Wildest Dream (Redfall Dream #4)

by B. B. Miller

  Her father is still overseas at a political conference, which I think he’s using as an excuse for not issuing a retraction on the faux engagement. But, with Dale’s threats hanging over her head, Cass hasn’t pressed it with him. If she keeps haranguing her father to issue a statement, Dale—that fucker—would find out. In this case, silence is golden.

  Her father is arriving back next week, so she’s finally going to be able to confront him about his involvement in Dale’s deception—if he was involved at all.

  The fact that Dale is blackmailing her to try to keep her in line is something I’d like to knock him into next year for. But, I’ve been good. Although Tucker is still digging and keeping an eye on him.

  Even though we’re trying to be discreet, we’ve started frequenting the café where I picked up those mouthwatering cannoli for her what seems like a lifetime ago. There have only been a couple of blurry photos that surfaced of us at the café, fueling further speculation around Cassidy’s engagement. Those photos prompted a few calls from Dale, which she ignored. I can’t deny that all of this sneaking around is starting to get old. It’s putting a strain on both of us.

  I was down with it in the beginning. My adrenaline spiked when we started sneaking into alleyways to steal a kiss, or disguising ourselves under bland ball caps to avoid being recognized, but I’m ready to move on. I want the world to know that Cassidy is mine.

  Thankfully, as is typically the case, the paparazzi are random. Some days, they camp out in front of her shop, making it difficult for her brides to get in the door. Other days, they are nowhere to be found. God bless the bastards in the spotlight those days.

  For the most part, her brides haven’t minded the attention. In fact, some of them welcome it and have added photos on Insta of them in her shop. Despite the PR rule of any news is good news, I know it’s not the type of attention that Cassidy wants.

  Still, there’s not a moment that goes by I’m not thinking about her, wanting to be inside her, or needing to hear her coming apart because of me. It should be scaring the shit out of me that someone has taken over my life this quickly, but I’m strangely content. It’s not a feeling I’m used to, but I learned a long time ago if life isn’t surprising you, you’re not really living it.

  I reach down to the floor for my jeans and tug them on. “Do they appreciate it? All the work you put into this?”

  She smiles, reaching into a glass container beside her for another crystal. “Some more than others, but that’s not why I do it.” I find my T-shirt and head over to lean against her desk. “Being part of someone’s dream and having it come to life…” Her voice trails off as her fingers work delicately over the expensive fabric. “That moment when a bride tears up at that first glance in the mirror, or the look on their partner’s face when they see them for the first time is something I’ll never get tired of seeing.”

  “Do you go to all of the weddings then?” I pick up a tiny crystal, rolling it between my fingers.

  “I’m not invited to them all, but I do try to go to the ones in the city. I remember the first dress I did.” She glances up at me with that smile I crave. “It was a big deal. Half of New York was invited to that wedding. Riya and I were there with an entourage of about a hundred people to help the bride get ready. None of us were actually worthy of the guest list, but I slipped into the church to watch her walk down the aisle. It was about four miles long, that aisle. It took forever.” She glances up wistfully at the photographs of her brides that line her wall. “I was so worried about every single thread: Had we tied them off properly? Was the veil falling just so? There were gasps when she finally came into view, and I was so worried about the dress, I almost missed the groom’s reaction when he saw her.” She looks back at me, her hand covering her mouth for a moment. Even now, I can see how emotional she is about this, how much it means to her. “He just melted. This big burly marine, so stoic all of the time it was like…” She waves her hand in the air.

  “Magic.”

  She nods slowly. “Yeah. Like magic.”

  I lean over her desk and cup her cheek, letting my fingers brush against her smooth skin. “You’re a magician of dreams, Cassidy.” My head fills with other words I have yet to say out loud. They’re right there, knocking on my heart, perching on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. I don’t want the bubble we’re in to burst and float away.

  “Vampires need more fuel, doc?” I drop into the chair across from Dr. Perez’s large desk in his office. A phone call this morning was a bit unexpected, asking me to come in for additional tests, so here I am.

  He gives me a tight smile and opens up the folder on his desk. “Something like that, Sean.” He clears his throat and glances at the file before looking at me. He adjusts his glasses. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the man is nervous.

  “As you know, when you were here last time, you gave us some samples.”

  I grin at him. “I remember it well. Not exactly the most romantic orgasm I’ve ever had.” Doc seems to bite back a smile.

  “I know the setup is… less than ideal,” he says.

  “You got the sample; I’d say it worked regardless of how creepy that room is.”

  “Yes, well, you’re all clear from a STD perspective,” he announces in his clinical tone.

  Music to my ears. “Of course I am. I always wrap it, doc.”

  He gives me a tight nod and clears his throat. “We’ve found some other… anomalies.”

  Heat prickles the back of my neck, and my heart slams against my chest. “Anomalies?”

  “Yes. As you know, we gave you ‘the works’ as per your request. Your semen was sent to a lab to measure the number of sperm present and to look for any abnormalities in the morphology and motility.”

  My knee bounces, annoyance rising. “You want to start speaking in English, Doc? Not whatever Yale mumble-jumble that just was?”

  “I went to Johns Hopkins, Sean.” He glances at the degrees on his wall. “We’ve had this conversation.”

  My fingers tighten on the armrest. “Whatever. Just explain it to me like I’m a person, not in whatever code you use when you talk to your mates from Johns Hopkins.”

  “It means they tested for shape and movement of the sperm as well as volume, vitality.” I narrow my eyes at him. “The percentage of sperm that is active and alive.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “The tests showed poor motility and a low sperm count.”

  I just blink at him, white noise seeping into my head. “I’m sorry, what?”

  He turns the file around and points out what appears to be hieroglyphics to me. “You have sluggish sperm and under a million in the sample we tested.”

  Sluggish fucking sperm? I swallow back the lump forming in my throat. “A million seems like a lot.”

  “Normal sperm density ranges from fifteen million to over two hundred million per milliliter. We don’t really start worrying about fertilization until the levels dip below fifteen million.”

  “There’s nothing normal about me, doc.” I run a nervous hand through my hair. “And what do you mean, fertilization?”

  “To father a child, Sean.” I push up and out of the chair, pacing in front of his desk.

  “Are you telling me I can’t father a child?” Doc just looks at me. “I mean, come on! Look at me. If anyone’s designed to procreate, it’s me.” I spread my arms wide as he stares back at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

  “Your looks, what you do for a living, has nothing to do with this, Sean. The truth is sperm counts have been declining globally for decades. And some men with low sperm counts like yours successfully do father children. Then, there are other men who have normal counts that are never able to father a child. There are many factors involved.”

  I grip the back of the chair, my knuckles whitening. “So what are you telling me, then? That I may or may not ever be able to have a child? Isn’t that true for everyone?”

  “Well, yes, but the finding
s in your sample are something you need to know about. It may be a challenge for you to father a child. Is that something you’re thinking about for the future?”

  “I don’t know!” I yell at him, making him lean back in his chair. “I haven’t really thought about it. Maybe? Is there anything I can do? Some pill I can take or something?”

  Doc regards me thoughtfully. “There are things you can do to try to increase the likelihood. A healthy diet and exercise, not smoking or doing drugs helps.” He pauses, giving me a pointed look.

  I hang my head, letting out a heavy breath. “I haven’t done any in a long time. I’ve been clean for a while now.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. Steer clear of hot tubs. There’s some research that suggest exposing your testicles to heat decreases sperm production.”

  “Right, no hot tubs. Wise advice there,” I bite out.

  “In men of your age…” he starts, and I lift my head, pinning him with a look, cutting him off.

  “Men of my age?”

  “Over thirty-five, things start to change. When you’re eighteen, you can ejaculate daily and recharge quickly. It tends to take a bit longer after that,” Dr. Perez says, matter-of-factly.

  “You obviously don’t know me, Doc. I have no problems recharging or ejaculating for that matter. Christ. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.” I round the chair and drop back down to the seat. I feel numb. I’d be less shocked if Kennedy, Cam, and Matty told me they were running off to get married to each other and live a threesome.

  “I’m talking about your sperm counts. They can fluctuate, so we’ll take another sample, do the tests again.” The room tips along with my stomach as the possibility of never having a child starts to plant itself in my brain. I get a flash of Cass pushing a stroller, and it just about brings me to my knees.

  “I’ve never really thought about children.” Doc nods as he listens and closes the nasty file. “I mean, I’d move the earth for Hannah if I could. And Kennedy just has to look at Abby and she’s knocked up.” I shake my head, feeling empty and raw. “I don’t know how to feel about this, Doc.”

  “I know it’s a lot to take in. If it helps, this is more common than you think. For about half of couples, it’s the man that has the fertility challenges.” Fertility challenges. The words rumble around in my head. “I’ve seen hundreds of patients with challenging results.” He pushes some pamphlet across the table to me. It’s light blue with a leaf pattern on the front. “Male Infertility, What You Need to Know” is emblazoned in a big bold font across the top. A flashing sign that I’m suddenly not man enough. “But there are steps we can take.”

  I can’t look at the mocking pamphlet. “Such as?”

  “Hormone treatment, assisted reproductive technology. Of course, there’s always IVF, adoption if you wanted to go that route, sperm donors.” His words are fuzzy. The thought of needing a sperm donor because I’m apparently shooting blanks emasculates me. “We can do a testicular biopsy to look at—” I cringe, rearing back.

  “No way in hell are you coming anywhere close to my junk with a knife, doc.” My cock seems to recoil with the mere suggestion.

  “Right. Let’s just get another sample and see what comes back. We can talk about it further once we have additional results.”

  My mind clears enough to think about Syd. “Wait. Does this mean Syd may have issues as well?”

  “You’re talking about your twin sister?” I nod and he grimaces. “I’m going to give you an answer you’re probably not going to like.”

  “Well, why baulk the trend now? I haven’t liked much of what you’ve had to say so far today, doc.”

  He smoothes out the lapel of his lab coat. “Obviously the anatomy is quite different.” I glare at him. “It would probably be a good idea for her to get her own tests done. We don’t have a lot of clear-cut answers in male fertility, and with twins, even less.”

  “Perfect. So no real answers then.”

  “I can only go by the research, Sean. I wish I could give you a definitive answer on all of this, but the truth is, we just don’t know enough about it.” Such a clinical, bullshit nonanswer. Fuck, the medical profession pisses me off.

  I lean forward, anxiety firing through me. “Give it to me straight then on what you do know. Of all the hundreds of patients you’ve said you’ve had with this type of thing, how many have fathered children?”

  He shakes his head. “Every case is different, and there are extenuating factors in all—”

  “How fucking many?” I’m shouting now, probably causing the poor man more white hair.

  He pauses, leaning back in his chair. “None of them with levels like yours.”

  The world seems to drop away along with my stomach. “None?”

  “No. None.” I sink into the chair, deflated. “But as I said, every patient is different, and there are men with levels like yours that have fathered children. Try not to think about the odds right now. Let’s get this second round of tests done, and we’ll go from there.”

  I hear none of what he’s saying after that. It’s a fog from that moment on. Some sort of unseen force propels me forward through the motions like a robot.

  The sterilized room, where I’m to produce yet another sample, taunts me. It takes forever to get hard. I’m even tempted to open up one of the dodgy magazines. But I don’t, and it takes a millennium for me to do what I need to.

  When I finally have the sample and all of my sluggish sperm, Susan at the front desk says nothing. She takes the paper bag with the plastic cup inside and sets it into a wire bin with a few others. I wonder how many other men are walking around Manhattan with this light blue pamphlet feeling like this. Confused. Emasculated.

  I find myself in a park near Cassidy’s shop, surrounded by prams, and the sounds of kids playing. Sure, I notice kids from time to time, but now it’s like they’re everywhere. A reminder of something I may never be blessed enough to have.

  I’m stuck in a foggy unknown chasm. How is Cassidy going to feel about this? She’s the reason I even know my systems aren’t firing as they should. If I hadn’t met her, I’d still be walking around unaware. Would that be better?

  I watch as a man pushes a toddler in a swing. The little one squeals in delight as the man runs underneath the swing and falls into the sand. He waves up at the little man as the swing passes over him. The toddler yells for him to do it again, and my heart clenches.

  Would it be better if I’d never met Cass? That’s one thing I know for sure. I can’t imagine not having Cass in my life. She’s become my center, the one I crave, the one I want to spend every moment with. I want it all with her—even if it all doesn’t include a child.

  Too much time passes and the ache in my chest gets progressively worse, spreading through me like a rapidly moving virus. I’m hot and cold, angry and confused, resigned and annoyed at the same time. I don’t know what to feel, or how to process the last few hours. I imagine this is infinitely harder for men who are actually trying to have a baby.

  I make my way to Cassidy’s, trying not to think about how many little poppets I see along the way. I pause at a flower shop and a baby store just down a few stops from Cassidy’s; the cycle of life all laid out in order in this one stretch of street.

  I can hear Cassidy’s soft voice as she works with one of her clients, and I climb the stairs to her loft above the shop. I’m engulfed with the now familiar scent of lavender, but everything feels off.

  Pausing at her desk, I lift her sketchbook, and trace my fingers over the unexpected design. It’s a man’s suit. I reckon it’s the one she claims she can’t or won’t design for me. It’s all neat, trim lines, hugged close to the body, with a flare of fabric in the chest pocket. She’s got a few different swatches of color affixed to the page; a vibrant steel blue and a more subtle light gray pinstriped. Does she realize how talented she is? She could probably design a men’s line in a heartbeat and make a killing.

  I leave the sketchbo
ok on her desk and head to the shower. I want to wash away the day and the antiseptic feeling that has numbed everything in me.

  Her shower isn’t as high tech as mine, but I fiddle with the taps until the water scalds and pounds down on me.

  I stand there, looking up at the spray, letting the room fill with steam. My skin is red and raw, and I can’t bring myself to care. I don’t know how much time passes, but I eventually feel her arms wrap around me from behind. Her lips on my shoulder kiss me back to life. Her soft voice asks me what’s wrong, and I don’t have the words to answer.

  She tugs on my shoulder, coaxing me to turn around. I do, but I can’t look at her. I just lower my neck and press my forehead against hers. “Please talk to me. What is it?” Her voice comes out all whispered and uneven.

  I just shake my head, tightening my arms around her, pinning her to my torso. I don’t even know how to begin to have this conversation, or if it’s even one that matters to her. Surely it’s too early to start thinking about the potential of children with Cassidy. I worry it’s a conversation that could very well end this, and I don’t want what Cass and I have to end. That bubble we were in is about to not just pop, but explode.

  So, we stand there, with her palms gliding over my skin, trying to soothe me but only making the ache intensify. Finally, one of her hands leaves me and the water abruptly shuts off. I’m ushered out of the shower and swallowed up in a soft towel. Christ how I love this woman. I must look a wreck, but she’s here caring for me regardless. “Crazy man. You’re waterlogged.”

  She runs a second towel through my soaked hair, pausing when she lifts it away from me. Her worried eyes find mine as she steps closer and tugs the towel around us both. She rests her chin on my chest, looking up at me, all soft and wet and perfect. I know she’s waiting for me to explain. I’m rarely quiet and I haven’t spoken a word to her yet. It’s just her and me and the sounds of traffic outside until I finally find my voice.