by Emilia Finn
I still live with vermin, of course. Just a different family of rats. A different neighborhood.
Bringing my hand up, I check my watch – Jamie’s from four years ago – and note that Evan’s little meeting ate up twenty minutes of my time. So I move faster, at a speed-walk rather than a meander. I dodge pockets of dudes who watch me like I’m dessert. I skip around drug deals, and step over people practically having sex in the street. But I’m on a mission. I have somewhere I need to be, and I have a brother that needs exoneration.
I cut a ten-minute trip down to seven, bound up my front steps at a trot, and burst through the door with a smile. “I’m home!”
In a ratty armchair in front of the television, The Price Is Right playing in the darkness, my big brother turns to me and smiles.
“Bubbles. You’re late.”
Jamie
The Heat is On
“Hands up, Jamie.”
Evie “Smalls” Kincaid stands on the outside of the octagon, with her wild curls clouding around her face, sweat dribbling over her temple, and a massive basketball smuggled beneath a Rollin On Gym shirt. It might be her husband’s shirt, perhaps her dad’s. But there’s no way in hell it’s hers, just as there’s no way in hell the rightful owner will ever get it back.
Evie is my cousin, she’s married to a champion fighter, and she’s well and truly due with their first baby. And yet, she has the energy to scream at me about my fighting technique.
“Hands up, dumbass! Bry, step in on the left. He doesn’t protect there anyway.”
So I cover my left a little better. I skip a wide arc around my opponent – also my cousin – then I dig a fast one-two-rip into his ribs, and finish it with a hook that sends his head snapping back, and his eyes wild with the hunt.
If you’re gonna make Bryan Kincaid bleed, then you’d better be prepared for when he rushes back in to take you the fuck out.
“Good! Finally,” Evie complains. “Jesus. Now we’re fighting. Jamie, come around to his right. Side step, side step, then dig a rip in. His ribs ache, so there’s your target.”
“Woman!” Bry drops his hands and turns. “Are we at war, or are we sparring? Because I think your absence from the octagon has made you forget how much this shit hurts.”
“Spare me.” She rolls her eyes. “There’s a baby the size of a watermelon in my belly, and I have a trapdoor the size of a quarter. Think about those logistics, then talk to me about pain. Until then, shut the hell up and lift your hands.”
Since I’m a bitter old man these days, I take advantage of Bry’s distraction. I swing around while his hands are down, and slam a fist to the side of his jaw, and then I… well, in my head, I shout ‘Timberrrrrr!’ as he slams to the canvas.
“Jamie!” Evie drops her hands to her hips and scowls. “We fight well, and we train hard, which means we don’t have to fight dirty. What the hell are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that I’m sick and tired of listening to you bitch at me.”
I leave my cousin laying on the floor, and instead tear the Velcro open on my grappling gloves. I toss them down, one, then the other. Then I rip the rubber mouthguard from between my lips and tuck it into the waistband of my shorts.
“I’m done for today. It’s hot as Hades, and even though you annoy the fuck outta me, I still worry about you in this heat.” I slam the octagon door open and move down the steps. “Go and have a cold shower, then I’ll drive you back to your place. Your ass should be smooshed into a couch in the air-conditioning, not here in this filthy heat. What the fuck is Ben thinking?”
“I’m right here, culo.” Ben steps into the room we stand in, with sweat dribbling along his face and chest, and his own grappling gloves hanging between his hands. “You think I like her being here in this heat?” He stops by us, throws one arm over her shoulder, and uses the other hand to rub circles against her swollen belly. “I told her to stay home, but would she listen?”
“No,” she counters, “because sitting at home all alone is boring. I’d rather be here, yelling at you jerks. I love Dr. Drake Ramoray just as much as everyone else does, but there are only so many times I can watch that show before I wanna hurt somebody.”
“We’re going home now anyway.” Ben looks toward the octagon, to Bry groaning on the canvas. He’s not knocked out. He’s just fed up with today. With this summer. “Home, air-conditioning, and if we’re lucky, the baby will come and put us all out of our misery.”
“Baby won’t come until I give it permission to. And for as long as I have the watermelon-quarter conundrum unsolved, my legs are staying closed.”
I step away from Evie, since her man is here now, and head to my bag on the floor. I snatch up my water bottle and take small sips. “I’m pretty sure you aren’t the first chick in the world who was afraid of childbirth so she closed her legs and planned to hold it in. But ya know what?” I squirt a little water in her direction. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh, forgive me, Doctor Kincaid. I must’ve missed that medical degree you got in your spare time. This baby is in my belly, which means I get to choose when it comes out. And you, with the big nosy nose that likes to nose into everyone’s business, don’t get a say.”
“Smalls.” My sister wanders into the room in a sports bra and booty shorts – she’s been training like the rest of us suckers. Her hair is tied back, sweat dribbles along her washboard abs, but her smile is nice. Her happiness makes me happy. She stops beside Smalls, her best friend, and goes to work touching Evie’s belly. “You’re wrong on sixty different levels,” she murmurs. “You don’t get to choose shit. And,” she grins. “Baby is dropping.”
“Dropping?” Ben screeches. “Right now?”
“Not right now.” Bean rolls her eyes. “I mean…” She shakes her head. “Forget it. Just know that baby is in charge here, not Smalls. And the baby is heading south. She’ll be here before we know it.”
“She?” Ben goes into arm-flapping panic. “It’s a girl?”
“Or he.” Bean snickers. “I have no clue what it is. But I’m pretty damn tired of saying it. Aren’t you?”
“I want this baby out, now.” He turns to his wife and sneers, “Now! Squat, Eve, and push that sucker out.”
“Oh, sure. Dumbass.” She drops into a squat purely for the sake of sending Ben into a tailspin, then she pops up again and lifts a brow. “Didn’t work.”
“Bean!” he pleads with our sister – Bean and I share a mom, Bean and Ben share a dad… it’s all kinds of fucked up. “Get it out now. I need it out, because at the moment, I can’t see shit, and what if the cord is wrapping around… ya know?” His face turns pale despite the repressive heat in here. “What if it’s missing a leg? Or maybe it wants to take a shit, but it can’t, because it’s mother is a stubborn fucking mule and won’t play nice.”
“You know what?” Bean looks at Smalls. Then Ben. Back and forth. “You both need to chill the hell out. Smalls, that baby is gonna come when it’s ready. This has nothing to do with you, your schedule, or your teeny tiny giney hole. And Ben… same, but, you know… not the vagina thing.”
“Yes to the vagina thing,” Evie grumbles. “He’s invested in its teeny tininess.”
Bean scrunches her nose with distaste. “Gross. Neither of you gets to dictate the timeline for this. But you’re both making it more stressful than it needs to be. Chill out, go home and eat something cold, then call me when baby is on its way.”
“You’ll be there, right?” Evie whips her arm out and snags Bean before she can walk away. “You’re gonna be there for the whole thing?”
“I’m not a midwife, Smalls! I don’t know how to deliver babies.”
“But you know stuff! You know if something really bad is happening. And you know how to advocate for me – ya know, with medical procedure, or if that fails, a fast jab to the side of the damn head. If the doctors are making bad choices, you can knock them the fuck out and fly this plane. Right?” She squeezes Bean’s
arm. “Right! You were dead for a minute there when you were born. Uncle Jimmy told us so, which means childbirth is like…” She widens her eyes. “Really dangerous! You need to be there to make sure I live.”
“Fuck me,” Ben growls. “Enough with the death talk! Evelyn, let’s go. We’re going home to chill the fuck out, exactly like Bean ordered.”
“You need to relax,” I murmur to them all. “Babies are born every damn day. She’ll be fine, and you know damn well she’ll be back in the gym a week later.”
“I’m dying to spar,” Evie whines. “I legit crave hitting somebody. Oh.” She turns to Ben and smiles. “When the baby is coming, I want you to stand on my left side.”
He looks into her eyes, and purses his lips. “So you can wind up the right and hit me?”
She flashes an adoring smile and stands on her toes to kiss him. “You get me, Sasquatch. You know my heart.”
“I also know your temper.” He kisses her back. “Which means I’m gonna stand on your right. I’m still at risk of an uppercut, but it’s better than a jab with a windup behind it.”
“Well, I’ll be standing in the hall.” I pick up my bag and swing it over my shoulder. “Holding Uncle Aiden before he passes out from fear.”
“He’s gonna need you all,” Smalls whispers. “I’m taking Mom with me, which means he’s gonna be freaking the hell out, and he won’t have her there to help him.”
“We’re gonna have to knock him out,” Bry finally adds to the conversation. “Straight up knock that motherfucker out and sit on him.”
“Who are you knocking out?” Uncle Aiden himself walks into the room. He looks to his daughter, to her swollen belly, to Ben’s hand resting on it. Then he looks away, because having a pregnant daughter is fucking him up in ways I’m not sure any of us could have predicted.
“Nobody,” Bry announces like a coward. “No one is knocking anyone out. Except Kyle Baker. Since we all hate that prick.”
A memory flashes through my mind, something from a lifetime ago at a shitty hotel, but I lock it down, lock it away.
Move the fuck on.
“You’d think he’d take a hint by now.” Bean steps aside when Aiden – also known as Biggie – steps toward Evie – his Smalls – and pulls her in for a gentle hug.
He touches her like she’s a soap bubble. Treats her like she’s breakable – or a bomb – and hugs her in a way that their bellies do not touch. I’m not sure he can handle feeling her baby bump pressed against him.
“He hasn’t won yet,” I tell them. “He’s a shitty-ass fighter, but he thinks he’s good.”
“He’s actually a good fighter,” Evie admits. “Back when I was training with him, he was unstoppable. Not a single person walked through their gym and came out on top in a bout against him. And it wasn’t only washed-up wannabes who stepped up. He was seriously good, but it’s like he has a brain snap every time he comes here. He lets his anger control his fight. He gets sloppy and stupid, all because he’s mad that we don’t wanna be his friend.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna be mad if he never comes back,” Bean grumbles. “I can’t stand to look at his face.”
“It’s so strange that he does come back.” Aiden releases his daughter and looks at each of us in turn. “Like, I get a man’s burning hunger to win, but he’s lost every single time he’s been here. Doesn’t he care that he looks like a pussy?”
“Biggie!” Evie gasps. “Language!”
“Shit, sorry.” He pulls her in and presses a kiss to her temple.
As Kincaids, we were raised in a home of bad language, where fists would fly to settle disputes, but those bad words tended toward shit, bitch, and fuck. I’m certain this isn’t the first time Uncle Aiden has said pussy, but it sure as hell is the first time he’s said it in front of his baby girl.
“I’m sorry, honey. Biggie meant to say he’s a sissy.”
“I can’t believe you said pussy,” she murmurs. “Like, way to shatter this illusion of a perfect father.”
“No! It’s not shattered!” He pulls back to hold her arms, and studies her with wild eyes. “I’m still me. I’m still Biggie. I just slipped on that word, but I swear, I won’t slip twice.”
“Biggie said pussy,” she whispers in disbelief, then when Aunt Tina steps through the doorway and stops, Evie looks up. “Mom! Biggie said pussy.”
“Aiden!”
“I’m sorry!” he cries out. “We were talking about Baker, and I got carried away.”
“Oh, well…” Tina kicks her shoes off and makes her way across the rubber mats. “Which Baker?”
“Kyle,” every single person in this room says at the same time.
“Kyle Baker is a pussy,” Tina assures Evie with a roll of her eyes. “You can wrap a log of shit in rose petals, honey, but underneath it all, it’s still a log of shit.”
“Mom!”
For four years now, I’ve tried to talk myself down from the anger I feel toward a certain beautiful, brunette dancer. Legs. Long, perfect legs that still star in my dreams. Eyes the color of the jeans I wear right now. That butt chin… I swear, I haven’t seen one like it since, which is both a relief and heartbreaking.
If I saw a beautiful woman strutting along Main Street with that chin, I might be weak enough to drop to my knees and beg for a minute of her time.
But then again, if I saw a beautiful woman strutting along Main Street with that chin, I might be weak enough, stupid enough, to open my heart and lay it out so it could be stomped on again.
I’m not strong enough for that kinda blow twice in a row.
So I channel my pain. I fight, I take a beating more often than not, because hell, it feels good to be in pain in a tangible way. And when I’m not at the gym, I run. I run hard, long distances, and don’t stop until my legs refuse to carry me anymore.
Back when I was eighteen, I swore I would eat, eat, eat, I would train, and I would gain fifty pounds so I could bump up to the heavyweight division in my cousin’s tournament. I had no true reason for doing that… not in a sporting sense, anyway. I merely wanted to be big because that’s what girls like.
That’s what Cam liked.
But now, after all of my training, all of my running, all of my jitsu, and then there’s that ball of anxiety I’ve been nursing for four years straight, I can only manage to maintain weight. Not gain it.
My body is sculpted, because hell, there ain’t a man alive who trains as many hours as I do. I’m tall, because the Kincaid and Hart genes tend to shine through, and I was genetically destined to be tall. I’m broad, because of the weights I do five days out of seven. I work on my chest, my arms, my shoulders. I build it all up, because hell, I have tournaments to win, money to make, and the competition I face in my division is fierce.
I’m all of the things I wanted to be when I was eighteen – minus a few pounds – but I can’t seem to find pleasure in any of it.
Instead, I drag my ass to Inkalot, the best local tattoo studio in this town and the next, and I pay a dude to draw all over me. I don’t come here with a plan, we don’t sketch it out and lay the stencil on my skin so he can get it right. I just take my shirt off, lay flat, and simply let Ian work through his own stresses by doodling whatever the fuck he wants.
He’s yet to screw it up.
“You excited for the new baby?” Bry lays on the table beside me, shirt off, back exposed, while a chick tattoos something he had drawn up for his girl. “Can you believe there’s a whole new generation already?”
“Lyss started it,” I mumble, speaking of Bry’s sister’s little girl. “Iowa and Brooke brought the kid bug to the estate, and now Smalls is jumping on board.”
“Bets that Uncle Aiden drops dead from worry?” he snickers. “I’m not kidding. He’s gonna be like a wrecking ball to get to his girl.” Bry turns his face so his eyes meet mine. “Those walls had better be soundproof, because if she starts screaming, folks are gonna start dying.”
“Mm…” I turn my he
ad away and stare up at the ceiling. “Does it ever bother you that women have all the power in a relationship?”
Bry’s tattoo artist loses her professionalism when she stops working and looks to me with a scowl.
“What?” Bry chuckles. “Chicks have all the power, Jamie. It’s the way it is. It’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Good answer,” Zelda – that’s her name – goes back to work.
“I don’t mean…” I frown and study the lines of the ceiling. The air vents. The stain from an old water leak. “I don’t mean how women have power over men. I mean…” I turn to him. “Hypothetically, Maddi could get knocked up, right?”
He flashes a wide grin. “I’m working on it. Three to five times a day.”
I roll my eyes. “But say you and her were in an unhealthy relationship. Bad blood, a nasty breakup. Then a few weeks later, she pees on a stick and finds out she’s carrying your baby.” I draw in a heavy breath, then let it out on a sigh. “She never has to tell you. You literally aren’t needed from that point on. So she could keep the secret, and you would never know.”
“Did you have an oopsie with a chick at Rhino’s?” he asks. “Or are we going deeper than that?”
“This is a heavy-ass conversation,” Ian murmurs. The bars in his brow twinkle under the light he uses to illuminate his work. “I mean, we get chicks in here talking deep shit all the time, but I can’t say in all the years I’ve been taking Kincaid money that Kincaid chatter has ever gotten this serious.” He pauses his work, slides a wipe over my chest to clear the excess ink away, then meets my eyes. “Do I need to snitch to your daddies, or what? Because my loyalties lie with them.”
“Jamie?” Bry draws my attention back to him. “Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing. I dunno. I just…” I sigh. “Cam disappeared. She was there, we were together, but then poof! Like she never existed. We didn’t use protection that time, and I just…” I shrug. “I dunno. I guess my period is coming or something.”