by Amanda Faye
You'd have thought she'd told them she only had months to live, rather than giving them news of their first grandchild.
As Alex predicted, the parents look at each other, then around the room, gazing at their audience. Unfortunately for our best-laid plans, Mr. Belle doesn't seem to give a shit.
"Pregnant? Even you couldn't be so stupid. How could you let this happen?"
His voice is nasty and harsh. If I hadn't seen the words leave his mouth, I wouldn't have recognized it.
Alex steps forward but halts, looking between us, unsure how to intercede best. We're here to make the situation better. I'm not sure telling the family that he and I have known for months would do that.
Her deep inhale quivers with its force, but still, her voice is steady.
Damn.
This woman.
A mere mortal would cringe at the looks being thrown her way. Not my Susie Q.
"I didn't let this happen, Daddy. It has. I'm not going to apologize, and I'm not going to say I regret it. However it came to be, I am having a baby, and you are going to be grandparents."
It's a smart move, reminding them of the grandparent thing. Nothing is more important to her father than the legacy he leaves behind. Doting Grandpa would be a look the voters would eat up. I see the thought click momentarily behind her mother's gaze, but her father is on a roll. Nothing as simplistic as impending grand-fatherhood is going to slow him down now.
"You moron. You stupid little slut. Do you have any idea what the voters are going to think about Alex's family, having an unmarried pregnant little harlot for a sister? It's an election year! You know if Travers is elected, I have a shot of being Secretary of State. How will I explain that I have such a loose hold on my household that I let my daughter get knocked up by some anonymous hood?"
"The father," her mother whips out like lightning, and Mr. Belle grasps on to any scrap to keep his anger billowing.
Alex strides to his sister's side but stops short from pulling her into his arms. I saw when she dropped her veil. Not so much a mask, but a steel forged double reinforced iron gate. A barrier between her and the nastiness that surrounds her. When she gets like that, it's best to leave her be. Another point of her personality in which her parents and I disagree. They see it as a sign of her smallness. I see it for what it is—an ability to survive.
Like a cactus, blooming flowers in the harshest of environments.
I watch as she builds her fortifications, and blinding white-hot anger licks up my spine. I'm not a violent man, but right now, I'd pay Sheriff Doyle a hundred bucks to lock David Belle and me in a cell for ten minutes and look the other way.
"Who's the father, Suzanna?"
Five minutes?
Hell, I'd only need one.
Fear flashes in her eyes, and I take a step forward without realizing it. Her gaze flickers between Alex and me, but she remains silent. Lifting her chin in defiance instead of answering the question. What can she say? Nothing at this point can salvage the situation.
"Who's the bastard's father, Suzanna Elizabeth Belle."
She flinches. At the callous use of her full name or the malicious term for her child, I have no way of knowing. Adrenaline floods my nervous system, and the only thought left in my brain is getting Susie as far away from that asshole as possible.
There's only one way.
As far as David Belle is concerned, Suzanna belongs to him. He's a deep southern boy and holds property laws near and dear to his heart. Suzanna is his property to treat as he wills—until she's not.
Well then.
"I am. I'm the father. The baby's mine."
Chapter Three
Matthew
Back to reality, if that's what we’re calling this
"If you ever speak to her like that again, I'll kick your ever-loving ass. Secret service detail or not."
I'm inches away from his face, and I can see the anger warring with his political aspirations—the fucker.
"Matt," Alex snaps, bringing my attention from their father to where he's crouched in front of Susie.
She's drawn and pale, a far cry from the glowing mother-to-be I witnessed not even an hour ago. Panic swells inside me, and I shove David out of my way rather than waste the seconds to walk around him.
Dropping to one knee in front of her, I cup her face in my hands. She's pallid, and her skin is clammy to the touch. Skimming my thumb across her cheek, I run the fingers of my other hand through her hair, smoothing it away from her face.
"Susie Q," I say, and I hope she can't hear the tremble in my voice. Using a smidgen more force with my fingers, I take her heart rate. Tachy, over a hundred beats per minute, but strong and steady despite the fact.
No surprise, her heart is pounding.
Her father and I almost came to blows, I steamrolled over her pregnancy announcement, and her closest relatives screamed like banshees over her unborn child. Classless. We're all a bunch of assholes. Her heart skips a beat under my fingertips, and it causes my heart to clench in turn.
"What's wrong princess, tell me what hurts?"
Her gaze locks with my own, and her eyes spellbind me. She looks lost. Scared.
Hopeful?
Goosebumps break out under my touch, and the desire to turn around and punch her father almost overwhelms me again. All I wanted to do was help her, and instead, I've made the situation a hundred times worse.
I don't know what came over me—a culmination of a decade's long puppy crush melding with an ill-timed case of white knight syndrome.
I see her shields raise around her at the same time I remember we have an audience. She breaks our stare, and my eyes drop to her lips. She's silently forming words, and I'm trying to make them out when her father speaks from behind me.
"So, Son, before I call your parents, tell me; are you going to do the right thing here and marry my daughter?"
What an asshat. Everything yelled between us, and that's all he cares about. The impression he'll leave on the voters. Like calling my parents is the worst thing he could do to me.
Her eyes flick back to mine, and panic flashes over her features. If I thought she was bloodless before, she's almost a ghost now. Marry her? What a pointless question. I knew I'd do anything for this girl when I was nineteen and watched her heart break for the first time.
"Yes, sir, if she'll have me."
She jerks, and for a moment, I'm afraid she's trying to make a break for it, not that I blame her. Susie grips the side of the chair like her life depends on it and flings her body over the side, hurling her stomach contents into the plant sitting next to us. Immediately I reach for her, wrapping her hair in my hands, ensuring she stays clean while she empties her belly. I hear a commotion in the background, but I have no attention for anything other than Susie Q.
"Let it out, princess. That's my girl." I rub firm circles into her back, trying to hit any pressure points I can remember from my textbooks.
Her heaves dry out, but her stomach clenches and releases, causing her to retch every few seconds. It's the only outlet she has available to rid herself of all the stress that's piled on her the previous forty-five minutes. Hell, the last twenty-nine years.
When she slows to a stop, I move out of the way so she can collapse back onto her seat. Sweat coats her brow, and while there's color back in her face, she looks green around the edges. Squiggly, like whoever colored her in, did so outside the lines.
I raise from my crouch, my thighs starting to feel the burn, and place my hand on her shoulder, pushing her hair behind her ear. Leaning down so only she can hear me, I whisper, "Are you alright?"
She nods, her lips drawn over her teeth, and her eyes closed tight.
"Want to get out of here?"
Nod.
I don't hesitate, don't stop to think about my actions. I can't make anything worse than I already have, can I?
I lean down, place one arm under her knees and the other around her back, and scoop her from the chair and into m
y arms. I expected—I don't know what I expected. Susie doesn't like to be touched. I envisioned her putting up a fight, some sound of protest. I didn't anticipate her wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her head in my shoulder.
I think I've touched her more tonight than the last twenty years combined.
When I turn with her in my arms, her father makes as if to block my path.
"Where do you think you're going, son?" he questions, accent thick on his tongue.
"Suzanna is mine, and thanks to you, she's ill. Get out of my way."
She buries her head deeper into my neck.
"And don't call me son."
His hands flex at his sides, and I think he's going to make a move, but Mrs. Belle reaches out with a hand on his bicep, and he steps aside, clearing a path for me to walk through.
I'm in one of the back bedrooms, and it's a few moments’ walk from the front of the house to the rear. I adjust my grip on her, settling her against my chest when she mumbles against my throat.
"You can put me down now, Matt. I feel better, promise."
Could I? Sure. But honestly, I don't want to.
"I've got you. Besides, it'll ruin the impression. The Belles have spies everywhere," I whisper-shout. I try to come off spooky—like we're CIA agents talking in a corner booth about Russia.
It works.
This time when she hides her face against my neck, it's to help smother the giggles escaping her.
I drop a kiss against her hair, inhaling the scent of her perfume and conditioner.
"Thank you," she whispers against my skin. The flesh pebbles underneath her touch. Her voice is gentle but sincere in its tenacity. For the first time tonight, I consider that maybe I haven't ruined Susie's life.
"You're welcome."
Chapter Four
Suzanna
One of the benefits of being at the Hampton house is every bedroom has its own bathroom. Matthew wouldn't have me going back to my room yet. He's afraid they'll corner me when I'm alone. Which is why I'm lounging in his bathtub, trying to figure out what in the heck just happened.
I slide under the warm water, letting it push my heat frazzled hair back against my scalp.
Okay, so, tonight got away from me. I think we can agree on that. Best laid plans and all. I contemplated how my meeting with my parents would go a thousand different times.
In all my deliberation, I never envisioned ending the night in Matthew's bathtub.
The bathroom door bursts open, and before I have a chance to cover myself, Julie is pushing it closed behind her and dropping to the floor by the tub.
For all that she's a politician's wife, she's a gossip-hungry pre-teen in her heart.
"Okay," she says as she grins at me, excitement pulsing from her, "can we just take a minute to talk about how hot that was?
She looks at me earnestly, enthusiasm for the conversation dripping from her voice. She doesn't even bat an eye that I'm naked in the bathtub. What's a little nudity between friends?
I close my eyes and try to fight the blush running through my system.
"It was rather swoon-worthy," I admit, "at least the parts I paid attention to."
She gasps in abject horror. "What do you mean the parts you paid attention to? Weren't you watching the play by play?"
"No, sadly not. I had other things on my mind."
She scoffs in derision.
"Well, take my word for it; it was hot."
That I have no trouble believing, everything Matthew does is hot.
"What are you going to do?"
Her voice softens, concern for the situation I've found myself in finally making its way to the surface. She reaches out a hand and runs it over my already slicked-back hair.
"I don't know. It's not like I can marry Matthew."
"Why not?" she asks, her enthusiasm back in full force. "I would!"
"Tell that to my brother," I laugh back at her.
"Oh, trust me, I will."
We sit in amused silence for a moment before the sounds of yelling make their way through the barrier of the bathroom door.
"Uh-oh," Julie quips with a look of panic on her face. I sit forward with a splash, reaching for the drain on the tub, and Julie climbs to her feet, picking up the robe Matthew left for me off the toilet seat. She holds it open, and I step from the tub and into her waiting arms, both quickening our motions as the yelling gets louder.
We open the door in time to see Alex and Matt squaring off in the middle of the room. Julie moves to step into the fray to attempt to break it up. But I hang back by the door, trying to stay out of the way.
"Jesus, Matt, you can't actually marry her. Do you get that? Cause I'm not sure that you do."
Matt runs his hands through his hair, sending it every which direction. Anger radiates from him, and it's both frightening—and intoxicating.
"Something happened tonight, and I cannot and will not go back. When I heard your asshole of a father refer to her child as a bastard? Goddammit, Alex. If I could somehow ensure that your father never spoke to her again, we'd be in Vegas by the morning and consummate in front of the Pope if need be."
Fire flashes in his eyes anew, and he takes another step closer to my brother. As I watch, the good guy persona sheds from him, leaving behind something fierce and dangerous. Every instinct I have is telling me to turn and run, to get as far away from him as possible. Except for the ones that are telling me to get closer, to cower in his shadow.
Because all of his protectiveness is for me.
"Isn't this why you wanted me here? To protect your baby sister? God knows you aren't going to do it. You didn't do anything tonight. He called Suzanna a whore, Alex, and you just stood there, letting it happen."
His voice has risen until he's practically screaming in Alex's face. The tendons in his neck are jutting out. I can see the pressure building in his head, waiting to burst into heat and flames.
"This isn't your place," Alex shouts back, poking Matthew in the chest.
"She isn't your family. She's not yours to protect Matt."
"She's mine now," he growls, and I catch Julie swooning from the corner of my eye.
Matthew steps forward once, and while he's not the bigger of the two, his anger makes him seem twice the size of Alex.
"It's been a while since we fought," says Matthew, "but if I recall, I kicked your ass that time too. Now get the fuck out of my room so I can talk with Suzanna."
"You better know what you're doing," my brother growls at him, grabbing Julie by the hand and hauling her behind him.
When the door slams, Matthew runs his hands through his hair again, growling in anger.
Then he turns and freezes when he meets my eye.
Chapter Five
Matthew
Fuck me. I didn't realize Susie Q left the bathroom. Her hair is pulled over one shoulder, still wet and dripping. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted, and her chest is heaving under the robe's thin material.
She's wearing my blue bathrobe. It's too large and she’s swimming in it, and it sends all the blood raging in my bloodstream on a way one ticket to my dick. It does the trick to cool my temper too.
"Susie Q," I say, then stop. What else can I say? "You're dripping."
Her eyes widen to the size of half dollars, and panic coats her features until I point to her hair, my other hand rubbing my neck.
"Your hair, Susie Q. You're dripping all over the floor."
"Oh," she exclaims, a blush coloring her cheeks. She turns back to the bathroom, emerging a minute later with her hair wrapped in a towel.
"Yeah, sorry. We heard the yelling. I was afraid—well—I don't know what I was afraid of. I was simply worried."
She gives her shoulders a twist, hands ringing at her belly. She runs her hands over her burgeoning bump, and I want to reach out and do the same.
"No need. I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."
She pulls her lips lightly against her teeth, trying to fig
ht a smile.
"That much is apparent, Matthew. It wasn't worried about you."
I don't know whether to be pleased or offended.
She sits on the edge of the bed, bending over sideways and running her hair through the towel. It's such a casually intimate gesture, and it makes me regret changing my clothes while she was in the bathroom. My hard-on would be easier to hide in jeans and a blazer then joggers and a too-tight t-shirt.
I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. This whole night has thrown me off my game. Time is ticking. I'm sure they're not going to leave us alone for much longer.
The rooms in the Hampton house are spacious, most holding a desk and tv stand, including the queen-sized beds. I grab the chair from the table, pulling it in front of Susie Q, where she sits on the bed. I rotate my shoulders, trying to loosen some of the tension built up in my neck.
She looks at me, eyebrows raised in question, still running her hair through the towel. It's wavy when it's dry but wet; it's full of curls and crimps. I'm tempted to reach out to feel the texture.
"So, let's talk about us," I say, and watch as she partially raises her defenses.
"Us," she squeaks, and it somehow makes me feel better that she's not as composed as she's trying to pretend she is.
"I want to apologize. I know I stepped out of line. I had no right whatsoever to say the things I did to your parents. To say what I did to your father."
She—falls. There's no other way to describe it. Her chest collapses, shoulders sloop. Her face closes, and before my eyes, I watch as she starts to raise her barriers. It makes me sick. She should never feel like she has to protect herself from me.
I quickly abandon my seat, claiming the spot next to her on the mattress. I grab her hands, pulling them to my chest.
"Don't get me wrong, Susie Q. I meant every word of it. Every word. I just meant—well, I shouldn't have threatened your father, for one."
Her hair is in her face, and I abandon her hands on my chest to gather her hair and twist it behind her head, letting it fall gracelessly behind her shoulders.