Fuck yeah! “Absolutely!”
A tap of our drinks moves in slow motion. Whoa . . . I blink and try to hold open my heavy eyes. Eh . . . screw it. I let them droop, feeling too good to fight it.
Another sip, then another, and . . .
One
Present Day
Blake
It never fails.
Sprawled on my patio lounger, legs crossed at the ankles, the tip of my nose feels numb against the mid-January early morning chill. I pull my beanie down low over my ears with one hand, while my finger absently toys with the corner of a printed and folded up email I have shoved in my jeans pocket. The flimsy paper curls beneath my thumb, worn thin from carrying it around and reading it with the hope that something will pop out at me: a clue as to what it all means. If nothing else, carrying it is a good reminder of what I have to deal with and soon.
Go figure. When life finally starts smelling like roses, there’s always something that comes along to drop a big fat fucking shit on my damn bouquet. If I could put myself in a headlock, choke myself out for being such a *, I would, but unless I miraculously become a double-jointed contortionist, I need to face this head on.
But how?
An uneasy flutter batters the backside of my ribs, and I don’t have to wonder what’s bringing on the distress. I remember it all too well.
Fear.
The last time I was scared, before I met Layla, was the night I was dragged from my fuckin’ bed by dudes in masks and taken to military school. Nothing since then has truly terrified me, not the toughest drill sergeants in boot camp or the possibility of going to war. Hell, not even my first MMA fight scared me. I craved battle, fucking thirsted for it.
But this is one fight I’m afraid to face because it involves the people I love most in the entire world.
Ever since Stew went to jail, Layla, Axelle, and I have been trying to build a life together. It’s been the best nine months of my life, watching my woman’s body change as she goes through the various stages of pregnancy, but it hasn’t all been a fucking party.
Axelle’s been struggling with the knowledge that her biological father is a rapist. Layla’s dealing with guilt. It’s two steps forward and three steps back some days, and the idea that someone could breeze on in and cause them to relive any of the shit they’re finally getting through fires my blood.
I blow out a shaky breath. Calm down. Don’t lose your shit. The email is not a threat, at least, not yet. My hands ball into fists, gripping the inside of my jeans pockets, one crushing the email, as I watch the sun peek up over the distant hills.
The sound of the sliding glass door yanks me from my thoughts, and I jump from the lounger and whirl around. “Mouse, baby . . . no.” I move to block Layla before she’s able to step one socked foot outside. “It’s too cold. You need—”
“Blake.” Her big brown eyes are pulled tight.
Fuck, it’s that tone—the tone that precedes the tongue-lashing that never fails to make my lips curl and my dick jump—but she’s crazy if she thinks turning me on is going to make me change my mind.
“I’m pregnant, not sick. I’m fully capable of being outside.” Her voice carries the rough edge of morning, and her eyes are a little puffy from sleep.
She’s never looked so beautiful.
I open my mouth to argue and even move to usher her inside, but her glare stops both.
“Look.” She motions to her body, which is still so fuckin’ tiny except for her round belly. “Sweatshirt, leggings.” She lifts a foot and wobbles, but I grab her to keep her steady. “Thick socks. I’m bundled.”
“I know, but it’s cold and flu season, and I don’t think we should take any chances.” I rub her arms and hope to push her deeper into the house, but she doesn’t budge. “Fuck, you’re stubborn as hell.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Blake, we live in Las Vegas. It’s gotta be sixty degrees outside.”
I shrug and check my phone. “Fifty-two.”
“Let me out. I’ll even do this.” She pulls the hoodie of her sweatshirt over her head and tugs the drawstrings so tight that the only part of her face that shows is her nose and her lips. “There. Happy?”
I bite my lip to avoid the laugh that’s forcing its way up my throat. “Not yet.” I scoop her up into my arms, and she squeals, having not seen it coming. Her warm little body, ripe with my growing baby, does weird shit to my chest. Having nine months to figure out what that is, I’ve come to identify it as a mix of arousal and worship, and I don’t know what to do first, make love to her or make a damn sacrifice in her honor.
In seconds, I have her to the lounger where I drop down and arrange her comfortably between my legs. Her left hand rests for a moment on my thigh, and I catch the glint of her engagement ring. My lungs release a tiny bit of the air I didn’t know I was hanging on to.