Lucy
There’s no way this is legal. It’s my first thought as I pull up to where I’m supposed to pick up a refurbished stroller and car seat system. By all accounts, the shop 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.
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 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 ask me to have a baby, and soon after that, quit my job. He’d tell me what to wear, which PTA moms to befriend, and how to spend my “allowance.” Worst of all, I’d be bored.
So of course, when I said no, a few weeks later, a pregnancy test said yes.
I don’t want my baby to grow up in my family full of abusers and enablers. 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 need that travel system because it converts from a car seat to a stroller, 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 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 perspire, 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 and leave 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—a Sip and See my sister started organizing late because I waited until the eleventh hour to tell them I’m pregnant. We had enough going on without me adding more of my problems.
I know my fears are unfounded. Olivia and Cliff are my people, the only people I need, really. Besides, they were busy keeping their own secret: banging each other. 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 at all, so it’s fine. It’ll burn out just like every other boy toy Olivia ever brought home, leaving my cousin—who’s a big ol’ softie hidden that tall, dark, and scary disguise—lovesick. I’m not looking forward to the fallout. Cliff’s touch her and die vibes have always gotten him into trouble. The last time he tried saving someone hopeless, he went to prison.
Sweat drips between my tits, pooling under my boobs, my sundress sticking to me. “Hello!” I call again, louder.
“Yeah, yeah.” A man covered in tattoos strolls out of the back, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. 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 box, down at the small and heavy watermelon I’m hauling around, and back to him.
He drops the butt onto the floor and grinds it out with a steel-toed boot, staring at me with pale blues. “You’re not…” He trails off and rubs his beard, those eyes searing into me.
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 I use or which hand. The second I come, my body demands more, now, again. I’m worse than a teenage boy.
“I’m not…?” I prod.
Smoothing his face into a mask I can’t read, he taps the box. “Need help getting this loaded?”
There’s no cash register, so I guess we’re doing this like a drug deal. I venture forward to pass him the money. Closer is immediately too close, my pupils dilating and my heart racing as I inhale him. He smells like smoke and leather, but there’s warm sugar in there, too. I lean forward and breathe him in.
He steps back. “Are… are you smelling me?”
“No,” I sputter. “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?”
“False bottom? What’s inside?” I ask.
He frowns at the door then me, and I realize I’m supposed to open it for him.
“Drop? Tail?” I repeat, hurrying after him because at least outside there’s air movement.
“This you?” He nods at my beat up Toyota Camry.
“How’d you guess,” I say dryly. I’m still the only car here. He hasn’t answered any of my questions. “Hold it.”
He freezes at my teacher voice. “Yes…?”
“What’s in the box?” I ask again.
Giving me a sharp look, he slides the box into my back seat.
“Why do you have to follow me?” I continue. “Don’t I just give you the money now?”
He looks at me like I’m stupid. “The package gets delivered, then you get paid. We just needed a pregnant lady, not someone with all these questions. How did you even—?”
“So there’s not a stroller in there,” I interrupt.
“What the hell are you talking about?” His blue eyes blaze, and though I should be afraid, it just turns me on more. Despite his annoyance, his gaze drop to my lips and his eyes aren’t angry, they’re hungry.
I cross my arms. “The post said you had a refurbed stroller for sale and to pick it up here.” Now I’m talking to him like he’s the idiot. I rattle off the address.
“Post? What post?”
I show him the screenshot I took of the post in marketplace. “Stroller and car seat travel system ‘new’ in box,” it reads, giving the address.
His eyebrows knit in pained horror. “He posted it instead of texting,” he mutters.
“I’ve got cash,” I remind him.
“Don’t move,” he orders, pulling a cell from his pocket. My heart beats a little faster, hopeful he’ll call whomever there’s a mixup with and sell me the stroller since I’m standing right here. His phone isn’t an iPhone, Android, or any other smartphone, though. It’s a freakin’ flip phone—a burner.
My stomach sinks. Whatever I’ve walked into, it’s definitely not legal.
“Your mule didn’t show,” he says into the burner. “There’s a lady 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. The space between his eyes seems a little narrow, giving him that predatory look. “And no more gummies before texting our contacts, you old pain in my ass.” He snaps the phone shut, glares not at me but through me. His eyes are small, I realize—that’s why it seems like there’s less than the space of an eyeball between them. Ice thaws to concern. I can’t be reading that right, though.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I swallow. “Lucy.”
His eyes close.
I realize my mistake right away. I should’ve given him a fake name. Actually, I should already be driving away, without whatever’s in that box.
He’s not looking at me like a home invader assessing his next target, though.
“I know you. You’re Cliff and Olivia’s Lucy,” he says. “I’ve seen you in the bar. The Wet Mermaid?”
“You’re a River Reaper?” 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. His cutoff Pink Floyd tee shows off tattooed muscles. I should recognize him; I’m in the Mermaid more than I’d like. I try not to pay attention, though. It reminds me too much of standing behind my parents while the bartender slipped them a baggie of coke with their shots. “I remember you,” I lie.
“Stixx,” he supplies with a wry smile.
I’d definitely remember that name. “Pregnancy brain.” I shrug. “What can ya do?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose again. “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 the address.
I laugh. “Nope.”
“No?”
“I’m not taking your box of dirty club secrets or whatever’s in there anywhere. I want the stroller.” I lift my chin, red bangs falling to the sides of my face, ponytail held high.
“There is no stroller,” he says. “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 press my thighs together. He’s not speaking in innuendo, yet his words make my pussy throb.
We both get what we need.
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, to call the police.
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 keeps me in wine and in my condo. Stixx is a River Reaper, which means he’s Cliff and Olivia’s family. He won’t let anything happen to me. Probably.
“Can you at least tell me if I’m going to prison if this goes bad?”
“You’re not going to prison,” he dismisses.
“So it’s not drugs?” I ask his retreating back.
He turns, the breeze catching his hair and lifting it from sincere eyes. “No drugs. No prison time. You have my word.” Before I can reply, he ducks inside.
I’ve got maybe a minute before he 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.
“Starting route,” the GPS announces, and Stixx comes back out, not from the front door 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. “Let’s ride.”
And for the first time in my life, I do what I’m told.
The above excerpt has been lightly 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 September 1st
Surprise! After five years of writing, rewriting, health challenges, and a few personal dark nights of the soul, the Stixx and Lucy standalone is the next installment in the River Reapers MC world.
So what’d you think of Chapter 1? Leave a comment or give this post a like to let me know!
Photo by Adrian Ordonez on Unsplash
