by Brill Harper
He wraps his arms around me protectively, and I start to fall asleep, warm in his arms. He whispers his love for me as I begin dreaming about the baby I hope we just made.
Epilogue
Ruby
Five years later
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH HOMESCHOOLING?” Dusty asks me.
“Your son needs to go to school with other kids. He’s going to love it. You’ll see.”
My husband scowls at me. He’s not ready to send our little guy off, and if I think about it too hard, neither am I.
“We could keep him home. We’ll get that fancy homeschool curriculum. Hell, you’re so smart, you can teach him all the math stuff.”
“Are you going to finish painting that or should I call someone else?”
Dusty scowls at me some more and then turns his scowl toward the set he’s working on. Opening night for the play at the community playhouse is in two weeks, but the director didn’t like the mantel, so Dusty got volunteered to paint a new one.
I’m a tough director.
I’ve acted in a couple of productions over the years, but this is my first directing gig and I want it to be perfect. It never will be, but it feels good to have more control. I never even thought about directing when I lived in Hollywood. I was always so sure I wanted to be an actress. And I do enjoy acting still. Stage acting is much better than commercials. And directing has opened up a whole new passion for me.
“What happens if your water breaks on opening night?” Dusty asks. I think he’s picking a fight.
“Well, we’ll already be in town, so I guess that’s a good thing. I figure I’ll just head to the hospital after last curtain.”
“Last curtain? The hell you will. Your water breaks and you tell me right away and we go directly to the hospital.”
“You still have seven bricks left to paint.”
“Ruby, promise me.”
“I’m teasing you, Dusty.” I put his free hand on my belly. “She’s not due for a month.”
He kisses my forehead. “Sorry I’m being such a bear. I get so damn nervous when you’re pregnant. I just want to wrap you in cotton and feed you spaghetti.”
“Oh now you’re just being cruel.” I’ve been craving spaghetti every day for the last four weeks. It doesn’t matter if I eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I still want more.
“We should head back home soon. I want to check on the fence again.”
Home. I love hearing him say home. It hasn’t worn off yet. Not in the five years I’ve been living in Pair-a-Dice.
The resort is getting a little bigger every year. We’ve gotten more positive reviews than negative since the cabins were remodeled. And the saloon was built. Guests love having the saloon on the property, so they can have a few beers and not worry about cabs or cars.
This year, we’ve gone into weekly business. Instead of just booking for a few nights, we have a program that starts every Sunday. We’re all-inclusive now, with planned activities and nightlife. Next year, we start a kid’s program with counselors so parents can have some time to themselves during the day.
All in all, it’s a lot to be proud of.
“Mommy! Daddy!” Dustin Jr. runs down the aisle, Charlotte not too far behind him, but the kid is fast.
Dusty scoops him up. “Hey, Junior. You have a good time at the grocery store with Aunt Charlotte?”
I wipe the chocolate off his face while he tells us all about the exciting cookie he got for “free, Momma, that means it don’t cost nothin’” and that there is a new cereal that his Aunt won’t get him, but we should know it will make him grow big and strong like his favorite superhero. He saw it on TV when he was visiting Uncle Carter.
It’s all very exciting until I realize something is distracting me. A twinge. And then...
“Hey, Dusty, remember how we were talking about opening night and you made me promise to tell you if my water broke?”
“Yeah?”
“She hit her cue too early.”
“Who did?” he asks, not understanding.
“Momma, why are you standing in a puddle?”
Banged
AUTHOR’S CONFESSION: Mac is the bomb technician that will make your heart go BOOM. He’s the alpha caretaker you want guarding your six. And your nine...
Chapter One
Mac
I REALLY HATE THIS coffee shop.
The darkest corner I could find is still lit up like they’re using stadium lights, and the speakers placed every two feet are blaring annoyingly spirited pop music of the boy band variety. The air even tastes sweet, like bubblegum. It’s like Whoville and all the noise, noise, noise. Fuck.
The barista at the counter even looks like Cindy Lou Who with her shiny blonde hair braided up and her too tight T-shirt showing too much skin. Maybe some men like that. Maybe she gets great tips. But she does nothing for me other than make me want to suggest she put on a sweater and get her homework done.
The music in here jangles my nerves, but so do the clattering dishes, the clinking spoons, the scrape of metal against metal. My blood pressure is rising, the thumping in my head getting louder and louder. A cash register dings and the vein in my temple throbs.
Hold it together, Stryker.
I sip at my acrid, burnt coffee, and it scalds the inside of my mouth.
That quiet spot inside my head that used to make my job dismantling explosives possible seems to have disappeared, leaving me like this—always one step from losing my shit. My hand throbs, a reminder of why I’m sitting here instead of at the station or out on a call. I could probably hide the stuff going on in my head if I had to, but nobody is letting me go back to work until my hand heals, something physical therapy doesn’t seem to be doing.
I frown into my cup. If I have to be at a coffee shop instead of the cop shop, I wish I were at Old Joe’s instead. Old Joe’s feels more like a pub, only instead of booze they serve smooth coffee and normal looking desserts that taste like food and not plastic and saccharin. But now I come here because she had to ruin it all.
I don’t know her name. She’s pretty. She’s smiley. She’s pregnant.
And she’s my neighbor.
The last day I stepped foot in Old Joe’s, I took one look at her behind the counter, that sunny smile and pretty little dimple, her dark chin-length hair the same shade as her deep brown eyes, and I turned around and never went back. It’s hard enough to avoid her in the hallway outside our apartments, I don’t need to run into her every day over my coffee. Then she’d start talking to me. Asking me questions. Getting to know me. Then she’d expect that we chat at the mailbox. Maybe gossip about the neighbor down the hall who entertains an awful lot of men in her apartment when her husband is at work. Then comes “borrowing a cup of sugar” or “I made extra lasagna and brought you a plate.”
No. Thank. You.
For one thing, I don’t want to be friendly with anyone. It’s not just her, but she’s worse. She’s the kind of person that you can tell is genuinely nice. Good inside. Not faking it like most of us. Ten years on the police force and I can tell you I know for certain there are more assholes like me in the world than honestly nice human beings like her.
But the other thing that keeps me far, far away from the girl next door is I want to fuck her.
Bad.
She’s deliciously round. Fertile. It shouldn’t even be sexy. I’ve never been turned on by a pregnant woman before.
But being someone’s mother means she’d best stay away from the likes of me. Not only am I not interested in commitment or family, but I’m a fucking mess. Nobody deserves to be saddled with me, but especially not someone responsible for another human life.
I’ve never seen a baby daddy hanging around, but he’s out there somewhere. He should be home with her. Keeping guys like me from drooling all over the mother of his kid. The fantasies I have make me feel dirty. Well, after I come, I feel dirty. While I’m stroking to the thought of her, I feel fucking fantastic. The
things I want to do to that woman are not legal in some states.
Better change the direction of my thoughts. The last thing I need is a hard-on when my boss gets over here.
Captain Albright weaves around the long line at the cash register and toward my table. I stand, offering him my left hand rather than my right now that it’s so messed up.
We catch some startled stares from the Abercrombie & Fitch crowd around us. We don’t exactly fit in with the “One Direction is the best band ever” patrons. Cap isn’t a small man, and we’re evenly matched in height, though he’s got about forty pounds on me. Most of the guys on my ERU squad are big. It seems to go with the territory. Though Cafferty, the one handling the bombs that used to go to me, is about 5’9” and wiry as fuck. He’s the dude we always send into crawlspaces first.
After shaking my hand, Cap pulls me into a bear hug and slaps my back. “Stryker, what’s good here?”
“Bottled water,” I answer and slap him back.
He laughs and scans the chalkboard with specials written on it in fat bubble letters. “I like that sweet drink, right? What is it called?”
“Mocha, sir. I already ordered you one. They said they’d bring it to the table.” I signal to Cindy Lou Who that I’m ready for that drink, and we sit in the hard plastic chairs the colors of a neon nightmare.
“How are you doing, son? I read the most recent report on your hand this morning.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “I need to come back to work. I’m going crazy, Cap.”
His eyes are warm, but his expression resigned. “You’re not logging in all your psych meetings.” His coffee arrives in the hands of a different young woman who shoots me an appreciative glance. At least she looks a couple years older than the blonde, but I’m still not interested. “Thank you,” Cap says, offering another tip for the delivery to the table.
I’d already added a tip, but I don’t begrudge her getting more. It gives me a few more seconds of not hearing the bad news anyway. When she leaves, my time is up.
Cap sighs. “I can’t bring you back until both your doctors agree, and that psychologist will never clear you unless you do the time.”
I was afraid of that. “I’ll start going to the group meetings again. I just...hate it.” I can’t decide which is worse—the group sessions or the one-on-ones with my psych doc. That fucker sort of makes me want to punch things more when I’m inside his office than I do outside of it.
“None of those cops want to be there, but there’s no shame in it. We have to lean on each other sometimes, Stryker. Everyone in that meeting is dealing with similar shit.”
I nod. The guys in the group are not the problem. I can relate to all of them. Two of the guys also lost their partners on the job like I did. There’s no manual telling you how to deal with that. Well, there is. There’s a manual for everything at the police department. Just not a useful one.
Ricky was more than my partner on the squad; he was my best friend. Every night, I relive his last moments. Every day, I walk around feeling like a ghost.
It should have been me. I wish it had been me.
Cap fills me in on some gossip from our unit. I miss the ERU. Cafferty can handle explosives as well as I could, so the team will be okay without me. But I’m not sure I’m okay without the team. I can’t defuse a bomb with a fucked-up hand, though. I miss my family, my squad, but I have to wonder if I’m actually any good to them at all anymore.
I THINK ABOUT IT DURING the walk home. Maybe it’s time to rethink careers. But shit, what does a bomb guy do if he’s not defusing bombs? I’ve been a cop since I graduated high school, in some form or another.
Out of habit, I check the entryway of my building for anything that seems out of the ordinary. There never is. It’s a good neighborhood, and I’m not the only cop living in it. I’ve lived here long enough that I’ve already mentally placed all the explosives in the places I’d hide them if I were the bad guy. I guess it’s part of the job, always expecting the worst. It doesn’t help. Surprises still happen, and they still suck. But everywhere I go, I’m hiding bombs in my head and checking to make sure they aren’t there.
It isn’t until I round the stairwell on my floor that I hear her. My neighbor. I pause. Maybe she hasn’t sensed me yet, and I can turn around and wait for her to get inside her own apartment. No awkward hellos necessary.
Only she’s not standing at her door. She’s sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall, and fuck me, she’s crying.
I’m a tough man. As a cop I’ve seen things, done things, that most people can’t imagine in their worst nightmares. I’m confronted with the worst of the human condition regularly. I’ve witnessed utter hopelessness, unparalleled anger, and unspeakable violence. And I face it and do my job.
But this one woman, crying in the hall, fucking undoes everything inside me. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I make noise as I walk down the hall so it doesn’t seem like I’m sneaking up on her. She doesn’t seem to notice or stop crying. Shit.
“Ma’am?”
She gasps and looks up, her lip and chin trembling, but it’s the ashen color of her face that worries me the most.
With arms wide so she can see I’m not holding a weapon, I use the voice I’ve had to practice on victims of accidents and crimes too many times. It’s deep, slow, relaxed. “I’m sorry to startle you. I live next door. My name is Mac. MacKenzie Stryker. I’m a cop.” I show her my badge.
She nods quickly, faking a casual air. “I’ve seen you before.” The color of her face changes from gray to pink. “I’m Hillary Bloom.”
“Hillary, can you tell me what’s wrong?”
She gifts me with a watery smile and then bursts into uncontrollable sobs once again.
Not sure if I should, I touch her arm gently. “Please don’t cry.”
That apparently sets her off a little more, and she tries to breathe but only manages hiccups. I lean into her, registering the scent of coffee and something buttery that she must have carried home on her from her shift at Old Joe’s. I fold around her gently. I haven’t comforted anyone in a long time. The last woman I hugged was Ricky’s wife at his funeral, and I’m sure I offered her no consolation or comfort at the time.
Hillary, though, slows her hiccupping. She’s stuttering something that sounds like “I’m sorry” and “I’m so embarrassed.”
I rub her back and resist the urge to kiss her head. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Please. I need to fix it. I can’t stand the tears, they’re killing me.
She pulls back and looks at me through those damp and overly bright eyes. “How much time do you have?”
No one is more surprised by the laugh that chuffs out of me than I am. “My schedule is clear for a bit.” She shakes her head like she’s talking herself out of telling me. “Hillary...”
“I have to pee.”
Well, okay. That’s normal for a pregnant woman, I guess.
“But I’ve lost my keys.” Her voice tightens. “And I can’t get in to my apartment and,” her face scrunches up and her chin trembles, “and I have to pee.”
“Okay—”
Before I can give her a solution, she continues. “And also, I’ve had a really long day. All my days are long right now on account of being so uncomfortable, but it’s harder at work, and today was harder than usual, and I spilled the butterscotch syrup all over myself so I’ve been sticky and gross for hours, and I just want to get in my apartment—” She pauses for a deep breath then continues, “I need to clean up and pee and put my feet up because I have no ankles anymore.”
She pauses. Finally. But I’m lost. “What?”
“Nobody told me being pregnant was going to steal my ankles, but they’re gone. And I got so frustrated when I couldn’t find my keys that I slid to the floor to have a good cry. I do that a lot—cry, not slide to the floor, because now that I’m down here, I can’t get up. And all I want is to pee and clean up and put my feet up and I need to eat some mac-
n-cheese or I’ll probably die or something equally dramatic.”
“Mac-n-cheese,” I repeat.
Jesus. She’s fucking adorable. Her dark lashes are damp with tears, and her top lip is shaped like the bow on a present. I want to press a kiss there. I need to get my head back in the game because she’s still talking. Rambling really, but I don’t mind because the sound of her voice makes me feel lighter inside.
Jesus, this woman.
“I know it’s not great for the baby, but I crave it all the time. And it has the be the blue box because the store brand...” There goes that chin. The store brand of macaroni makes her cry, I guess. “So, now I’m stuck on the floor like a beached whale. Which is not very attractive or very comfortable. And I was sitting here crying, and I realized that I have to raise this baby alone. I mean, I knew that, but it just really started sinking in how hard it’s going to be. And I don’t mean to complain, but it’s kind of scary. Being alone. And who is going to date me? I’m pregnant with another man’s kid and then when I’m not, I’ll be too busy raising a baby alone to date anyone ever again and then I’ll be too old, which means...” She shudders on a long, ragged inhale. “Which means I’m going to die a virgin.”
Chapter Two
Hillary
I CLAP MY HAND OVER my mouth in a belated attempt to hold back the words spewing from me, but it’s too late.
Much, much too late. Oh my God.
Not once in all the pregnancy books I’ve read have they mentioned uncontrollable speech as a pregnancy symptom. Not in any trimester. But I have no other plausible excuse for the verbal assault I just committed on the man who lives next door to me.
It figures that I’d finally meet him when I’m beached, bloated, snot-filled, and have emotional Tourette’s. That’s pretty much how life goes these days for me.