Joker’s Wrath.

Oh God. I’m a nanny for a biker.

This should be interesting.

CHAPTER TWO

“You have to take me to get clothes,” I say, following Mack towards the kitchen, his baby tucked tightly in my arms. “I can’t look after the baby and get my things at the same time. I don’t have a seat. You’re going to have to watch him while I go and—”

“No.”

“Seriously?” I cry. “You wanted me to start right away and I am, but I need to get all my things and—”

He spins around and glares at me. “Then go and fuckin’ get them. Take the baby; get the seat. I don’t fuckin’ care just do it.”

The baby? Not his name. Not my son. I narrow my eyes and watch as he swings the fridge door open and pulls out a beer, then he turns back to me, brown eyes burning holes through me.

“Are you always this moody? If so, I think we need some sort of call . . . so I know when you’re not approachable.”

He stares at me, lip curled in disgust. “Call?”

“You know, like a bird call. Ka-kaw! Ka-kaw!”

He blinks. “Are you fuckin’ nuts?”

“No.” I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “Are you?”

He gives me an unfathomable look, one that says he has no idea how to take me. “You’re the one makin’ fuckin’ bird noises—no, scratch that. No fuckin’ bird makes noises like that.”

“They do,” I say matter-of-factly. “I’ve heard them.”

He looks to the ceiling for calm.

“Well . . .” I encourage, tapping my foot against the tiles.

He mutters a few choice curses, and looks back to me. “I don’t make bird noises and I don’t do calls. You stay away from me; I stay away from you. Take care of the baby. I’m at the club half the time so you won’t need to worry about anything else but that.”

“Does the baby have a name?” I mutter sarcastically.

“Diesel.”

“And his mother?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“That’s apparent,” I mutter.

He shoots daggers in my direction. “You do your job, we’ll be fine.”

I roll my eyes and turn, staring down at the bundle in my arms. He’s definitely like his father. All dark hair, brown eyes and gorgeous olive skin. My guess, he’s only about two months’ old. He’s tiny, and squishy and adorable. I’m not a huge fan of babies, or children for that matter, but this one . . . he’s cute.

“Your father is an arrogant bum-head,” I murmur, figuring it best not to swear in front of an infant. “But you and I will get along just fine.”

Mack grunts. “I’m questioning your sanity.”

I turn and glare at him. “Excuse me, biker, but you’re the one who hired me without asking questions.”

He crosses his arms. I jerk my chin up.

“Just do your fuckin’ job.”

“Jesus, you’re a bossy man. I’m surprised anyone decided to breed with you in the first place. Yeesh.”

A low, throaty growl leaves his throat, but I ignore it. I walk towards the room that Santana told me belonged to the baby before they all left us alone. “Come on, handsome. Your daddy needs therapy. It’s not his fault, he was likely born that way . . .”

“Fuck me,” Mack mutters from the kitchen. “I’ve hired a fuckin’ looney.”

I smile, stepping into the room. I place Diesel down onto the table that holds all his diapers, and unwrap him. God, so tiny. His little legs kick about. I have no idea. None. Zero. I don’t even know how to use a diaper. I pull out my cellphone and scroll down until I find my mother’s name.

“Hello?” she answers.

“Hey, Mom, it’s Jay.”

“Jay,” she croons. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine,” I say, placing a hand on Diesel’s belly. I don’t know if he’ll roll right off the table. I don’t even know if he can roll . . .

“You sound off. What’s going on?”

“Well,” I hesitate, “I took a job.”

“Oh, how wonderful. What is it?”

Here goes. “I’m a nanny.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” I scoff. “It’s a great job. Live in. It’s this little baby, he’s about two months’ old and his name is Diesel.”

More silence.

“Oh God, how did you get a job like that? Someone needs to help that baby, right now! Do you need me to call someone . . . the police maybe?”

“Jesus, Mom,” I groan. “I’m not going to kill the child.”

“Do you remember what you did to your Cousin Lucy?”

I throw my head back and groan. “It was an honest mistake. At the time it seemed like it would work . . . She was crying too much.”

“You tied a basket to the clothes line and put her in it, then you swung her and she fell out.”

“I was twelve. My motherly instincts hadn’t kicked in,” I protest.

“That poor, poor child. She never was the same.”

“She was fine!” I cry. “There was only a slight dent in her head.”

“Oh, God. You should quit. Right now.”