Lucy
There’s no way this is legal. It’s my first thought as I pull in front of the shop where I’m supposed to pick up a refurbished stroller and car seat system. By all accounts, the Main Street storefront is empty. Dark windows stained with dust face the street, and I’m the only car parallel parked out front. I knew it seemed odd that a children’s thrift shop would be in Woodbury, of all places—a town where there are more antique and health food stores than people. Around here, moms buy their travel systems new on Prime. Plus, I’m pretty sure car seat regulations don’t even allow for “refurbishing,” or whatever it is this shop does. But I’m desperate.
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I did it to myself. I could be one of those suburban moms with the latest, most expensive baby gadgets if I hadn’t broken up with my baby daddy when he proposed. I’m certifiably insane for even thinking of leaving a man who throws money at every problem with barely a thought. The thing is, I think he saw me as a problem, or he would eventually if I married him. I didn’t want to be his trailer park teacher turned tradwife, even if it came with a perfect white SUV to drive around our perfect five kids—I didn’t want to be a mom. I became a teacher to give kids like me a safe space from their monsters, to keep kids like my cousin Cliff out of prison. When Benjamin proposed, I knew if I said yes, next he’d pressure me into having his baby, and soon after, quit my job. He’d tell me what to wear, which PTA moms to befriend, and how to spend my “allowance.” It took me seven years to figure out he’s not what I want, and once I did, the relief was immediate.
So of course, a few weeks after I said no, a pregnancy test said yes.
Arsonist's Lullaby is a dark romance. Please check triggers before reading.
I don’t want my baby to grow up in the shadow of my addict parents, both likely narcissists. I barely made it out of childhood, and poverty was the least of my traumas. I don’t want her to grow up under Benjamin’s thumb, either. I’d rather we be poor and free.
I need that travel system because it converts from a car seat to a stroller, is lightweight, and foolproof enough that I could do it all myself. That overpriced brand is actually a beacon of freedom, a way to raise a baby I didn’t plan for in the environment of my choice. Mine.
The place is probably closed, anyway. All I have to do is try the door, admit defeat, and get back in my car. Easy. Then I can go back to doomscrolling through more fake secondhand baby paraphernalia in the comfort of AC. Pregnancy’s got me sweating in places I never knew I could, and doesn’t play well with the late summer heatwave we’re in. When I turn the knob and push the door, it opens with a long, dusty creak.
The shop is even emptier than it looked from the street, and worse, there’s no AC. A single, brand new travel system sits in the middle of the small store, still unopened. Part of me is relieved. It fell off a truck, much like most of the things from my childhood: chicken cutlets, satellite cable, my adopted sister Olivia. At least I know it’ll be safe for my baby.
“Hello?” I run a finger over the box, leaving a trail in the dust. The factory seal is unbroken, the box isn’t even dented. I came with exactly enough cash, so this should be quick. I won’t even have to tell Olivia or Cliff how I got something so expensive. I’ll wrap it and pretend someone from work bought it for my shower—the Sip and See my sister started organizing late because I waited until the eleventh hour to tell them I’m pregnant. I didn’t want to dump more of my problems on them, not when Cliff already gave up twenty years of his life for me. Not with things in our little family getting so messy.
They think I don’t know, like I didn’t figure it out the night they left me at a dive bar for over an hour to “get cigarettes.” Olivia came back with that look in her eye, the addict floating from her fix. Cliff looked guilty.
Cliff and I are cousins, but Olivia isn’t biologically related to us. My emotionally unavailable sister’s gonna break his heart, though. It’s too bad, because they could be good for each other.
Not that I know anything about healthy relationships.
Sweat drips between my tits, pooling under them, and my sundress sticks to me. “Hello!” I call again, louder.
“I’m coming,” a man replies, his accent almost Connecticut, the syllables lilting kinda like the actors’ do in the Norwegian TV show I got hooked on a few years back. A man covered in tattoos strolls out of the back, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. He’d be hot without the cancer stick. He rakes dirty blond hair streaked with silver and red back from a face sculpted with high cheekbones. His jawline’s probably just as sharp, but it’s covered in beard.
I look pointedly at the cigarette, down at the small yet heavy watermelon I’m hauling around, and back at him.
“S-sorry.” He drops the butt onto the floor and grinds it out with a steel-toed boot, staring at me with baby blues. “You’re not…” He trails off and rubs his beard, those eyes drinking me in. “I know you,” he says, a warm smile brushing his lips like he’s happy to see me.
I should be alarmed. My pulse quickens, and a fluttering flickers low inside me, and it’s not fear. It’s hormones. I’ve officially reached the horny stage of pregnancy, and it’s insatiable. Doesn’t matter which toy or hand I use. The second I come, my body demands more, now, again.
No one ever looks at me the way he is, pupils dilated, and it shoots straight to my clit.
“You know me…?” I prod. I don’t recognize him, so I don’t think he’s a parent of one of my first graders. I’d remember the way his cut-off Pink Floyd tee clings to all that lean, tattooed muscle.
Hello, daddy.
“You’re Cliff and Olivia’s Lucy,” he says. “I’ve seen you in the bar. The Wet Mermaid?”
“You’re a River Reaper.” I should be concerned that he knows my face and name, but every biker in the club probably knows more about me than I do any of them. We share history.
At least now I can stare at him as long as I want. I assess lips that, even though they’re partially hidden under a mustache needing a trim, look soft and kissable. I should recognize him; I’m in the Mermaid more than I’d like. I stop in for a few minutes here and there, say hi to Olivia and Cliff when they’re working, and then I get out of there. It reminds me too much of standing behind my parents while the bartender slipped them a baggie of coke with their shots.
“Stixx,” he supplies with a wry smile.
I’d definitely remember that name. “Lucy,” I say, even though he already knows. I hold out a hand, and surprise alights on his face for a moment. He grips it in warm tattooed fingers, heat spreading through me. I think he feels it too, because his eyes widen and he smiles.
Then he pulls away.
His face smooths into a mask I can’t read, and he taps the box. “Are you really here for this?”
I catch another tease of an accent. “I really am.” I point to my swollen belly again. He frowns.
I guess we’re not going out to dinner any time soon.
I’m glad I left my ex. I’m proud to become a single mom. I’m also learning no man wants the woman knocked up by some other dude. The bump is the number one reason I haven’t cleansed myself of my Benjamin era. The second I mentioned the pregnancy on dates, the guys sitting across from me vanished. Once I started showing, forget it.
Stixx, apparently, is no different, so I take the hint and get to business.
There’s no cash register, so I guess we’re doing this like a drug deal. I step forward to pass him the money. Closer is both too close and not enough, my nipples puckering against the cotton dress and my heart racing as I inhale. He smells like smoke, leather, and warm sugar. I lean forward and breathe him in.
He steps back. “Are … are you smelling me?”
“No,” I sputter, fanning my hot face. “Just checking to make sure the box doesn’t smell like weed.”
“You won’t draw any attention,” he says, lifting the box and striding toward the door. “False bottom, the package is inside. You’re just gonna drive to the drop. I’ll tail you a few cars behind. Ready to roll?”
I stare at him, scrunching my face more as each sentence lands. “False bottom? What’s inside?” I ask. “And what do you mean, ‘drop?’”
He frowns. “Lucy…” he says slowly, like it’s hurting him a little. “Why are you here?”
I point to the box he’s holding. “Buying a travel system that apparently fell off a truck.”
His frown deepens. “No.”
Since I’m at the too-pregnant-to-cross-my-arms stage, I put my hands on my hips. “What do you mean, ‘No?’”
He drops the box. “You need to leave. Now.” Taking my shoulders, he turns me and marches me toward the door.
Heat radiates from his hands, spreading through my shoulders and zinging down my spine. I lean into him for a delicious moment before the alarm bells in my brain break through. I shrug his hands off and wheel around. “Why won’t you sell this to me?”
“Because it’s not for sale,” he hisses.
“The hell it isn’t.” I show him the screenshot I took of the marketplace post. “Stroller and car seat travel system ‘new’ in box. Pickup ASAP in store,” it reads, giving the address.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “He posted it instead of messaging her,” he mutters in pained horror.
“I’ve got cash,” I remind him.
“You are leaving,” he says.
I start to argue, but the fear in his eyes gives me pause.
His phone rings, cutting off all my questions. “Don’t move,” he orders, pulling a cell from his pocket.
My heart beats faster. Whatever I’ve walked into, it’s definitely not legal.
“Not ‘All good,’” he says into the phone. “Your mule didn’t show. Cliff’s cousin Lucy’s here wanting to buy a used stroller. Yeah, I know there’s no such thing.” He gives me a pointed look. “She saw it in a post.” His hand clenches around the phone. “Yeah, ‘oops.’ Take that shit down, now. Better yet, get Vaughn to scrub it.” He massages the bridge of his nose. “And no more gummies before texting our contacts, you old pain in my ass.” He snaps the flip phone shut.
Stixx peers out the front windows at the street. “That you?” He nods at my beat-up Camry, the only car here. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m walking you out.” Taking my arm, he draws me toward the door.
I pull away. “I’m not leaving without the stroller.”
“There is no stroller.” He palms my lower back, his hand warm through my dress, and gently but firmly steers me to the exit.
“Why are you in such a rush to get me out of here?” I twist, bumping him with my belly, and find myself staring up into eyes the color of the ocean warning of a storm.
The rear door slams into the wall. Stixx freezes. The fear drains from his eyes, replaced by panic. “Do everything I say,” he whispers to me as the doorway darkens.
The man crowding the frame has to be almost seven feet tall, with powerful shoulders attached to hands capable of crushing my skull. Unnerving violet eyes glare at Stixx from out of a dark face, hardening when his gaze drops to me and my pregnant belly. I swallow, wrapping my arms around myself and backing into Stixx.
“Ugo, move your big ass,” another man says from behind him.
Ugo ducks into the shop, and two men stroll in behind him. They’re each about six-two, and all three share the same complexion and those eyes. On Elizabeth Taylor, they sparkled, photographing beautifully when she wore purples and greens. On these men, they’re void, cold, hypnotic—the calculating orbs of predators.
“Out,” Stixx says, giving me a push, and one of the men tsks.
“Don’t be rude. Is this our mule?” He saunters over.
“No,” Stixx says. “She was just leaving.”
“Dante,” the man says, tucking brown hair behind his ears and holding out a tattooed hand.
I look at his protruding hand and hug myself tighter. All three of these men set off screaming alarms in my head. They carry death.
“That’s Nico.” He points at the third man with his thumb as if I didn’t just snub him. “Now you know us.” He grins. “We still don’t know you.”
They fan out, and Dante loops his thumb and forefinger around my wrist, drawing me toward the door.
Stixx steps between us, severing Dante’s hold on me. “Don’t touch her again,” he growls, his voice reverberating inside all my secret places.
Dante smirks at him.
Nico taps the gold watch on his wrist. “We gotta roll. Everybody out.”
Ugo lifts the box, frowns at the door then me, and I realize he wants me to open it for him.
Except I haven’t agreed to whatever this is.
“Unless there’s a stroller in there that you’re loading into my car, you can put that down,” I say.
Ignoring me, Dante opens the door.
“That you?” Nico nods at my Camry.
“Hold it,” I say in my teacher voice, and all four of them freeze. “What’s in the box?”
The way they all stare back at me reminds me of my first graders when I ask what they’re eating at their desks.
It’s always candy.
Dante turns to Stixx. “Who the fuck is this?”
Stixx throws me a warning look before waving him off. “Re-fucking-lax. She’s just a Seven fan. Fucking nerd.” Circling my wrist, he pulls me outside before I can argue or ask any more questions.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he drops his voice, speaking quickly while we’re still alone. “A’ight, Lucy, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna give you an address, you’re gonna put it in your GPS, and we’re gonna take a ride. You won’t be harmed—you’re gonna deliver the package. And you’re gonna keep your mouth shut,” he adds. “You can’t tell Cliff and Olivia about this.” He rattles off an address that I try not to memorize yet sticks in my head all the same.
I laugh. “Nope.”
“No?”
“Make that hell no. I’m not taking your box of dirty club secrets or whatever’s in there anywhere. I want my stroller.” I lift my chin, red bangs falling to the sides of my face, ponytail held high.
“There is no stroller,” he says. “Unfortunately, life has a terrible sense of humor, and Beer Can posted instead of messaging the harmless looking pregnant woman who was supposed to deliver the package. Now the Fishers are here, so you’ve gotta play along, or they’ll kill you.”
I pin him with a look. “Kill me?”
“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘The Fishers are in the hills?’”
“Like, as in Fisher cats? Fun fact, they somehow got a bad rep for it, but they’re not what you hear screaming at night sometimes. It’s probably a red fox.” I clamp my lips shut. Did I seriously just go into teacher mode again in the middle of possibly being kidnapped? I shouldn’t be lecturing or nerding out with these men. I should be running.
“They’re hitmen for the don, Lucy,” he says in a low voice that chills my blood.
“Don? As in, the mafia? I thought you guys just sold drugs and guns.”
“You’re not supposed to know that,” he says, giving me a look. “And who do you think we sell the drugs and guns for?”
I close my eyes, inhaling through my nose. There’s so much to unpack here, and with three hitmen who can make me disappear in no time. With a long sigh, I face him again. “I just wanted the damn stroller.”
“I know,” he says, and he actually looks regretful. He licks his lips. “Look, I need a harmless looking pregnant woman, and you need enough cash to buy the real thing. So get in the car, Lucy, and we both get what we need.”
I open my mouth to ask him who the hell he thinks he is, telling me what to do. No one tells me what to do, even if I’m about to get murdered. Not anymore.
We both get what we need.
Ugo strolls out, Dante holding the door for him, and loads the box onto my back seat. Giving me a long, almost reproachful look, he stands silent beside his brothers.
I should wrestle that box out of my car myself. I should call Cliff or at least drop a pin to Olivia and tell her if I’m not home in thirty minutes, call the cops.
Except, I need that car seat, and this baby’s gonna need a whole lot more. There’s formula, diapers, and clothes, and that’s just for starters. My job barely covers the necessities. Stixx is a River Reaper, which means he’s Cliff and Olivia’s family, too. He won’t let anything happen to me. Probably.
“You’re seriously not gonna tell me what’s in the box, even though I might end up in a Netflix doc for it?”
“I’m seriously not,” he says. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.” His eyes glint, though, and even though that should very much be a red flag, it makes me even more curious.
“Can you at least tell me if I could go to prison over whatever’s in there?”
“You’re not going to prison,” he promises.
“So it’s not drugs?” I ask his retreating back.
He turns, the breeze catching his hair. He pins me with sincere eyes. “No drugs. No prison time. You have my word. Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Before I can reply, he ducks back inside, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with the Fishers.
Or, I thought they were still out here. The box is in my back seat, and the Fishers are nowhere to be seen.
I’ve got maybe a minute before Stixx comes back out, probably less, but still enough time to get the fuck out of here.
I unlock my phone, my fingers slipping on the glass as I type.
“Starting route,” the GPS announces, and Stixx comes back out, not from the shop, but the alley, the roar of his motorcycle drowning out the pounding of my heart.
“Don’t drive too fast,” he warns, pulling on a leather vest covered in River Reapers MC patches.
“Wait,” I call, glancing up from the destination mapped on my phone. “Are we going to the distribution center?”
He stares at me, his expression somewhere between a frown and intrigue.
“Don’t fuck this up,” he says, handing me a burner. “Take this in case. Let’s ride.”
And even though I swore to myself I’d never take orders from another man again, I do what I’m told.
The above excerpt has been lightly edited and revised, and may not reflect the final published product.
Copyright 2026.
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic or mechanical—without permission in writing from the author.
Arsonist’s Lullaby
Available October 25th
She’s burnt out. I’ll burn the world down to give her spark back.
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