The sperm donor was a mass murderer. He had a pecker the size of her thumb and a brain to match, but he was the father of her child and there wasn't any going back on that.
She stared at the ringing phone, thinking about what a prize he had been to her once. The hulking hitman, tough guy enforcer flying colors for the Pagan biker gang.
He carried a lot of muscle, pulled a lot of respect. Free beer. Strong drugs. All access, city-wide (under a certain level of respectability, that is). People would go out of their way to escape eye contact with him. Civilians, strangers well outside the gang's world, knew in their guts to avoid him. His mere presence triggered the survival instinct in the squares––and they always chose flight. It was exciting for her...then.
She knew better now.
The phone rang and Pidge regretted ever letting the psychotic clod inside of her. He was an incompetent lover and she suspected he made up for it through his ostentatious method of killing people. When given a target, always some corner crack slinger who hadn't paid up or mouthed off to somebody they shouldn't have or maybe just wore out their welcome, he would stop his bike in the intersection, pull out his twin Mac-10s and spray.
Survival instinct again. Raw fear. It's hard to be witness when you're diving for cover.
He had a 100% success rate and a by-stander kill ratio of 2 to 1. Two civilians killed or injured for every one eliminated target. It added up to a short time on the job. The cops weren't going to let that type of violence slide, kickbacks or not. Still, you couldn't knock the showmanship. He was a bullheaded monster to the core, and the club loved him for it. His achievements were celebrated, his brazen style made him a legend. When the time came for him to go on the lam, he was given a hero's farewell.
They sent him off with a real party, like something out of myth. A genuine underworld bacchanal. A biker's orgy. Pidge was a month pregnant and hadn't been invited. No old ladies at the send off. Them's the rules. He said he'd swing by on his way out of town, but she never saw him again.
They caught up with him in North Carolina, after two more murders and a slew of lesser felonies. Now he would call her once a month from the supermax, asking for visits, promising he'll send money, and more recently making threats if Pidge didn't let him see their daughter.
She would never take the girl to see him. She had half his genetic code, but maybe not seeing its source the rotten DNA would remain dormant. It was bad enough Pidge knew her daughter was half-murderer. The death was in her.
The phone rattled with its final ring and she picked up.
"You gotta' stop calling me, Big." His sign was "Big". What a joke.
"Shut up. They killed Mac. Fed him to his dogs. Connie's coming to see you."
Pidge froze. Mac was President of the Baltimore Pagan chapter. Apparently he was dead now, fed to his three pitbulls. She felt bad for the dogs, they were nice animals if you knew them. What goes around comes around. Connie was his wife. Pidge and Connie always got along, but those people didn't do anything that didn't serve themselves in some way. She felt bad for Connie, but didn't want anything to do with her.
"Why is she coming to see me?"
"There's something she needs. Something in the car. She'll know, so just let her do what she needs to do."