His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia

by Theodora Taylor

  The backpack…I’d almost forgotten I still had it. But there it was, strung over my shoulder, right along with my Virkin.

  I hand it to him silently, and he takes it, but hesitates before opening it, his intense gaze softening a little as he says, “No lies. That’s what I asked you for and that’s what I know you want from me. I was trying to figure out how to tell you about this at the restaurant, but them bikers showed up...”

  Then he unzips the backpack and holds it wide for me to see what’s inside.

  My eyes saucer even wider when I see what it is. Money. So many stacks of bills and nothing else but money nestled in a simple black backpack.

  I stare at the bounty, trying but failing to process what I’m looking at. And when I finally give up and look to him for answers, his face is grimmer than I’ve ever seen it.

  “There’s more than a hundred thousand dollars in there, according to the police. That’s why they kept me so long for questioning, even after they questioned me twice at the hospital. They finally let me go. But them bikers showing up at the diner is a little too coincidental, if you ask me. I’m thinking they were tipped off. I told them a few times I had to go meet you at the diner. Maybe one of those officers questioning me told those bikers exactly where I was going and what I had on me. They probably had it all planned out. The big one would distract me, while the little one stole the backpack, but that wasn’t exactly how it worked out.”

  I lower my eyes back down to stare at the money. Everything he says makes complete sense, except, “Why were you carrying around this much money before your accident? And in a backpack of all places?”

  He shakes his head, looking as mystified as I am. “I don’t know,” he answers. Telling me the stark truth, just like he always has since the moment we met.

  But right now, even the frank truth isn’t enough to allay my fears.

  “You should let me drive you to work and back on Monday,” he mumbles. “I didn’t give the police your address, and I don’t think those guys were a real threat, but I want to keep you safe, Doc.”

  I have no idea what to say to that. What to say to any of this.

  “Who are you?” The words tumble out of my mouth, choked and angry. I don’t realize I’m so close to hyperventilating until I’m barely able to squeeze out, “Who the hell are you?”

  He immediately drops the backpack, so much money ditched like a trash bag on the floor so he can snatch me up in his arms. Hold me, comfort me, until the wave of panic begins to subside.

  “I’m sorry, Doc,” he says when I finally start breathing normally again. “I know this is scary. And I’m sorry I scared you back at that diner. But I figured them guys out from the door. They weren’t old. I didn’t know either of them. But something about them felt... familiar. Like I knew what they were about, knew they’d be nothing but trouble. I was trying to keep you safe, but I made you faint instead. You don’t know how sorry I am about that. There ain’t enough apologies in the world.”

  I can only shake my head into his chest, both comforted and confused by his heartfelt apology. “You moved so fast. Are you, like, a cop? Or some kind of special forces? Like Jason Bourne or something?”

  “I don’t know,” he whispers into my hair. “And I can’t explain it. He pulled that gun, and it was like I went on autopilot.”

  “But the things you said to him.” My stomach flips over, threatening to eject my breakfast and lunch at the thought of it. I don’t want to say it, but I find myself whispering into his chest, “I think you really would have killed that guy if he hadn’t apologized. The look in your eyes…”

  “Look at me now, Doc.” He takes my face, cupping it between his cast and his hand so I have to look into his eyes, which I find shining with emotion. “All I know is I was sure they were there for the backpack and they might hurt you to get it. Then I just...I can’t explain it. If I could, believe me I would, if only to take that look off your face. But you look at me now, Doc. You believe me when I say I would have done anything to them to keep you safe, but I would never hurt you. Not in a million years. And that money…” His eyes dart to the backpack on the floor.

  “That ain’t my money, it’s yours. Do whatever you want with it. Pay back your student loans, give it to the hospital, put it in the bank—I don’t care. It’s yours. I’m yours. Everything I have is yours. If you don’t believe anything else out of my mouth, believe that. Please believe that.”

  It’s so crazy. But I do believe him. And I’m just about to say so, when instead of words, my earlier meals come spilling out as I throw up all over the man I unequivocally love.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MASON

  Mason’s not surprised when the president of the New Rebels calls him two days short of the month deadline he gave those failed abortions.

  Ironically, he calls during a board meeting about next steps now that it’s been four months since D. disappeared with the money. The burner Mason bought in West Virginia goes off just as he’s thinking of saying out loud that none of this makes any sense.

  SFK has used D. for bigger sells than this one. $100K just wasn’t enough to stay in hiding for as long as he’d have to stay in hiding to avoid SFK’s wrath. Either D. was a lot more stupid than he’d ever let on, or something else was at play here. That was exactly what Mason was thinking about saying when the West Virginia burner started beeping in his jacket pocket.

  “All phones are supposed to be left outside on the table,” Mason’s father, the club’s vice president, says with a hard look at his son.

  “Not this one,” Mason answers, unafraid in a way only a sergeant at arms of an infamous MC can be.

  Mason ignores the disapproving stares from the other board members, flips open the burner, and says, “Yeah,” as he walks out of the meeting room. He’s prepared to hear some serious begging from the New Rebels prez. Begging he plans to ignore.

  But instead of begging, the prez says, “I think we found your guy. I wasn’t sure at first for a bunch of reasons. But he has the black backpack the old sarge said he gave him, and he took me and one of my guys down so quick, I’m sure it had to be him.”

  Mason stops in his tracks, all plans to kill this fake motherfucker completely forgotten. “Where did you see him? When? Tell me everything you know right fucking now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The hours after I throw up all over John are mostly a blur. But there a few moments that I’ll remember forever—perfect and clear.

  His lack of upset that I’d vomited on him for one. He simply whipped me up into his arms and carried me to the bathroom.

  I remember him putting my twisted curls in an ouchless ponytail holder and telling me he’d be right back. Him leaving the room, then coming back in his boxer briefs, his soiled clothes deposited somewhere unseen.

  “Tell me what you need, Doc,” I remember him saying as he pressed a glass of water into my hand.

  I remember how good the water tasted in my foul mouth. How I immediately felt better after the first sip.

  I remember the sight of him bent down next to me, blue eyes filled with remorse.

  “Not your fault,” I tell him. “It’s probably a…”

  These are the moments I remember most: trailing off because my inner-doctor is throwing down a big red flag in the back of my mind.

  She’s saying that other than fainting, I’ve felt fine all day. Healthy and happy. Usually you see a stomach flu coming before you throw up. Also, I have no fever or any other indicator of a viral infection. In fact, I can’t keep myself from eyeing John’s now naked torso, regretting that I’ll definitely have to sleep on the couch, which means none of the amazing sex we’ve been having every single night since he moved in four weeks ago.

  I freeze. Not because of the medical implications of being so sex-crazy that I’m actually resenting a stomach flu for keeping me out of John’s arms tonight, but because of the “every single night” part.

  How is that possible? M
y period has always been like clockwork, and my last one ended a couple of days before John moved in.

  Now my stomach is rolling for a different reason. Or maybe for the same reason it’s been upset all along. What happened in Meirton. How it was so weird for someone who’d grown up in Compton, with a man who regularly bragged about his body count, to faint like that. Even weirder for someone who’d put herself through med school and managed several ER rotations without fainting once.

  Then I think of that old Facebook meme, “See I knew I wasn’t a weak-ass bitch!”

  But I don’t chuckle. I can’t chuckle.

  And I ask John to bring me my phone.

  More blurring after that. Phone calls. A ride to the hospital, where I’m assured the on-call OB will be waiting for me with an ultrasound machine.

  The sac, clear as day on the monitor screen. Then the decision that has to be made.

  So much happening all at once. But all I can really remember is the look on John’s face when I come out to the tiny waiting area that’s usually reserved for non-spouses waiting to hear about the arrival of their newest family members.

  I remember him standing up as soon as I step foot into the room, as if he’s been staring at the door and waiting this whole time.

  I remember thinking I’ve got another letter of apology to write to Shonda Rhimes now, because is there dramatic music playing in the background of my head at this moment? Yes, there is.

  Until there isn’t.

  Until somehow John’s closed the gap and I’m back in his arms.

  Until everything goes quiet. And there’s only words. The only words I remember from the blur that was Saturday night.

  “What’s going on? You all right, Doc?”

  “I don’t know…the ultrasound…it said I’m pregnant.”

  The expression on his face going from worried to stunned. I remember that.

  Then me babbling on for a while about how it was uncommon to get pregnant on an IUD, but not impossible. One of the first things we learn in medical school. Even if a drug has a huge success rate, every doctor has to go in knowing there’s no guarantee any given patient won’t be in the remaining small percentage of people it doesn’t work for. Someone has to be one of the less than eight out of every thousand women who get pregnant while using an IUD.

  John’s only answer to this explanation is to shake his head and say, “You were on birth control, but you’re pregnant. You’re pregnant with my baby?”

  “Yes,” I remember answering, still in a daze. “But…but…I had them take it out.”

  The way he freezes after I say that. The look of absolute horror on his face. I’m so confused until I realize, “Oh…no…I had them take the device out. So it wouldn’t hurt the baby. I’m still…” I have to stop and catch my breath before finishing the sentence, “I’m still pregnant.”

  Then I wait to see what he’ll say next.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’m coming home!” my brother hollers on the other side of phone. “I’m coming home right now!!!”

  “No, Curt!” I insist on a whisper in the bathroom of our Las Vegas hotel room.

  “So you call a sister up, tell her you pregnant, and you about to break the news to Daddy tomorrow, but no, you don’t want Cee-Cee to come home. Bitch, you is out your monkey-ass mind if you think that is even a request I’m capable of granting!”

  “Curt, please don’t make me regret calling you instead of Sola,” I whisper into the phone.

  “Why you whispering?” Curt demands. Then before I can answer, “I wish you would call that Guatemalan bitch first. I wish I could flash forward in that alternative timeline just to see how far up your ass my heel would be if you called all the way over to fucking Russia before you called me in Chicago.”

  “Seriously, Curt, please talk to me like a regular human being. I really need my brother right now. Not Cee-Cee…”

  He must hear the real desperation in my tone because his voice drops a dramatic octave, and the next voice I hear is the one of the man who told me he would always be my brother, right before he left for a tour to perform as Glammette Jackson in his first headliner drag show.

  “Okay, Nitra, I’m here for you, baby girl. I’m listening,” he says, just as C-Mello’s heavily gangsterized version of “We Are Family” starts playing in the background of our call.

  “Isn’t that your cue?”

  “Them bitches can wait. Talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing. I just need your blessing.”

  “My blessing for what?”

  I bite my lip and look down at the thin wedding band on my hand, thinking back to earlier in the day.

  “Is it okay if I use some of your money to buy something?” John asked as we crossed into the Eastside Las Vegas city limits.

  “It’s not my money, it’s yours,” I repeated for like the umpteenth time on our multi-day trip across America.

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “It’s a ‘do whatever you want with it,’” I answered, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. Seriously, the closer we got to California, the bitchier I felt.

  The prospect of having to introduce John to Dad. And even worse, having to confess everything about my past. My stomach was rolling for reasons that had nothing to do with my first trimester.

  “Woods,” John said, tearing me away from my thoughts.

  “What?” I asked, coming back to the boiling hot Las Vegas afternoon. We planned to stop here for the night after four days on the road. A long trip by anyone’s standards, but not nearly long enough as far as I was concerned. There were less than twenty-four hours between now and when John discovered who I really was.

  “You said I needed to pick out a new name, and I like being out in the woods. So I decided that’s going to be my new name.”

  “Woods,” I repeated with a little smile. “I like that.”

  He grinned over at me. “For real, Doc? You could see yourself being with a man named Woods for the rest of your life?”

  “Sure,” I answered, my mood much lighter because he smiled at me. “At least until you remember your real name.”

  The smile faded then. And I was struck once more by how little concern he seemed to have about his focal amnesia.

  “Woods,” I started to say, a soft introduction to a heavy song. “That’s something we’re going to have to deal with when we get to Seattle. Remember what I said last week about seeing somebody?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I do, Doc. And I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you want me to do. You know that, right?”

  This love of his...like ten different red flags from my psych classes go off in my brain, even as my heart melts.

  “I know,” I answered, giving him the simplest reply I can, because everything in our lives will be so much more complicated after he meets my dad. And Sandy. Oh God, Sandy…

  The only thing that kept me from having a low grade panic attack at just the thought of how tomorrow will go down is the man across from me declaring, “All right, my name’s Woods from now on. That’s settled. On to the next topic. You know you’ve got to become my wife before the baby’s born, right? This ain’t something we’re going to have to discuss tonight in bed, is it?”

  Discuss tonight. His version of a threat…and of settling seemingly every argument.

  But then he sobered and said, “Seriously, Doc. I want this settled before I meet your daddy. Say you’ll marry me.”

  My breath hitched as I realized this is it. He’s asking me to marry him. For real. Like, this is a real life proposal happening right now as we drive through Las Vegas.

  “Technically, you’re not allowed to drive this car,” I answered on my choked breath. “Much less marry me without any kind of ID.”

  “So if I had some ID you’d marry me?” he asked.

  “If you had some ID, you’d remember who you are and then maybe you wouldn’t want to marry me. Especially if you already have someone waiting for you back home
,” I answered.

  He lifted my knuckles to his lips. “There ain’t nobody but you, Doc.”

  I shook my head. Looked north, even though my mind is casting south. In the direction of wherever he got his accent from, and the possible real girlfriend who has no clue where he is.

  As if reading my mind, he said, “You keep wondering if I have a girl out there, scared I forgot somebody important. But you’re new to me, Doc. And these feelings I got for you, they’re new, too. It ain’t just that I can’t remember, it’s that I can’t fucking imagine feeling about somebody else the way I feel about you. So stop feeling guilty about a woman who don’t exist. There’s only you, Doc. I know in my soul there ain’t nobody else.”

  His words sped up my heart. How could they not? But…

  “Getting a new ID won’t be easy. Remember our conversation about the lawyer? And even with a lawyer, Seattle’s going to want you to at least do due diligence. Your patient file is pretty inconclusive as far as your mental health is concerned.”

  He sifted through my words and came back with, “You’re trying to say you think I’m crazy. Crazy for feeling the way I do about you. Crazy for wanting to marry you.”

  “No, I’m not saying that,” I answered, though obviously I’d been thinking it. “What I am saying is TBIs change people, and we should get you more tests when we get to Seattle since they did such a half-ass job back in West Virginia because you weren’t covered by…”

  I stopped, suddenly realizing, “Yes, we should get married! That’s exactly what we should do. As soon as we can get you a new social security number. That way you’ll have excellent health insurance and access to the best doctors.”

  “Doc, I only got about four months of real memories, but I’m going to tell you right now: that is the least romantic marriage proposal acceptance there ever was.”