The Baby Gamble

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  If there was so much pain that you couldn’t cope with it anymore.

  Men appeared on either side of Sonny’s car. There was one moment of shocked recognition. Blake could still see the streets of Jordan outside the restaurant where he’d been eating. And then, in his peripheral vision, they were there again, those men on the screen, coming up on both sides of him. Dressed in black, with hoods and rifles.

  Shots fired. Hundreds of them. Sonny’s car was riddled with bullet holes, so many the car would never be the same. His body jerked, again and again, one way and another, as the slugs hit their mark, some tearing clear through him. Some lodging inside.

  Blake could feel the burning against his wrists. Down his lungs, inside his diaphragm, as they poured something down his throat. Something touched the back of his head. He had to swat it off, to push and shove and get away, but he couldn’t move. There were too many of them, and every one of them had a vise grip on his body, hauling him away in plain sight of the other patrons in the restaurant.

  Not one of whom said a word.

  He was going to die. That was inevitable. His body would be found slumped over, bloody, beaten to an unrecognizable pulp. As with another body he’d seen. Annie would come to identify him and she’d be unable to do so. His baby was not going to know his father.

  With strength that came from someplace deep inside him, from the source of all power, he struck out at the chains that bound him, the thugs who, right then, were dragging him God knew where.

  He couldn’t see. All was black. There was something over his head, suffocating him.

  His skin burned. His throat burned. Oh, God, he couldn’t save himself. He’d promised Annie, and now he was being dragged like a sack of garbage, and he couldn’t stop them. His arms were jerked behind him, his wrists cuffed. Pain seared through his shoulder sockets, his collarbone. A blow to the chest and all he knew was red-hot agony.

  No! He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He tried again and again. Needed someone to see him. To see what was happening to him. To give him just a chance at saving himself.

  Another blow—to the stomach. More pain. He was going to puke…

  “Blake…”

  They knew his name. How in the hell did they know his name? He’d been held captive in a hellhole for four years and had never once heard his name spoken.

  “Blake?” Another hand on him, on his shoulder, gripping him. He swung with enough force to break the bonds holding him, to bust the cuffs right off his wrists. The pain of their letting loose tore into his skin, burning. Always burning. He swung again. Connected. To flesh. Thank God.

  He could hit. Blow after blow flew from him. Hitting air, but at least they’d let go of him.

  “Blake. Come on, man. Calm down. Becky’s on her way over. And Annie, too. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay….”

  The voice continued to talk to him as he fought. Almost continuously mentioning Annie. How she was driving her car instead of riding her bike. She’d be here in moments.

  They were bringing Annie. It was a lie. Another cruel taunt. Another bit of manipulation meant to make him beg. To howl with misery. They took pleasure in making him cry.

  They knew about Annie.

  How could they know about Annie?

  He had to stop. To think. If they touched him again, he’d fight some more. He was ready. Shaking, he held his arms out, waiting. Thinking. Always trying to think. To outthink. To maintain ownership of his own thoughts, rather than falling prey to theirs.

  “Where is he?”

  They had a tape of Annie’s voice? No, wait. He was sitting on something soft. And had clothes. He was wearing long pants.

  “Blake?” Annie’s voice was beside him. He was hearing things again. For so many years he’d heard that voice, only to open his eyes and find himself alone in a cramped and cold cement hole. If he looked at himself, he’d see his naked torso, the too skinny legs and scabbed stomach—the unhealed sores from lying on the cold cement. He’d see bare feet—and on good days, a torn, dirty cloth covering his loins.

  If he opened his eyes.

  Shivering, Blake lay there, willing Annie’s voice to continue. Every second he could hold on to the sound of her was one less second of hell. Not daring to move, knowing that even the slightest motion would bring back the cold, hard floor, he remained inert. A skill he’d perfected during his captivity.

  “Blake?”

  Her voice again. Her sweet voice. If he could just hang on to it long enough to fall asleep…

  The loud noise jerked him upright. A gunshot? Had they shot someone else? Like a game of Russian roulette, their captors had arbitrarily chosen members of their group to execute. The dead would be paraded past every hole, every captive made to look, knowing that he might be next.

  “Hey, Blake, it’s Becky. How you doing?”

  Becky? That was a new one. Becky who? The only Becky he knew was Annie’s friend. Had they taken her, too?

  “I’m just going to touch your hand, Blake.” The voice came again. “Just to feel your pulse. Can I do that?”

  They knew damn well, no matter what voice they used, that they could do anything they pleased with him. He was their property. Their toy. They could strip him naked, lay him out spread-eagled on a table, tie his hands and legs, shine a bright light on his body and laugh at him.

  He waited, closing his mind off, only half wondering what means of humiliation they’d use this time.

  “Talk to him, Annie.”

  “I’m here, Blake. Becky’s going to feel your pulse, okay?”

  There it was again. If he could just hold on to Annie’s voice…

  He moved his hand, and found fingers clutching it. He’d have to let Annie go soon. He couldn’t take her with him to the places they took him. Couldn’t have her see or know…

  “You’re safe. We’re all here with you.” He still heard her.

  The fingers moved to his wrist.

  Don’t go, Annie. Please don’t go.

  “His pulse is high, but not alarmingly so. It’s slowing down now.”

  “Cole’s here. And me. And Becky…”

  His hand was gently placed back at his side. On the softness of fabric. Fabric. He had clothes on.

  He…

  Oh, God.

  He was in Cole Lawry’s living room.

  He’d had an episode. One of the worst he’d had in more than eighteen months.

  And everyone had seen it. If he opened his eyes they’d be there, staring at him. Knowing.

  Trapped in an entirely new kind of hell, Blake considered his options.

  And because he was Blake, because he was a man who didn’t run, who didn’t shy away from the hard work, who only shied away from hurting those he cared about, he did what any man in his position would do.

  He fell asleep.

  “OKAY, SO TELL ME what’s going on.”

  Dressed in jeans, a short white top and the sweater she’d pulled on just before she’d run out the door, Annie sat at Cole’s kitchen table with her brother and Becky, drinking cups of the too-strong coffee Cole had brewed.She and Cole both looked to Becky, who was holding her cup with both hands. Annie couldn’t look at the bruise on her brother’s cheek. It scared her to death.

  “I can’t give an official diagnosis, of course,” Becky said. “But from what I know about Blake’s history and from what I’ve seen tonight, I’d say he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “What does that mean, specifically?” Cole asked. “I know the basic parameters, the stuff everyone knows. But not like this. How often does it happen? Will he always go through this? Isn’t there anything anyone can do to help him?”

  Annie’s heart froze in fear as Cole’s questions came pouring out.

  “I can’t answer you, Cole,” Becky said, frowning. “Not specifically. As far as I know, every case is different. But generally speaking, it all depends.”

  “On what?” Annie leaned forward, looking to her
friend for honesty.

  “How much he suffered when he was there. What, exactly, they did to him…”

  “He said there was no physical abuse. I assumed that meant he was treated okay, but just not free to leave.”

  “Maybe. But with what I just saw in there, I’d say no.”

  “So what was that in there?” Cole was on his second cup of coffee.

  Unable to sit still, filled with an uncomfortable energy she didn’t entirely understand, Annie paced to the door of the kitchen, peeking in on Blake in the next room, just to reassure herself he was really asleep.

  And sleeping peacefully.

  “One of the major symptoms of PTSD is reliving traumatic events. We all have memories and are sometimes attacked by them, but in Blake’s case, he relives the bad event in real time. Experiencing every nuance of it exactly as if it’s happening again.”

  “He kept calling for Annie.”

  “I’m guessing he did that a lot while he was gone. Probably anytime things got to be too much for him.”

  “So he just goes through life spacing out periodically? Thrashing about without knowing what he’s doing?” Annie stood beside Becky’s chair, angry as hell, as if her friend could do something about all of this.

  “No.” Becky’s voice was calm in a way she didn’t usually speak to Annie. Calm, as if she was dealing with a patient. “Something must have triggered it,” she said. “And I’m guessing, if you could get Blake to talk to you about it, he’d be able to tell you exactly what it was. PTSD is largely manageable, if certain conditions are met.”

  Now that’s what Annie needed to hear. Her heart was breaking for this man. For what he’d suffered. And continued to suffer. Blake was a good man. The best. He didn’t deserve any of this. “What conditions?”

  “Early intervention helps tremendously,” Becky said. “If Blake sought help when he was released, he’s probably got this under control most of the time. And based on the fact that he and Cole are close friends and Cole knew nothing about it, and also based on the fact that he runs a successful business, I’d say that was probably the case.”

  “You think he’s in counseling?”

  “He’d pretty much have to be. He also might be on medication.”

  “For what?”

  “Anxiety. Depression. Those are the most common side effects. Maybe some kind of sleep aid.”

  “Sleep aid? He didn’t have a whit of trouble falling asleep,” Cole interjected. His face was still unnaturally pale. His mouth was pinched, as if he was feeling sick.

  “For someone with PTSD there are usually three areas of trouble. The first, you saw tonight. The second is called avoidance. It’s the need to keep yourself from anything that might trigger a memory—an episode like you just saw. It also often creates a kind of void, an emotional numbness, in the victim.”

  So much was starting to make sense.

  “And the third?” Annie asked.

  “It encompasses several things, the most common of which is insomnia or some other form of sleep disorder.”

  Could that be why Blake had left her bed each night after making love? Not to abandon her, and not because he didn’t want to stay, but because he was afraid to? Because he knew he might not be able to control what happened if he fell asleep?

  Her eyes filling with tears, Annie thought about what she’d seen tonight. She hated what she was hearing.

  And loved Blake Smith with all her heart. His pain was hers. His suffering was hers.

  And his challenges would be hers, too. Whether he agreed to share his life with her or not.

  She was irrevocably in love with him. When he suffered, so would she.

  And as she dozed in the lounger in Cole’s living room that night, staying right next to Blake, needing to be close to him, she understood two very important things.

  She knew why June Lawry had said she’d have married Tim all over again, if she’d been given the chance. And Annie knew, too, that she had to forgive her father for taking his own life.

  Just as she absolutely could not—and did not—blame Blake for reliving a traumatic event, she couldn’t blame her father for having an imbalance that made his pain unendurable.

  Both men needed to be loved. Cherished. Not condemned.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE LAST THING BLAKE expected to see when he woke up in the early hours of Saturday morning was Annie, sleeping in the chair beside him. His last rational recollection was of Cole sitting there.

  The television was off, the house quiet. His buddy must have gone up to bed.And Becky? Had she been there? Or had he dreamed that part?

  He’d had an episode. He knew that. Recognized the feeling of emptiness that always came after one of them. The feeling that he’d passed out and lost part of his life. He’d only had a few full-out attacks, but all it took was one to know what had happened.

  He’d pushed himself too hard. Was too impatient. And stupid, too, to try to prove to himself that there was nothing wrong with him.

  There was no way, as tired as he was, as much as he was hurting for Annie, as often as he’d been reliving their marriage—and the way it had fallen apart—that he’d been in any state to watch a violent movie.

  He’d known better.

  Glancing at his watch, seeing that it was only three in the morning, Blake rose slowly from the chair. Reached for the keys he’d dropped on the table beside him. Slipped into the loafers he’d worn to work the day before. If he was careful, he could be home before either Annie or Cole woke up.

  “Hold it right there, cowboy.”

  Still lying back in the opposite chair, Annie was staring straight at him, wide-awake.

  Hand hovering over his keys, Blake froze.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Home.”

  “Not tonight you aren’t. It’s an hour and a half drive.”

  “It’s an hour with no traffic, Annie, and I’ve done it hundreds of times. You know that.”

  “Not after going through what you went through tonight.”

  His heart sank. Blake dropped into the chair, staring at the darkened room. He might have had a waking nightmare earlier, but it was no comparison to the living nightmare he was having now.

  Annie knew.

  “You were here,” he said. He’d been hoping that her voice had been part of the illusion. It always had been in the past.

  “Just at the end.”

  Like that made it any better. From what he’d read and understood, from what he’d been told, these occurrences were all the same from beginning to end.

  Humiliated at the thought of Annie seeing him thrashing about like a wild man, at the very idea that she would ever know the things he saw inside when these things happened, Blake was pretty certain his life had reached an all-time low.

  “It’s okay, Blake. No one holds it against you. We just want to help.”

  “I don’t need any help.” That much was true. As long as he helped himself.

  “Becky was here, did you know that?”

  He grunted.

  “She explained a lot of things to Cole and me.”

  Blake listened as his beautiful ex-wife reiterated points he’d read—and heard—hundreds of times. And in the end, though still humiliated, he was at least impressed with Becky’s accuracy.

  “I want to help, Blake,” Annie said again. “Becky says you obviously used thoughts of me as a coping tool during your captivity.”

  No longer so impressed, Blake wished the other woman had minded her own business. Deciding the best defense was silence, he didn’t respond.

  “That being the case, I can help now, too,” she said. “If I give you a sense of peace, it stands to reason that you’d have fewer episodes if I were—”

  “No.” He couldn’t sit here and listen to this. Couldn’t even consider the idea of Annie in his life on a personal basis. “You don’t bring me peace.” He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but he had to put a stop to this.
Now. “You coming back into my life has brought on these episodes.”

  Annie’s gasp brought him to his senses. Told him that he’d just said something he was going to regret for the rest of his life. He’d hurt her again. In an attempt to save her from hurt.

  “It’s not as bad as it seems,” he said, choosing his words with more care. “Most of the time life sails on with relative normality.”

  As long as he kept all his safety measures in place.

  “Becky said with early intervention you could overcome, or at least completely manage, the disorder.”

  “She’s right.”

  “Did you have that?”

  “Yes.” And because he was sorry he’d hurt her, because he knew that words were important to Annie, he continued. “Education goes a long way toward instilling managing skills, as well.”

  “What about medication? Do you take anything to help?”

  “Not really. A minimum-dosage sleeping pill every six months or so.”

  “And you’ve really only had a few of these things, these episodes, in over two years’ time?”

  “Really.” If you didn’t count his night stalker visits. And he wasn’t.

  “So what you’re telling me is that you’ve got this pretty much under control.”

  Her hair, tousled around her face and shoulders, made him want to bury his fingers in it, in her. To get lost in Annie’s arms and never find his way out.

  “Pretty much.”

  “So what set you off tonight? Besides me, that is.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that Annie. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t really see her expression in the darkness, couldn’t see her eyes, but he could tell they were glistening.

  “Of course you should, if it’s the truth.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s okay, Blake. I understand.”

  “No,” he interrupted. “I don’t think you do. It’s not you who’s caused the resurgence of stress,” he told her. “It’s staying away from you that does that.”

  “Then…”

  “No, Annie. I am not in the market for a relationship. And if you weren’t feeling sorry for me, you’d admit that neither are you. We just had this conversation. Remember?”