so I didn’t bother.

“The SUV?” he asks and I nod. His eyes widen, but he simply nods. “When did you bring him home?”

“Two weeks ago.”

Omari looks at me incredulously. “You haven’t taken him out of the house in two weeks?”

“So?” Something about that makes my neck burn with embarrassment.

He sighs, standing up with the baby and taking him over to the window. Omari pulls the curtains back and points outside. Rafael squeals and waves his hands. “He needs to go outside sometimes. Even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

“I don’t care about any of that shit,” I mutter. I hold up the keys, dangling them. “Use this to go and get your stuff since you’re moving in.” Omari rolls his eyes and grabs the keys from my hands. “You have a license?”

“Does it matter?” he mutters under his breath. “I’ll go tomorrow to get my clothes and what not. I want to be here with Little Raf tonight. What’s his usual routine?”

I scrunch my eyebrows. “Routine for what?”

Omari gapes at me. “What do you mean ‘for what?’ His bedtime. Bath time, feeding schedule. You do have him on a schedule, right?” When I don’t answer, he sneers. “Rafael, he needs a schedule. Babies don’t always abide by them, but it’ll be easier to have something concrete. Have you started him on solid foods yet?” Again, I don’t answer. “Have you done anything?”

“I fucking took him in when he had no one,” I snarl, taking a step in his direction. “So yeah, I fucking did something.”

“That’s the bare fucking minimum, Rafael,” Omari says, shaking his head. “If you don’t want to do anything for Little Raf, fine. Just make sure you leave enough money so I can get him what he needs and stay out of my way.”

He stomps off, walking into Rafael’s room, leaving me to stand in the middle of the floor like a fucking comepinga.

Seething, I stomp into my room and get dressed, almost ripping a button off my shirt with how roughly I’m handling it. I shuck the jeans I slid on and pull on a pair of slacks, almost feeling like myself, but still riled up from my confrontation with Omari.

I don’t like that he’s right. Since Rafael has been here, all I could do was make sure he ate between his bouts of crying. He’s cried all day, every day since I brought him home. I’m barely hanging on, so I haven’t had time to do much of anything.

After getting dressed and grabbing my helmet from my dresser and jacket from my treadmill, I head to my closet to grab cash from my safe. I punch in the combination like the safe offended me and pull out a stack of bills, not bothering to count it. After ensuring the safe is locked, I go into the living room, drop the money on the coffee table, and leave.

Once outside, I try to draw in lungfuls of clean, crisp air to calm myself, but it’s not working. I’m too keyed up. I need to get away from this house, from that baby, from that fucking nanny.

I slide on my jacket and thrust my helmet over my head and march to my chopper. After throwing my leg over it, I kick up the stand and start her up, the rumble under my ass doing more to calm me down than the fresh air. Most would tell me to wear the proper attire to ride, but I’ve been riding with dress clothes on for decades. If I lay my bike down, I’d rather do it as I am.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling up to the tattoo parlor Reaper owns called Dark Haven. It was one of the first acquisitions for Devil’s Mayhem, Reaper wanting to join the MC after he finished his apprenticeship. He’s been tattooing for close to twenty years and he’s the best.

Walking through the door, I glance around until I find him. He’s got some college girl in his chair, whimpering as he finishes a tattoo of a fucking butterfly on her wrist. I hate the fucking pansy ass tattoos and the soft motherfuckers that get them.

Marching over to his station, I start to unbutton my shirt, glaring at the scared girl in the chair hard enough to set her on fire.

“Excuse me,” she mumbles, looking up at Reaper for back up. He does nothing but swipe a paper towel over her finished tattoo. “We’re in a session.”

“Not no more, you’re not,” I say. “Get the fuck out.”

Reaper laughs as the girl scrambles out of the chair. “Go over to Laura, sweetheart. She’ll wrap you up and give you instructions.” Laura is Reaper’s wife, a fellow tattooer and body piercer .

Laura steps around the corner and waves to me, knowing I’m in a mood, so not giving me shit. She places her hand around the scared girl’s back and guides her into another room.

“Let me clean up and I’ll get started. What do you want?” Reaper asks as he gathers trash.

I pull my shirt off and hang it on the hook by his station. Reaper got it just for me years ago since I refuse to fold my shirts when I need a tattoo. I complained so much that the third time I came in, there was a hook there for me.

“Elena,” I tell him and give him a date.

Reaper nods and, after he wipes down the chair and I lie down on it, sets everything up. I look down at my torso, trying to find a free space for my dead. Just below mama’s name and date of death is a blank patch of skin and my heart clenches in the way that it has off and on since Elena died. They’re together now.

After he’s all set up, Reaper quickly sketches something out and shows it to me. I nod and he places the stencil on my skin and gets started. As soon as the needle hits my skin, the knot in my chest unfurls and I feel like a fucking person again.

“Wanna talk?” Reaper asks, gliding the needle over my skin smoothly. “You haven’t been level since Christian died.”

I open my mouth to tell him to butt the fuck out and leave me alone, but what comes out is, “There’s a fucking baby in my house that makes it impossible to sleep. I’m irritated all the fucking time because of his constant crying and fucking neediness.”

Reaper dips his needle into the ink before bringing it back to my skin, embedding Elena’s name into my flesh forever.. “Our kid is grown, but I can relate. You remember when I was prospecting and Laura just had Jan.” I nod. He stops and looks at me, a faint smile on his lips. Reaper, like me, doesn’t smile and is not generally happy. Except when he talks about his old lady and daughter. “But watching Jan grow up, becoming a happy and smart woman … probably one of the best things I ever did besides making Laura mine.”

My gut churns. If I were a better man, I would try to be that for Little Raf—Baby Rafael. His name is Rafael.

Fuck, why did that stupid nickname stick to me already? That’s not his fucking name.

I should be better for Baby Rafael, but I can’t. I failed Elena, letting her push me away when I was barely an adult and I didn’t try to bridge that gap in all the subsequent years. How the fuck am I going to look my nephew in the face ten, fifteen years from now and tell him I can’t tell him about his mother, because I don’t know shit about her? I can tell him everything until she was ten, but after that, nothing. What kind of shitty uncle will he think I am then? It’s better if I just keep him at arm’s length now so he just thinks I’m an asshole when he gets older rather than a fucking failure.

Omari won’t be around forever, but for the next year, he can be what Baby Rafael needs. He seems solid enough, and Baby Rafael likes him. I can stay out of his way so the baby has someone, a father figure of sorts, that he can count on.

An hour later, Reaper is finished and has my tattoo wrapped. He doesn’t bother giving me tattoo care instructions since I’m a fucking canvas. He just sends me on my way.

I’m not ready to go home. I know if I do, the baby will be crying and the nanny will be harried, telling me he can’t do the job and I’ll be stuck with the baby by myself again. Shane and Jace’s old lady have been helping, but they got their own shit to do. It’ll be all on me. At least I can get one more night of fucking blissful silence.

No such luck.

When I step into the clubhouse, loud music greets me, hangarounds dancing and playing pool, some drinking and flirting with some of my brothers. Callie separates herself from the crowd, sauntering over to me. “Hey, Prez. Lookin’ for some company?”

I could do with a distraction. It’ll take my mind off having a baby at home … and the man who is with the baby.

Fucking Omari. I can’t get him out of my head, no matter how hard I try. He’s fucking fine as fuck. Callie is nothing like him, so I’m not sure she’ll do to get my mind off him. She’s a white, blonde woman with hair down to her ass and a tight body. Omari is a short, light skinned Black guy with a wide smile, beautiful fucking eyes, and a thick body that’s meant to hold on to while I rut into his body.

All I can think about is Omari and his soft curves and lush body. I could barely sleep earlier in the day, knowing he was in the other room. He looks soft, his flesh smooth. I would love to mark him up, make a mess out of him.

Growling away from those thoughts, I grip Callie by the arm and walk her to my room. She giggles, tottering on her heels, but keeps pace with me easily. “Okay, Prez. I see you’re in a mood. You can take it out on this pussy all you’d like.” She’s practically bouncing in her heels as I drag her along. “I was thinking, maybe when we’re together exclusively, we can do something about how all this is set up.” She waves her hand towards the layout of the clubhouse. “Could use some sprucing up.”

“Stop talking,” I snap, pushing her into the room where she climbs on the bed eagerly. “Take your clothes off and get on your hands and knees.”

She complies quickly, stripping her clothes off in a flash and climbing on the bed with her small ass in the air. Omari’s ass is plump, his cheeks the perfect size to bounce against my thighs as I give him my dick inch by agonizing inch, making him come apart on my cock .

I don’t bother taking my clothes off—I just slide my pants down to my thighs and free my semi hard shaft from briefs. I close my eyes and jerk myself, trying to get hard. The only thing that works is thinking of the fucking nanny in this same position, looking over his shoulder at me, begging me to take him rough.

My cock lengthens, and I quickly slide a condom on and sink into Callie. She moans and pants, sounding like a porn star and not in a good way. Her shouts of “Yes, Prez!” and “Harder, Daddy!” and those stupid over the top moans do more to deflate my erection than bring me any relief.

I try to get into the sex, but no matter how much I try, I’m not feeling it. Even shutting my eyes and thinking about Omari isn’t doing the trick, since the bony hips I’m holding let me know that Callie isn’t him. I need a distraction from my bullshit, but this ain’t it.

My cock softens and I pull out of her, snatching the condom off in frustration. “Get out.”

She sighs, dragging on her clothes. “You want to talk? Old ladies talk to their men, so I can be, like, your sounding board. Whatever you need, Prez.”

“I need you to get the fuck out of my room before I toss you out.”

Callie squeaks, grabbing the rest of her clothes and scurrying from my room.

With an irritated grunt, I stuff my flaccid cock back into my pants. Even though I wanted a break, I can’t seem to pull my mind away from home. No need to stick around here when my brain is focused on my damn address.

I throw the door open, storming out to get back on my chopper to head home.

“Prez!” I turn to see Pete jogging over to me, his limp from his accident barely noticeable. A year and a half ago, he got into a motorcycle accident and had to have rods inserted into his leg. He hasn’t let that stop him, still active in the club and riding with us. We mostly have him drive our F-350 when we do our annual and charity rides since it hurts his leg to ride for more than an hour.

I stop, waiting for him to approach. “I wanted to let you know I started my apprenticeship. Thank you.”

“Anything you need, brother,” I tell him, patting his back. The lead tattooer at our new shop was thrilled to have an apprentice, saying he’s been wanting to train someone for years.

“It helps me keep my mind off …” He pauses and coughs. It takes him a minute to speak again. In a rough voice, he says, “Yeah, thanks, Prez.” Pete pats my shoulder and walks away, tapping the bar so one of the hangarounds can pass him a beer.

Pete has been taking Christian’s death hard. This is the first time I’ve seen him smile in weeks.

Sighing, I remind myself that I have to be there for my brothers and make sure they’re okay. I can’t let my personal life stop me from doing my duties to the club. I can’t fail them too.

I make my rounds around the courtyard, talking to everyone and asking after them. Some of my brother’s look surprised, and I know I need to do better.

After I speak to everyone, I tell Jace I’m leaving and head home.

When I slide my key in the door, I brace myself for the sound of wailing and crying, for an angry Omari to tell me he can’t handle Baby Rafael and leaving me in the lurch.

Instead, I’m greeted with the soft sound of singing coming from the nursery. Inching my way over, I see the door is cracked and I can just peek inside. Omari has his back to me, his head down as his arms move up and down. It takes me a moment to realize he’s … singing to Baby Rafael. Th e sound of the faint harmony reaches my ears and I sag against the doorframe. This is what he deserves. Baby Rafael deserves someone that wants to sing to him every night. That’s not me.

Not wanting to disturb the happy scene, since I don’t fucking belong, I head to my room, shutting myself up tight so I can lie down and try to get my shit together.