Adrenaline Rush: M/M Mpreg Alpha Male Romance (Never Too Late Book 2)

by Aiden Bates

  Ozzy laughed. "Anything I can."

  Pete tilted his head and stilled for a moment. "Well, now, that could be taken so many different ways."

  "Right?" Ozzy waggled his eyebrows. "In this case, it means I'm kind of an extreme sports guy. I rock climb, I sky dive, I heli-ski. You name it, I do it."

  Pete's eyes widened. "Do you even do the squirrel suit thing?"

  "What, the gliding thing or do you mean something a little kinkier?" Ozzy snickered. "Yeah, I haven't done the flying suit thing yet. I want to try it sometime, but I just haven't gotten a chance."

  Pete hid his face in his hands. "Oh God. You're an adrenaline junkie."

  "Yeah. Maybe a little bit." Ozzy laughed at himself, although something deep in his chest gave a twist. Adrenaline junkie was a good description. At least, it would have to suffice for now. "I like to get my blood pumping, you know? It's not like I get a lot of chances for excitement, sitting behind a desk and counting time sheets from twenty years ago."

  "I guess that's true." Pete grimaced. "You’d never catch me jumping out of a plane, though." He shuddered. "Good thing you're not asking me to."

  "Aw, I was hoping that was on your bucket list." Ozzy winked. "No, I get that it's not on everyone's list of things to do before they die. As long as people accept that it's on mine, we're good."

  "What if you wind up claiming someone though?" Pete leaned back. "Aren't you worried that you'll die and leave them alone?"

  Ozzy frowned. "I hadn't thought about it that way. I guess I hadn't thought about claiming someone before." He shrugged. "I've been a live-for-the-moment kind of guy for a pretty long time. I've been around for a little while. I've seen enough to learn to treasure ever moment. You never know when it's going to be your last. Make the most of it. Don't waste them, you know?"

  "I guess." Pete gave a little sigh, and then put a hand on his burgeoning belly. "I think those days are gone for me. I'm all she's got, so I have to think about what happens next all the time now."

  "True." Ozzy looked down. He'd almost forgotten the baby. "Do you have a name picked out for her yet?"

  "Not really." Pete sighed and leaned his head on his hand. "I have a list, but I'm always rejecting things or adding to it, you know? I just have to hope that I fall in love with one name by the time she puts in her appearance. Otherwise she'll go through her whole life just as Baby Nolan."

  "Don't do that." Ozzy laughed. "How about Ozzy?"

  "For a girl?"

  "Osmundia. Osmundia Norris, for the cop whose life you saved." Ozzy clasped his hands over his heart and batted his eyes at Pete, who laughed at him.

  Ozzy could spend the rest of his life listening to that laugh, and that was a problem. Since when did he even have thoughts like the rest of his life? And Ozzy knew he was no good for a guy like Pete. Pete needed someone who could be there for him and his baby, forever. Not someone who was dancing on a fine line between thrill seeking and a death wish.

  At the same time, he couldn't get the handsome, pregnant omega out of his head. Even as he dropped Pete off at his house, he knew that he'd be back.

  Chapter Three

  Pete packed his equipment into the back of his Subaru and tried not to wince. His back hurt. His hip hurt. He knew it was normal, and that it was just sciatica due to pregnancy, but knowing why it was happening didn't change the fact that it hurt. At least he hadn't gotten to a point where he couldn't do his job anymore.

  Today he'd taken on a job to get pictures from a huge demonstration in downtown Boston. People were protesting the governor's stance on accepting refugees, and then some counter-protestors showed up. Things got heated, and then things got violent. Pete was able to get quite a few good pictures of the unpleasantness before riot police broke everything up. He stood to make a good amount of money, and while he was at it the ugly side of resistance to refugee resettlement would be shown for what it was.

  In the old days, the pre-baby days, he would have been able to head out and get beers, maybe find some companionship for the night. Now he was so tired he didn't know if he'd make it all the way through uploading the digitals. He'd have to, of course; no one wanted photos of last week's news. Still, the fatigue was different than anything he'd ever felt before. It reached into his very bones.

  His daughter didn't seem to be feeling the same way. No, she all but danced in his belly, a bizarre sensation that he couldn't say he was entirely comfortable with. He didn't have the kind of pain some other people talked about. Her kicks still felt fluttery, like little bubbles, and they were almost pleasant. And he knew that they weren't movements with any kind of intent. She had no intent yet. But he still couldn't shake the horror that went along with some kind of alien force inhabiting his body.

  Only a few more weeks, however, and she'd actually be here. His body would be his own again.

  He headed back out toward I-95, aiming himself toward Rt. 20 and home. Once he hit Rt. 20 his phone rang. He answered it through the Subaru's Bluetooth function. "This is Pete."

  "Pete, hey, it's Ozzy. How's it going?"

  Pete smiled in spite of his exhaustion. "Better now," he admitted. Was that too much? "It was kind of a long, fraught day."

  "Fraught, huh? Family drama?"

  "No. Covering the protests down at the State House." Some of the pain left Pete's back. "It was an ugly situation. I'm kind of beat."

  "Oh." Pete wasn't imagining the note of disappointment he heard in Ozzy's voice, was he? Maybe he was. Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part. "Well, I guess that means you're not going to be up for Thai food tonight. I was kind of hoping you'd be up for a case update, but I totally get that you're tired. That kind of work, even if you're not in the thick of things, can be exhausting. And that's for people who aren't pregnant."

  Ugh. Why couldn't Pete have met Ozzy five years ago, or nine months ago, or even seven months ago? He made a snap decision. "I don't think I'm up for sitting in the restaurant. If you can tolerate hanging around in my house, we could get takeout. Just let me get the pictures out to my editors."

  Ozzy was silent for a few moments. Then he gave a little laugh. "Oh, hell yeah! Text me your order and I'll be there at maybe seven?"

  "Seven sounds good." That would be enough time for Pete to get home and clean himself up a little bit, in addition to getting the relevant photos out to his editors.

  He got into the house and raced up to his office. He'd deal with the film later, but for now he put the rolls into carefully labeled black canisters. In the meantime, he took the digital pictures off of his camera and scanned through to find the best and most relevant images to send to agencies around the world.

  He found one that he liked best. The photo was of a woman,protesting to allow refugees into the state, being assaulted by a man in a three-piece suit. A Boston cop stood by and watched the scene play out while a man who appeared homeless—and was homeless, according to Pete's careful notes—jumped to her aid. He sent that one to Reuters. Other photo distributors got different images—the solid wall of blue-clad protestors ringing the State House, or the contingent of elderly nuns on their knees in the snow praying on their rosaries while anti-refugee counter protestors shouted hate at them. All in all, Pete figured he could be proud of the work he'd done today.

  Just as he'd finished submitting the last of his breaking news shots, his doorbell rang. He sighed; God forbid that he get any actual rest. It wasn't like he was making a human being or anything. He eased his way downstairs to see who might be there, and did a double take when he saw his mother at the door.

  He opened the door. "Hi, Mom."

  Cynthia Nolan strode into the house as though she owned the place. Her nose wrinkled, just a little bit, as she took in the scene. "Honestly, Peter, this house feels smaller every time I come over." She took off her fur coat and held it out to him, giving it a shake when he didn't grab it fast enough. "How do you seriously expect to be able to raise a child in a house that's essentially a broom closet?"

&nb
sp; Pete hung his mother's coat in the closet and waved to her driver. O'Hara almost never came inside, but Pete never stopped inviting him. "It's not every day that you hear a twenty-two hundred square foot house being called a broom closet."

  Cynthia scoffed. "You could fit this house into my house seven times with room to spare. It's a much better place to raise a child, especially a Nolan." She sat down on the couch in his living room and wrinkled her nose again. "How does this cheap furniture even hold you, at the size you are now?"

  "Thanks for the confidence boost, Mom." He rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe.

  "I'm your mother. I'm not here to give you a confidence boost. I'm here to give you much-needed guidance and to keep you on track. Obviously I must have been negligent or you wouldn't be in this condition." She glared at Pete's protruding abdomen. "But you were always willful. You would always go your own way, without regard for anyone else, so maybe this would have been inevitable." She sighed and folded her hands in her lap.

  "Maybe." Pete put his hand on his belly. "As it happens, I'm looking forward to being a parent." He felt his daughter kick against his hand. "But come on, Mom. You didn't come all this way to harass me about my many filial shortcomings."

  "No. It would be wasted breath, I'm certain. I came out here, Peter, because your brother tells me that you weren't receptive to his suggestion that you move home." She tossed her head. "Peter, this is not the time to be your usual stubborn self. It was irresponsible of you to get pregnant in the first place, but now you're seriously thinking of bringing her up here? In the wilds of Sudbury? You have no one to protect you, no one to keep you safe."

  "Oh my God, Mom." Pete pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not like Sudbury is Harlem in 1968. This is one of the most upscale suburbs in Massachusetts."

  "You were a witness to a bank robbery!" she shouted.

  "Yes, I was. And everyone involved with the robbery is behind bars now, because the state police are good at their jobs." He considered telling her that he'd kicked one in the jaw, but opted not to. He didn't think that would have the desired effect. "I spoke to the detective on the case and he tells me that I'm perfectly safe and have nothing to worry about."

  Her lip curled. "Oh, and they're never wrong."

  Pete's doorbell rang again, and he went to answer it. Ozzy stood in the doorway, with a big bag of Thai food. Pete tried to tell himself that it was the scent of the food that made his mouth water. "Sorry I'm early, they just had the order ready early for some reason. Oh—I'm sorry. I'll go wait in the car or something."

  "No!" Pete moved aside and pulled Ozzy into the house. "You're not that early. Ozzy, this is my mother, Cynthia Nolan. Mom, this is the detective working on the bank robbery that I told you about, Detective Osmund Morris."

  Ozzy stepped forward to offer his hand to Cynthia. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. I'd come to give an update on the case to Mr. Nolan. He said that he was tired after a long day, so I offered to pick up dinner instead of meeting him out."

  Cynthia accepted the hand with her usual public grace. "Delighted. Peter tells me that you tell him that he's perfectly safe here from those hooligans that robbed the bank." She led all three of them into the kitchen.

  Ozzy deposited the bag on the counter, and Pete found plates and utensils for them. "I think they gave us an extra broccoli fried rice," he said, turning to Cynthia.

  Cynthia inclined her head. "Thank you."

  Pete tried to hide his grimace. His mother wasn't known for her enthusiasm about other cuisines. Oh well; she should have called before dropping in.

  They sat down around the table and made small talk for a little while, and then Ozzy got into the real reason for his visit. Apparently someone had sent in an anonymous tip that might tie the gun back to the cold case. The tip was just a name, but the name was someone that had been busted by the murdered cop for some petty crimes here and there during her youth. It wasn't anything big enough to kill over, but it was a starting point.

  Pete pursed his lips. "If I were to get a name," he suggested, fork poised halfway over his red curry, "I might be able to see what I could find out on my side of the fence. I have some buddies over at the Worcester Telegram. They've been there for a while; they might remember something from back in the day." He thought he saw his mother's eyelid twitch, but ignored it.

  "That could be good. See if any of them know or have heard of someone by the name of Dawn Moriarty. I don't think she's really a suspect, but something or someone connected to her might be the key to this case." Ozzy beamed over at Pete, and Pete suddenly felt like he could run a marathon.

  They changed their discussion over to more neutral topics, in an effort to include Cynthia in the conversation, and Ozzy left after only a couple of hours. Pete swallowed his disappointment and turned back to his mother, who was watching him with a little smirk on her face.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Nothing. I mean besides the obvious." She examined her immaculately manicured fingernails.

  Pete started to clean up from dinner. "The obvious?"

  "Oh come on, Peter. I'm your mother. Do you really think I don't recognize when you're making puppy dog eyes at someone?" She shook her head. "I must say, you have terrible taste in men."

  Pete put down the stack of dishes he'd just collected. "Excuse me?"

  "Really? Whoever left you pregnant and alone left you, well, pregnant and alone. And then there was that man who convinced you that art school was a good use of your time, instead of looking for an alpha. Look how well that turned out for you."

  "You mean besides two Pulitzers." Pete picked up the stack of dishes, mostly so that he wouldn't smack his mother.

  "No one cares about those. You're still pregnant and alone." She sniffed. "And now a cop. Really, Peter? Has he even been to college? Is he literate? You're sitting there making sheep's eyes at a man who's probably never read Shakespeare or Hemingway, and who almost certainly can't tell the difference between Stravinsky and Shostakovich."

  "Wow. Show your classism just a little bit more, why don't you?" He rinsed the dishes before he put them into the dishwasher, and refused to look at his mother.

  "I'm being practical, Peter. Someone has to be. Once the first flush of lust has worn off, what exactly would you have to talk about? Can he debate the finer points of the French Impressionists with you? Or will you be able to talk about the salient aspects of light beer with him?" She stood up and walked over to him, but she didn't touch him.

  "Of course, it would never get to that point with you, would it? It never does, and now that you're pregnant? Forget about it. Let's pretend, just for a moment, that he's not turned off by the fact that someone else's baby is growing right there underneath your skin." She pointed to his belly. "Even people who aren't repulsed by that aren't going to want to do more than sleep with you, Peter. Let's face it. You're not mate material, or marriage material, or whatever you call it for you alpha and omega types.

  "I don't know why that is. I've done everything that I could do to give you every advantage, in that way. You're wealthy. You were handsome, in your youth. Before you were pregnant, anyway. You were educated, and cultured, and well-mannered when you chose to be. There's no reason under God that you shouldn't have been able to find someone, but you chased them all away. It never got past the lust stage with you, and it never will.

  "It's time that you put this silly independence bid to bed, Peter. You've made your point. You tried to live on your own, and all you did was make a bigger mess out of your life than it was when you lived with me. It's time to grow up and come home, and do what's right for your daughter."

  Pete stared at his mother. He could feel hot tears building up behind his eyes, but they weren't ready to fall. There was plenty of truth to what she was saying. His personal life was a joke, and he'd never managed to attach anyone beyond a month or two. It was foolish to think that Ozzy would want him. He was just being a good guy, looking out for a vulnerable omega who clea
rly had no one else.

  "My personal life might be a mess," he told his mother, "but the rest of my life is actually pretty good. I'm doing well professionally, and I've got a house that I like. I'm in a good place here. And I'm really not okay with raising my daughter around people who shame her for being born, okay? I'm sorry, but that's just the way it has to be. Anyway, good talk, have a safe trip home."

  Cynthia snorted and grabbed her purse. "I'll make sure that there's a room ready for when you change your mind."

  He knew that there would be no reasoning with her. He went to the closet and got her coat and watched as she strode back out to the car.

  He didn't let the tears fall until he heard the car drive away. As they streamed down his face, he sent a quick text to Ozzy. Sorry about tonight. I had no idea my mom was coming.

  Ozzy replied within seconds. It's all good. Parents are like that. Hope you get some rest. Maybe we can get together over the weekend or something.