“I don’t know,” Baja says, holding up his hands. “One minute Maggie is calling me on Woody’s phone asking for Lola’s number to come bring her feminine hygiene products, so I gave it to her. The next thing I know the girls are coming through the door of the bar.”
“How the hell did that happen?” Rock demands.
“Apparently Woody fell asleep. He came down from the cabin about an hour ago with his tail between his legs. He knows he fucked up. I sent him to the clubhouse.”
“His ass is mine,” I growl.
“Right now, you’ve got a bigger problem,” Baja says. “That chick at the bar told Maggie you knocked her up. And that’s when it all went fucking sideways.”
“Where is she?”
“After that chick said what she said, I called you, and then Lola and Isabella took Maggie upstairs. When I went to check on them, they were gone.”
“Why didn’t you stop them?” I bark.
“I didn’t know until I took the trash out back and noticed the truck was gone from the alley. I had a bar to run, so I was a little busy.”
I drag a hand through my hair and pace. “Everything was going so damn good; I don’t get it. I don’t know who the fuck this girl is.”
“Well, you need to go talk to her, brother,” Baja says, folding his arms and leaning against the edge of the desk.
“Great, fine, if I knew where the hell she was,” I snap, spreading my hands.
Baja lifts his chin in the general direction of the front of the bar. “Saw her and her friend walk into the diner across the street. She’s wearing a purple shirt with a dog on the front. She’s probably still over there.”
I exchange a look with Rock, and he jerks his chin.
“Come on.”
I follow him, Darko, and Utah out of the office and through the bar. We cross the street and stalk into the diner. The four of us come to a stop just inside the place, and I scan the crowd.
Every head in the room turns toward the four of us, waiting and watching.
“There.” Rock points to a booth near the front windows.
I see a woman in a purple shirt with a poodle on the front of it. She’s got short dark curls and a matching headband. Beaded bracelets stack her wrists.
She and her friend grab their purses and slide from the booth, but Utah and I are quicker, moving to block them.
I slide into the booth, crowding the girl toward the window, trapping her. My eyes drop to her belly. She is indeed pregnant.
“Oh, shit,” her friend mutters.
“Oh, shit is right,” Utah says, putting a knee on the opposite bench, blocking her exit.
I pin the girl in purple with my eyes. I know I’ve never encountered this woman, and I’ve sure as hell never fucked this woman. “You recognize either of them, Utah? They ever been at the clubhouse?”
“Nope. Neither of these chicks have ever set foot in the place. No way in hell.”
“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” I say.
Her shoulders slump. “You must be Keno, huh?”
“In the flesh.”
“Look, I only did it for the money. He gave me three hundred dollars. I couldn’t turn that down. It seemed like it was harmless. He showed me a picture of the girl. Said she worked at the Gaslight. Said all I had to do was tell her that Keno was the father of my kid and I was looking for him. That’s it.”
“Who?” I bark. “Who put you up to this?”