“I need some time.”
“Then take it. You’ve got a month because I don’t want to look like a beached whale in my wedding pictures.”
And then she gets up and heads for the door.
“Where are you going?”
Her hair whipping around her face, she turns on me. “Home to lie down.”
“Are you not feeling well?”
“Morning sickness. I’ve been queasy. And tired. This whole growing-a-human-being-inside-you isn’t for the faint of heart.”
The way she doesn’t meet my eyes as she mumbles her response makes me want to take her face in my hands and force her to talk to me. Look at me. And then hold her. Tell her I’ll take care of her. But something holds me back. Something I fear is that I’m a fucking asshole who doesn’t deserve to touch her, never mind have her lick my shoes.
“Then stay here. Order room service if you can stomach it. I’ll go.”
She doesn’t protest like I thought she might. She must be really worn out not to argue with me, and that impulse to cuddle her, coddle her fills me. But I don’t want to make promises I’m not going to keep, and at this point I’m so fucking terrified—me, a father?—I can offer no guarantees. So I watch her put her bag down, slip off her shoes, and turn down the covers to climb into the bed. It was less than an hour ago I thought I’d be having a tussle with her under those sheets.
I start toward her, wanting to at least touch her hair, smell her one more time, because even though she’s made the offer, I can’t honestly picture being able to look her in the face again if I tell her I don’t want all of her. It’s all or nothing, and she deserves everything. But maybe I’m not qualified to give that to her.
My hand’s on the door handle when I realize I left the gym bag on the floor. There’s a split-second where I consider leaving it there, but then a thought kicks me. For fuck’s sake, Lewis, don’t make the pregnant woman deal with your kinky sex toys.
I stride past the bed where Pressly’s already curled up under the sheets, her blonde hair draped over the pillow instead of my chest, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I don’t stop until the door of my house slams closed behind me and I sink to the floor, head in my hands.
Now what?
Chapter Twenty-Four
‡
It’s been three weeks. I haven’t seen Pressly, haven’t talked to her. My head is flooded with her; she swamps my dreams. I imagine seeing her in the streets, hallucinate the smell of her in my house when I step through the door at night.
I’ve also been doing some research. Reading pregnancy and baby books on my phone in between meetings and before I go to bed. Picturing how big the baby—our baby—must be. It’s hard, though, because Press didn’t tell me when she was due. I’m guessing somewhere between a blueberry and a cherry.
I’ve written her letters too. Calling seemed too intrusive somehow, even though I’ve been inside every part of her. But notes showing up in her mailbox—Pressly, I’m sorry I reacted so badly. I was surprised, but that’s no excuse. If you want to talk, I’ll drop everything. I’m sorry—that seems okay.
Another prong of my stop-fucking-this-up campaign has been to start stalking those mommy boards. Learning what pregnant women worry about, what the hot new toys are, which baby carrier they’re lusting after. After I’ve done my own research on the latest and greatest items, I buy some and send them to Press. A stroller. The highest-rated car seat. A co-sleeper. Three different kinds of swaddles. A state-of-the-art video monitor. Copies of every single Caldecott-medal-winning book from the past five years.
I’ve been distracted and angry and even more temperamental with my staff than usual. Even Cooper is avoiding me. Knowing I’m being a complete and utter dickwad makes me more frustrated, and lacking the control to do anything about it makes me even angrier. Because if I lose my shit completely, I’m going to be barred from the only thing that makes my strung-taut existence bearable.
I know how to do this properly. I know that there are, as India promised, people who are into that shit, and it’s so much better to do those things with them. Willing victims as opposed to whomever happens to be unlucky enough to fall in my path. I’d rather be doing them with Pressly. But instead I’m avoiding her and risking everything I’ve built. This everlasting meeting isn’t helping any. I got into government why again?
“Look.” My voice cuts through the general din, and the room quiets. “We’re going around in circles at this point, and I don’t know about you but I have better things to do than keep wearing a ditch in this road. So I’m calling—”
A commotion outside catches my attention, and though I strain to hear what might be going on, the words are indistinct through the heavy door. But a television has been turned on and phones are ringing off the hook. I catch the eye of one of my staffers and lift my chin, indicating she should figure out what the fuck is going on out there. As soon as she slips out the door, I try to regain control of the meeting, but it’s only seconds later that she’s back, breathless.
“There’s a live shooter at Russell.”
My heart grinds to a halt as the room erupts in chaos. A live shooter? At Russell? That’s the Senate office building where Pressly works. That’s likely where she is because, despite our lack of contact since I walked out on her, it’s easy enough to keep tabs on the senator. He’s in town this week.
“Do you know anything else?”
She shakes her head, looking terrified because my voice is sharp enough to split a log, never mind a twenty-four-year-old, fresh-out-of-grad-school staffer. I’ll apologize later, but right now, I’ve got to get over there.
I don’t bother to dismiss anyone, just shove through the people who happen to be in my way, dragging my cell from my pocket as I go. But phone lines will be blowing up; it’s going to be impossible to get a hold of anyone in DC at all. And yeah, the dull throb of a busy signal sounds in my ear when I dial Pressly’s office, her cell phone, the Capitol’s switchboard. Over and over it sounds, contrasting the riot of panic in my stomach. I fucking hate feeling this helpless.
Out in the bright sunshine of the day, it’s clear the word hasn’t spread to the general public because people are still milling about in the street. You can tell when someone’s gotten word, though, because clumps of people start darting toward the nearest building, which is what I should be doing. Shelter in place—that’s what they call it. Barricade myself in my office while people better equipped than I am—which, let’s face it, is basically anyone—run toward the danger instead of away from it.
But running I am, and I’m thankful for all those hours on the treadmill and around the Potomac. There’s a mile and a shit ton of tourists milling on the Mall between my office and Russell. I get most of the way there before a cop stops me.
“Sir, you need to turn around. There’s a police action at Russell, and we’re asking everyone in the building to shelter in place and anyone else to leave the immediate area. Please.”
I nod cooperatively, though in my head I’m scheming about how to get past this person and closer to Pressly. Shelter. I want to be her shelter.
The officer assesses me, foolishly decides I’m not a threat, because after all I’m just a fucking suit, and when he turns slightly to deal with another person headed in the wrong direction, I dart past, ignoring his enraged shouts.
On the street directly across from the building, there’s more law enforcement, and it gets harder to duck and weave between them. Finally I get caught by one of the Capitol Police.
“Sir, you can’t be here. You have to—”
“My wife is in that building. My pregnant wife.” Not that the baby makes much of a difference. I’d be as desperate to see Press even I hadn’t knocked her up, but pregnancy does something to people. Makes them swoony, accommodating, and stupid. I have every intention of using sentimentality as a weapon. But this short black woman doesn’t seem to give a shit.
“I understand that you’re concerned for
her welfare, but I can’t let you through. So please go back to your own office so we can do our jobs.”
I nod my agreement, hoping she’ll be as easily distracted as the other guy. But she’s a bulwark and doesn’t take her narrowed eyes off me, though her radio’s squawking madly.
“Don’t you have something better to do than babysit me?”
“I surely do, but my job is to keep knuckleheads like you out of the way so my colleagues can do their jobs. Which includes protecting people like your wife.”
“Do you even know who I am?” I stand up to my full height, try to make myself bigger, more intimidating. The stance that usually sends my staff skittering off to the nearest corner does nothing to this woman, who regards me with an apathetically raised eyebrow.
“Yes, I do, Secretary Lewis. But your title doesn’t mean anything right now. You’re going to have to wait, like everyone else.”
“Can you at least tell me…” Is Pressly okay? Or is she lying on the floor, a pool of her own blood soaking into her pretty pastel suit and her blown-out hair, her pearls getting slick with it? The image turns my stomach. But this woman won’t know anything like that. “Have there been any fatalities?”
“No fatalities have been reported,” she says carefully. I want to strangle her, see if that wouldn’t knock some of the calm collectedness off her face, but that would probably get me shot or arrested and I definitely wouldn’t get any information from the backseat of a squad car. Besides, she’s right. The best thing I can do is leave. But it’s as if there’s a tether connecting me to Pressly. I can’t see my way to leaving. It sounds impossible. Getting any farther away from her when she’s in danger…I can’t.
“Okay. I’m going to go pace by that tree over there. I swear I won’t try to get any closer, but I can’t—” The words get caught in my throat, and I can’t go on. I loosen my tie, but it doesn’t help because that’s not what’s closing my throat. It’s heartsick worry. Pressly, my unborn child. The thought of losing either of them is excruciating.
Sympathy purses the officer’s lips, and she somehow manages to glare at me from under her brows, even though I’ve got about a foot on her. Then again, she does have a firearm and I don’t. That’ll lend a person some stature. “If you stray more than fifteen feet from that tree, I won’t hesitate to cuff you to it. You’re going to stay outta my way, and if I tell you to leave the scene because it’s become more dangerous, you’re going to listen. However, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know. What’s your wife’s name?”
“Pressly. Pressly Allwyn. She works for Senator Johnson. Thank you.”
Then her radio erupts again. Though I’d like to glue myself to her side, I’m not going to be able to understand any of the codes and I’d end up bugging her until she cuffs me to the tree. I’m not going to fuck with this woman. So I do as I’ve been told and pace by the tree, trying not to hyperventilate or let all the horrible scenarios my mind’s conjuring get out of control.
I’ve been wearing a dull tread in the grass for about fifteen minutes when the phone I’ve got my fingers wrapped around rings.
The screen flashes RLW. What the hell is Rey Walter calling me for? A little teatime chat? But I answer it anyway because you don’t not answer his calls.
“This isn’t a good time—”
“I know. That’s why I’m calling. I figured you must be out of your mind. She’s okay, Slade.”
“How the fuck do you know? Where the hell even are you?” I spin around like I might see his lean besuited form strolling across the green, but of course there’s no one here except dumbfuck me, law enforcement, emergency medical personnel, and media vultures.
“I’m in California, but Cris called and told me what’s happening. He knows I’ve got clients on the Hill.”
“And you could get in touch with someone here to check on them? I’m a goddamn Assistant Secretary of HUD, and I can’t get any answers but you—”
“Does it really matter?”
“No,” I grant grudgingly. It doesn’t matter at all. And I sure as hell don’t want to discourage him from calling in the future.
“Let’s just say you’re far from the only kinky fuck in Washington, all right? But more importantly, Pressly’s okay. The shooter was on the other side of the building from where her office is, and she’s been working all morning, making calls for the senator. She’s fine. They’re on lockdown, obviously, and you probably won’t be able to get a hold of her for a while, but she’s okay. Where are you?”
“As close as I could get without getting arrested.”
His voice is all restrained, approving amusement when he says, “Keep it that way. I don’t want to be the one telling Press her baby daddy’s in the slammer.”
“She told you?”
“Slade.”
Okay, so sometimes emotional stress makes me sound like someone who fell out of the idiot tree and hit every branch on the way down. Of course she told him. He was probably her first call when she found out. “Sorry. Stupid question. What else did she say?” That she wants me?
“You know I can’t tell you that. But what I can tell you is to get your head and that giant stick out of your ass. You lost her once. You want to do it again? No one expects you to be perfect, but you’ve got to do better than this.
“The next time she hands you her panties at dinner or gives you any other glimpse of the sexy-as-sin woman who hides behind those delightful Southern manners, treat it like the gift from a goddess it is. Maybe she overreacted and she’s on the wrong side of irrational about this, but you’ve got to give the girl a break. Think about what a fucking disaster you’d be if your parents told you that you were only good for one thing your whole life. You’ve got to make her believe this isn’t about political gain and that you really do want all of her, even if it makes you uncomfortable.”
I practically growl at him through the phone, but I silence it with the tight clench of my teeth. Fucking Rey Walter. If I didn’t like him so much, I’d want to kill him. “Yeah.”
“Look, Slade. I know you’re not much for conversation, and that’s fine. I’m not going to treat you like sand when you’re more like a block of granite. But I like you and I like Pressly, and I think there’s a simple way to make you both happy. Not easy, but simple. And you know where to find me if you want to talk about it.”
“Thanks.”
*
I have hours of pacing by that fucking tree, waiting, to think about it. And the same words keep passing through my head: Not easy, but simple.
Me plus Pressly equals happy. Equals home. Equals everything I’ve ever wanted. Maybe not how I pictured it, but how it turned out nonetheless. And I shouldn’t let that go. No matter what. India was right that I need to get out of my own way, and I think Rey’s got the gist of it. I’ve still got a lot of work to do to accept myself, to accept Pressly, but I want to. At the core of me, I believe there’s nothing wrong with us, but the other voices aren’t easy to silence. Simple, but not easy. Gist? He’s hit the nail on the fucking head.
It’s two hours more of pacing by that godforsaken tree and trying not to go out of my goddamn mind. But interspersed with my daydreams of Pressly are nightmares of her being hurt, of something happening to the baby. She’d never forgive herself. I’d never forgive myself. My body wants to take off toward her, my heart already pounding like I’m at a full sprint. But my head knows better, which is what keeps me pacing, tormenting myself with both images of a happily ever after I’d given up on a long time ago and scenes of death, destruction, and soul-destroying guilt. Let them be okay, please let them be okay.
When the officer comes over to tell me they’ve lifted the order to shelter in place but that I should wait here because it’s still pretty chaotic, I listen.
I know what I’m going to do. While half of me is desperate and clawing for it, I can’t deny there’s not a small amount of fear holding me back, and I let it rule because the officer’s right. I won’t be able to
find Press in the crowds anyway and the phones are still flooded. So I stay by my tree, watching as stragglers begin to drift out of Russell and into the light, down the stairs and weaving through the security barriers. My eyes flit across them, hoping, but not daring to believe I’ll actually find her. And I don’t for about twenty minutes.
Then she’s there, walking toward me in a dove-grey suit and a shirt the color of lilacs. How did she get so close without me seeing her before?
She smiles, a hesitant lift of a corner of her mouth, and I want to kiss it off her face but the arms crossed defensively over her chest say to stay away.
“What are you doing here, Secretary Lewis? Shouldn’t you be yelling at your staff or changing the world?”
“Probably.” The ten thousand voicemails, text messages, and emails on my phone certainly say yes. “But I had a little something I had to take care of first.”
She lifts a sassy eyebrow and her smile gets wider. I try to fight my own, but it ends up curling my mouth anyway. “And what’s that?”
“I came to get my wife back.”
“This doesn’t happen to have anything to do with there being a deranged shooter on the loose, does it?”
I scratch at a temple and cock my head, pretending to be perplexed. “Shooter?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, now that you’ve seen that I’m alive and well, you can go.”
“I don’t…I don’t want to go. When I said I want my wife back, I meant it.”
“So you want pretty, pearl-bedecked debutante Pressly who you can squire around town? Your darling pregnant wife who can charm the pants off anyone you’ve alienated?”
“Come on, don’t be like that. I’ve been going out of my mind worrying about you, about the baby, since I found out there was a live shooter. I tried to get through to your office, to your cell, to anyone, and I couldn’t. I was so fucking scared. Scared that I’d lose you. That I’d never get a chance to tell you that I want you. All of you. I love you and I want to be with you. I need—”
True North (Compass series Book 4) Page 23