Pinning the veil in my hair, my stylist opens it up and pulls it around the front, letting the veil blanket me in frosty silk. There's a thin trail of flowers embroidered down the seam. The train of the veil opens on the floor, and the same flowers spill at the base like the seamstress had dropped the basket of flowers and left them there.
I feel beautiful.
Claudia's dress is a strapless green chiffon that stops at her calves. There are layers in the skirt, so the dress dances across her legs whenever she moves.
Her bouquet is a cluster of three Picasso Calla lilies. The heart is purple, the opening a shade of cream. Long purple ribbons wrap the stems, draping over her wrists as she holds it up.
“Let's go get you hitched,” she says, wagging her brows. “Unless you're having second thoughts. You can hop on my back right now and I'll save you.”
“Ha!” Laughing loudly, I look down at my huge stomach. “You ain't carrying me anywhere like this.”
Eight and a half months in, with two weeks to go. I no longer have feet, and I honestly don't even remember what my vagina looks like anymore. I tried to use a mirror the other day to do some landscaping, it didn't work out.
The past couple of weeks have been the hardest. My ankles are swelling, my boobs have doubled in size, and I'm pretty sure the baby is using one of my kidneys as a punching bag.
I have the most unrelenting cravings for those little snack cakes, the chocolate ones filled with cream. I can't get enough of them.
Claudia giggles with me and nods in agreement. “You might be right, but I'd still try if you wanted me to.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I'm ready, I'm very ready.”
Smiling, Claudia's eyes twinkle with excitement. “Well, no more waiting, let's go get your husband.”
There's no music, just the sound of the ocean, and seagulls singing in the sky. Claudia starts down the beach, following a trail of purple rose petals. She disappears around the corner, out of my view.
A woman from the hotel waves me forward with a pleasant smile. “Right this way, sweetheart.”
Stepping out onto the sand, I let my toes adjust to the cool grains. I'm barefoot, crunching my toes up and letting the sand bury my feet. It feels good, calming my nerves a little.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head up toward the sky and let the sun warm my face. I'm not nervous, not anymore. The waves crashing, the sun on my skin, the birds overhead, it's settling.
The baby kicks, so I place a hand on my belly. Impatient, just like Daddy. Looking down at my stomach, I whisper. “All right, I'm going.”
Following the petals, I take the corner, and my breath hitches. Phade is standing at the end with the justice of the peace, his hands folded in front of his waist.
He isn't smiling, but the way his eyes freeze on mine, it's enough to turn my blood hot as fire. Slowly, I walk through the sand, seeing Phade, and only Phade. Everything else around us turns fuzzy and purple, disappearing as if we're the only two people in the world.
Phade holds out his hand, I reach out for him, and our fingers tangle together easily. The man in front of us starts to speak, but his words blend in with the ocean like white noise.
Phade looks so amazing. The charcoal black suit hugs every muscle on his chest and arms. A calla lily is pinned to his breast pocket, and the jacket hangs open, revealing a tie-less green button-up. His hair isn't soaked in hairspray or product, the wind blows it effortlessly, causing strands to flip and dance against his eyes.
He doesn't seem to care. He just keeps his eyes on me. The corner of his lip itches into a smile, and his gaze is so intense it hits me in the chest, knocking the air out of my lungs.
“Do you, Phade Manson, take this woman to be your wife?”
“I do.”
“And do you, Sylvia Fontain, take this man to be your husband?”
“I do.”
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
There are cheers all around us. Claudia is screaming, Stone is clapping and whistling. Random people on the beach are hooting and yelping. Phade takes me in his arms, pressing our bodies together as he kisses me.
His lips are wet, soft, and taste like forever.
“Ah,” I say, pulling back suddenly, and grabbing my stomach.
“What is it? Did the baby give you a good kick?” He holds my stomach with both hands, feeling it with open palms.
“I. . . I don't know.” A warm sensation starts to seep down my inner thighs. I'm shocked, afraid, confused. “I'm not sure what's happening. Ah!” I call out as another cramping sensation causes my stomach to tense up.
Keeling over, I'm holding my knees with both hands, and trying to make sense of this.
Claudia is at my side, rubbing my back. “What's wrong?” she asks, looking between Phade and myself. “What happened?”
“I don't know,” he says, dropping to his knees so he can look in my eyes. “What's wrong, Syl?”
The warmth between my legs is flowing like a full stream. Lifting the bottom of my dress slightly, there's a puddle forming beneath me.
“I think the baby is coming.”
Everything happens so fast, like a flash of lightening. A wave of pain surges through my belly, turning it to stone. I want to stand, but no one is letting me up. I'm on the ground, sitting in wet sand.
I can hear the sirens growing closer, but each cramp is worse than the last and I'm not sure if I'm going to make it to the hospital before I have the right baby right here.
“Ahh! Son of a bitch!” Clutching my stomach, I try to keep my breathing even. In slow, out slow, in slow, out slow.
Phade is cradling my body from behind, telling me the ambulance is almost here. He sounds panicked, his voice keeps wavering between strong and weak, between hard and frantic.
Paramedics reach us on the beach, moving me to the stretcher. They're asking me questions; my name, how far along I am, when I'm due, all the usual stuff. The labor pains keep intensifying, and I'm having trouble focusing on them.
Closing my eyes and grunting as the next crushing contraction leaves me without a voice, I can hear Phade taking over, answering the questions for me.
A woman grabs my knees, lifting them onto the stretcher. Dropping down, I can feel her examining me with her fingers. “Sylvia, you're already ten centimeters dilated. I can see the head, you're delivering this baby now.”
“What?” I ask, my eyes frantically moving around the back of the ambulance. “Right now?”
“Yup, right now.” She yells to the man driving as she grabs some bright white towels. “Jim, pull over, this baby is coming.”
The ambulance slows to a stop, and the driver is in the back within seconds. He's tugging on clean gloves, listening as the woman gives him instructions. Gripping one knee, he holds my foot.
“Sir,” she says, pointing at Phade, “I need you to grab her other leg.”
Phade looks white as a ghost, but listens, holding my leg the same as Jim the driver.
Another contraction steals me away, crippling my body with pain. “I can't do this here, I need the hospital, I need a doctor, I need—Ah!” The contraction claws its way through my belly.
“You don't have a choice; this baby is coming now. Ready, Sylvia? When I tell you to push, you push. Understand?”
Sweat is trickling down my forehead, and my heart is racing as I reluctantly agree. This isn't how I pictured the birth of our child. I imagined a hospital room, with a tub for the water birth, and the option for the epidural if I decided I needed it.
This isn't anything close to that.
I can hear the sounds of other cars passing fast, so I know we must be on the side of the highway. Phade looks like he might throw up, and these two strangers, two people who I have never met, are about to deliver my baby.
Another wave of cramping and burning stabs my gut and suddenly I don't care how this baby comes out, I just want it out.
“Give
me a good push, Sylvia.” Baring down, I grip the arms of the stretcher and push. “One, two, three. . .” she counts out for me.
Letting out a loud rush of air, I'm already out of breath and I've hardly done a thing.
“Again, push!” she screams.
So I push. I push and I push and I push for what feels like eternity. I'm not even sure this baby is ever going to come out. My insides are tearing in every direction, the pain too much to take.
“I don't think I can do this! I can't do this!” I say between giant gulps of air.
“Yes you can, you can do this,” Phade says, reaching his hand up and running his fingers across my forehead. “You got this.”
“Almost there. One more good push, just one.”
Sucking in a huge breath of air, I hold it in and push.
I feel the pressure as the baby's head breaks free and the body slips out next. The woman disappears for a second, leaning over her lap. I can only see the top of her head. Phade's eyes are open wide, tears streaming down as he watches her.
“What's going on? How's the baby? Is our baby okay?”
No one is answering me.
Then it happens. My baby cries, loud and long and full of volume.
The woman stands up, passing the baby to me. “Congratulations, it's a boy.”
Phade drops to my side, laying his face on my chest, and stares at our son. He's crying, I'm crying, I've never felt so much emotion in my life before.
He runs his fingers through my hair and kisses me softly on the cheek. “Our son, Syl, he's here.”
Smiling, I coddle our baby. “He's just like you too, impatient and a fighter. He couldn't wait to be born.”
Maxwell Phade Manson, a perfect seven pounds eight ounces, was the best wedding gift ever.
And as we drive to the hospital in silence, I know. . .
Life is perfect.
Copyright © 2017 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
1
I take a deep breath and study myself in the mirror behind the bar. Okay, so he’s 30 minutes late already. That’s not necessarily a deal-breaker. The MTA has been a shitshow lately. Maybe his train got stuck. Maybe he got held up at work. Maybe…
Maybe he’s not like every other asshole you’ve been out with this week?
I sigh and pull out my phone to scroll through his profile again.
“Rich, aka Dick,” I read, scrolling through his photos. There’s the obligatory bathroom mirror selfie, complete with chiseled abs (albeit a really bad choice since you can see the tile mold on the wall behind him from this angle), one of him and some friends, who all have the same buzz cut, so it’s honestly pretty hard to tell which one is even him, and then the usual headshot. In that one, he’s holding a pint of beer and grinning slyly at the camera, like he wants to fuck it.
The profile itself isn’t exactly a winner. Gym, tan, and pay for someone else to do my laundry, it reads, with a little winking face.
So, okay, maybe I only swiped right because of that grin. Sue me. This new app has been bringing in the same undateable guys as all the others I’ve tried—despite the fact that at least four of my coworkers raved about how different this one was, how the guys were such high quality. I figured if I had to go on another bad date, at least it could be with a hottie.
But now karma’s being a bitch, and it looks like I’m about to get stood up. Again.
I slide my drink across the bar and sigh at my reflection as the bartender refills my glass. I look smoking hot tonight. All that effort for nothing.
I review my recent candidates. There was the programmer last month who told me in great detail about how he “games the game.” In this case, what he meant was he hacked the codes behind the app and programmed it to send him pictures of only the most popular chicks. I guess I should be flattered that I was included, but I was mostly creeped out by his obsession with algorithms and finding the hottest (mathematically proven, of course) girlfriend. “It’s why I always end up dating chicks way out of my league,” he explained with a wink. Then he proceeded to show me photos of his most recent ex.
“She is very hot,” I agreed, silently adding, and how on earth did she decide to sleep with you?
After that date, there was the professional body-builder who spent most of the date trying to sell me into his protein-smoothie pyramid scheme. Did I mention said date was a happy hour for his protein-smoothie business? Then came the insurance salesman who got a little too detailed talking about life insurance schemes—Double Indemnity red flags, much?
There was the finance bro who bought me one drink, then invited me back to his place… And when I declined, he complained so loudly about the expense of the drink he’d bought me that I frog-marched him to the nearest ATM, took out cash, and threw a twenty in his face. I mean, first of all, do I look like a hooker? And second of all, if I were a hooker, I would cost a lot more than one crappy martini at a Wall Street after-work bar.
Which brings me here. Tonight. Waiting on yet another guy who will…
“Miss?”
I look up to find the bartender returning my card. “What’s wrong, was it declined?” Shit. I paid this one off last month. It definitely still has room on the balance.
“No, miss. It’s just that the gentleman on the far end has covered your tab.”
I glance down the bar to find Mr. Shirtless Bathroom Selfie himself lifting a glass in my direction.
Okay, so maybe he’s not the worst. There could still be hope.
I pick up my drink and head down the bar to meet him. “Rich?”
He leans in for the cheek kiss/one-armed hug and I awkwardly shuffle my drink to avoid spilling it down his shirt front. “It’s Dick, actually. Rich was my dad’s name.”
Probably should have stuck with it anyway, I think unfairly, as I take the bar stool beside him. “Dick. I’m Clove.” Not like I have room to talk anyway.
“Also a family name?” He stays standing beside me, leaning against the counter. His knee brushes mine, in a not entirely unpleasant way. At least, at first.
“Nope, one and only.” I lift my glass in a mocking toast.
He taps his to mine, eyes sharp and zeroed in on me. “Oh, I can see that.”
“Should we get a table or…?”
He shrugs and leans on the back of my stool. He’s so up in my personal space that if I try to lean backward, I’ll land in the lap of the woman beside me. It’s hard to even lift my drink to take another sip because his chest is pressed against my whole right side. I switch hands and lean on the bar instead, trying to put some breathing room between us. His knee, meanwhile, is nearly crushing my leg.
“I’m good here,” he says. He glances over my head at the selection. “Besides, not like we’ll be here long.”
You could say that again. I clear my throat, resist the urge to bolt off of this stool here and now. There is no man hot enough to make up for the way his breath smells either, like stale beer and sour cream and onion potato chips. “Busy day at the office?” I ask, following his gaze mostly so I can turn away from him.
He leans harder against my leg. My toes tingle, starting to go numb. “Huh? No, I had the day off
. Just got back from the beach. Hey, bartender?” He snaps his fingers. Actually snaps them, until the bartender glances back at us and, with an apologetic glance in my direction, heads our way.
“One more scotch on the rocks,” Dick says, and now I can see why he prefers this version of his name. It really suits him.
That task done with, he turns to me and brushes my hair back over my shoulder. “So, Clove…”
Realizing that I can’t keep staring at the bar forever, I turn to face him, trying on a smile.
“Damn you’re gorgeous. You get that often?”
“I, uh… Thanks, I guess.”
“How about we get out of here, huh? Enough small talk for one night, am I right?” He winks at me.
Enough small talk being what, all five sentences we’ve exchanged? I suck in a deep breath. Mm, l’eau onions. “Listen, Dick, you seem really nice and all…”
“Of course, so let’s skip the boring part and head straight to my place.” He downs the second scotch he ordered in one large gulp, then catches my arm.
“It’s been a really long day for me, actually—lot going on at work. I’m just going to head home.”
“That’s cool, we can go to yours.” He leans in, brushes my hair back from my forehead, and we’re suddenly way too close, only inches between us.
I execute a tricky side twist off the barstool to grab my purse. “I think I’m just going to head back alone. Thanks for the drink.”
“Seriously?” His expression shifts now. I don’t know if it’s the drink or the rejection that’s injuring his frail masculine ego, but either way, I don’t like the look in his eye. “Wait, wait, wait, Clove.” He catches my hand in his. His grip is strong. Too strong. “We got off on the wrong foot. Let me make it up to you.” With a single tug, he pulls me closer and leans over me, eyes intent on my face. “It’s just, I didn’t expect you to be so… You know. Hot. From your profile, you sounded like a book nerd, so—”
Big Bad Boys: A Romance Collection Page 41