Ryker

by Nikki Ryker

  Flicking the butt to the ground, I grind the remnants beneath one heel. I'm in too foul a mood to give a shit about the sooty stain it leaves on the concrete. When I climb back into the rig, my partner Heather shoots me a concerned glance over her shoulder.

  "You okay, Fenton?"

  I grimace. "Can't you ever call me Ryker?"

  She snorts. "Like that's your real name. I'd like to go with whatever God and your parents gave you, thank you very much. Now what's crawled up your ass and nested there? You've been in a mood since we started."

  It's true. I haven't been able to tear my mind away from the scenario at Rapture. Cleo clinging to me, shaking so hard her teeth knocked together. How good she'd felt in my arms, despite that. Her sudden flight and refusal to let me help her. The impotent rage that I felt on her behalf bubbled to the surface again and I had to roll through all the reasons that killing Trent McNeil would be a bad idea.

  I should, at the very least, go to Cruz about this. Though I want to dispense a little justice myself, it would be smarter to have the co-president's backing before I make a move on the other half of our leadership.

  "It's nothing," I grumble. Heather isn't likely to leave it alone, but like hell am I going to unload my girl troubles on her. It just isn’t the working relationship we have.

  I glance at her from the corner of my eye. Heather is pretty. A tall, statuesque blonde that barely looks capable of bench pressing a cup with her thin arms and svelte frame. I know that the impression is false. I've seen her carry three hundred pound men away from burning buildings. She's tough, and I can see the strength that lays in her blue-green eyes any time she looks at me.

  But she's not Cleo. I've just got a white-knight complex or a need for a project because Heather has never drawn me how Cleo does. There's something in her soft-spoken nature, the defensive posture of her shoulders, the aching vulnerability she can't seem to hide. I have to be the shield that stands between her and whatever's coming for her, even if I'm not the warm body she wants in the way.

  The radio hisses with static, and at once it diverts my attention from the sour mire of emotion I've been wading in. Time to get to work.

  "We have a woman in delivery at the South Hollens Outlet Mall," the 911 dispatcher informs us in a steady tone. "The manager of Pearl's consignment reports that the woman's water appears to have broken. She is in labor and is isolated in one of the fitting rooms."

  Heather seizes the radio and barks. "Copy. EMS 420 is on its way. ETA six minutes or fewer."

  My mind shifts to the possible scenarios we might be facing. Almost all births occur at the hospital these days, but in the unfortunate but unlikely case of a very speedy delivery, it might force one to deliver in unsterile conditions. With any luck, this woman won't be far enough along to require that.

  We streak down the street, rain splattering the front window in fat droplets. The windshield wipers are working as fast as they can, but never seem to be able to keep up with the rain at the best of times. Heather is forced to swerve around an asshole who thought he could beat the sirens and get through the intersection before having to pull over.

  South Hollens Outlet mall is positioned in one of the nicer parts of town. If any part of South Hollens could be considered nice. It's all a shithole and has been since most of our industries moved to Portland. The Spades and the Kings war over what's left and anywhere the lines cross, there's death. I've loaded too many of my buddies into the back of the rig for comfort. And with Trent on the warpath, I can only hope I won't be doing it again soon.

  We screech to a stop before the main entrance, and I'm out before Heather has the vehicle in park. My boots pound the pavement as I retrieve what we'll need from the back. Spiraling red and blue lights stab the gloom as I round the rig, a pair of uniformed men waiting outside. I can't tell if they're mall cops or South Hollens PD. I sprint past them and through the automatic doors that lead into the building.

  A wave of artificially cooled air makes me shiver as it hits my already soaked skin. A group of milling shoppers stares as I race past. I've been in this mall a few times with Cleo, shopping for clothes for Bryan. It's the one thing that seems to pull her back from the edge when she's in a funk.

  My steps falter for just a second. No... surely not...

  Heather catches up to me a minute later, pushing a stretcher ahead of her like a battering ram, clearing a path through the gawking onlookers. It's funny how everyone sticks their nose in when something like this occurs. Heather will have to hold the crowds back so the poor woman in the shop doesn't end up giving the crowd a free show. Nosy bastards.

  Pearl's consignment shop is at the far end of the mall, just beyond an unstable-looking train ride for the kids that frequent the mall. The banner of the store is cotton candy pink and bears a rattle and pacifier at the end as a cutesy exclamation mark. The manager is waiting for us beneath the neon sign, hands fluttering around her face like pale butterflies. Her mousey hair has come loose from its knot atop her head.

  "She's in fitting room one," she frets, hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Poor thing's water broke about ten minutes ago and we couldn't find a damn phone. Come with me, please."

  She sweeps inside and I follow. Heather has a harder time navigating the close-packed racks that lead back to the fitting rooms. She parks it near the front counter and joins me. We'll transfer the woman with a backboard if need be.

  A low, pained moan meets my ears as we approach. The first thing I see is a black flat dangle off a shapely foot. I follow it up the line of a shapely leg and note with growing anxiety that the tawny tone is familiar. She hikes a maxi dress up around thighs I've had daydreams about for months. By the time I reach her face, flushed and scrunched in pain, I already know who I'm about to see.

  Cleo has her back braced against a shallow bench seat, hands clutching the ledge with white-knuckled intensity. Her eyes lock with mine and go wide with shock.

  "Ryker--ahhh!"

  She bends double, chin resting on her chest as her entire body convulses.

  "Hang in there, Cleo," I say, smoothing a hand over her hair. It's unprofessional, but I can't help it. I don't know what else to do to ease her pain.

  Heather pushes into the dressing room behind me and kneels down beside her.

  "Hello there, Miss," she says in a soothing tone. "I'm sorry to ask this, but I need to check your progress. We have to determine whether we can get you to the hospital in time to deliver the neonate, or if this has to happen here."

  Cleo's gaze flicks up to me, wide and panicked.

  "I c-can't have him here," she sobs. "I need a hospital. An epidural!"

  I slide a hand into hers and she clutches it so hard the tips of my fingers purple. "Cleo, you have to do what's safest for the baby. You can do that for Bryan, right?"

  Her gaze meets mine again, tears swimming across the rich brown of her eyes. She squeezes again and nods once.

  "For Bryan," she whispers.

  Heather hikes up Cleo's dress and I look away. Though I have every excuse to look--it is my job, after all--I don't. If I ever get a glimpse at Cleo, I don't want it to be like this. Her embarrassment is palpable. She doesn't want me to see, so I don't look until Heather has whipped a drape over Cleo's knees. Her head disappears for a second as she assesses Cleo's condition. I wait, breath still in my chest for the verdict. Then come the words that make my heart stutter with an echo of the earlier panic.

  "The baby is crowning. I'm sorry Miss, but there's no time to wait. We need to get your pelvis elevated, and you will need to push."

  I free my hand long enough to shrug out of my jacket. It's not much, but its bulk should help. I fold it into squares and get an arm under Cleo, lifting her ass slightly off the ground so I can slide my jacket beneath her. She whimpers once in pain.

  "Okay," Heather says, lifting her eyes to meet Cleo's. "Now I need you to push."

  Cleo closes her eyes, her lip trembles in a way that makes my heart squeeze, and fres
h tears dew on her lashes. Then she bears down.

  And that's when the screaming begins.

  3

  Cleo

  Whatever mook in Hollywood keeps venerating pregnancy as a glowy, ethereal thing can kiss my fat ass.

  When I'd first gotten pregnant with Damian's baby, I'd been terrified of what it meant for me, but a tiny part of me had been excited, lost in that idyllic idea of motherhood that the shows like to bandy about. I'd been hoping for a girl, ogling the frilly dresses and shoes as I passed them in department stores. When the ultrasound showed I was having a boy, I had a small pang of disappointment and a huge surge of fear. He's my baby, my little man, but part of me wonders if he'll be just like his father.

  No. No, Damian was gone and with him, any influence he could have on Bryan's life. It was nurture, not nature. No baby was born evil. I just had to make sure I did right by this kid.

  I brace an arm on the partition that separates Pearl's consignment from the mall proper. The pain that clenches my belly tight steals my breath and makes me go weak in the knees. I've been to the hospital twice before with Braxton-Hicks contractions. I'm not wandering in again just to get the same condescending smirk and shake of the head from the maternity nurses who think I'm jumping the gun at the first sign of pain.

  I hate the saleswoman on sight, because she's blonde, waifish, and thin. I didn't use to be hateful, but I feel like I'm the approximate size of the Goodyear blimp, and the way her eyes zero in on my bump doesn't help matters. She offers me a hand and a shaky smile before asking;

  "Can I help you? You don't look very steady."

  “I'm fine,” I pant. “I will be fine. They're just false labor pains. The doctor warned me this might happen.”

  "And how far along are you?"

  I stare at her for a second, wondering if she's serious. I long since surpassed the point where I was the cute amount of pregnant. I've graduated to full on roly-poly.

  "Thirty-eight weeks," I grumble. "And the big day cannot come soon enough."

  I squeeze my way through the narrow walkway between the racks and scowl when I topple some clearance items onto the floor. My stomach has become a battering ram. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find the bin of baby clothes near the back. The store has discounted them again, to prepare for shifting seasons. Out with the shorts and in with the tiny baby sweaters. Though, considering this is South Hollens, rain slickers and booties should always be in style.

  Plucking a slightly faded T-shirt from the bin, I smooth it over the side and read the slogan. Handsome, like daddy.

  Unease slithers through me as I toss it back onto the pile. I wonder once again how Iwill do this all alone. Taking the six weeks for maternity leave will be killer, and who will I trust to watch little man with Trent on the prowl? Anyone can be bought, and the thought of any harm coming to my baby freezes me in place with dread. And even if things die down, how am I going to explain why there's no male figure in his life?

  I could get a boyfriend, I suppose. But would that make things better or worse? Surely it would be better for him to have one constant, rather than playing a shuffleboard game of "who's my daddy?"

  I stand staring at the bin for so long without moving that the saleswoman feels the need to come by to check on me.

  "Is everything all right here?" she asks with a forced smile.

  "Everything is fine, I just--Oh!"

  Another wave of pain slams into me and this time it's accompanied by a burst of warm sensation, sliding down both legs and trickling into my shoes. When I look down the front of my dress is stained a light pinkish-red.

  Oh fuck. My water just broke. Not fake contractions.

  "Oh my God," the saleswoman blurts, staring with equal fascination at my stained dress. "Did you just--"

  "I think I did," I gasp, placing one hand beneath the curve of my belly.

  The saleswoman seems at sea for a moment, staring at me. With all the milling mothers that come in and out of this place, I'm shocked something like this hasn't happened before. Or maybe it has, and this girl is just brand spanking new. If so, poor girl. She should have her salary hiked for having to deal with this shit.

  "I... uh...privacy. You need privacy, right? And we should call for an ambulance. Right, that's what we should do?"

  It's almost as if she's reading the thoughts from a script, and unsure. She looks to me for confirmation, as if I know what the hell I'm doing. I lean my weight against the bin, crying out as another contraction ripples through me. Oh fuck. This was so much worse than I ever imagined. In all my wildest nightmares I hadn't thought it would feel like this. It's as if someone is sawing me in two, starting at my pelvis. My purse drops from my arm and lands on the floor with a soft plop and I'm far past caring if anyone steals it. I'd trade every meager cent in my bank account to escape suffering this.

  The cry the pain draws from me cuts through her panic and spurs the saleswoman into action. She seizes me by the shoulders and half-carries me toward the waiting rooms. She pushes the door open with her foot and guides me inside. I crumple to the floor in a boneless pile, panting, tears streaking down my face. Oh God, oh God, oh God, this can't be happening to me.

  "My phone is in the back," the saleswoman gasps. "My manager took her break and it's locked in there until she gets back. Do you have a phone?"

  Yes, I did, but it was charging in my car. I curse myself for not having the foresight to bring it in. But then again, how the hell was I supposed to know this would happen? I shake my head and she spits a curse. I second the sentiment and my lips twitch in the weak echo of a grin. It disappears when the pain rears its ugly head again.

  I pull myself into an upright position and lean my back against the shallow bench seat that runs the length of the dressing room. I don't look in the mirror. I'm sure that I look like shit. More water leaks from me, perhaps as a delayed reaction, and I hike my dress up to keep it from further staining. Spreading my legs just so seems to ease at least some of the pain, so I keep them there, feet planted as the pain comes in waves.

  The saleswoman darts out of the changing room and I hear her beg passersby for a phone. It takes a while before she can convince someone to part with their device long enough to call 911. Then I hear her hurried explanation just outside the door.

  "One patron of the shop just went into labor." A pause. "No, I don't know how long the contractions have been going on. She just got here when it happened. Yes, she's conscious. Please hurry, she's in a lot of pain."

  The saleswoman ends the call and hands the phone back to its owner before rushing back into the stall. I get a grip on the edge of the bench seat, holding onto it as if it's the only thing anchoring me to life itself.

  "The paramedics should be here in ten minutes or less," she assures me. Her eyes rove over me and she hesitates, unsure. "Do you want me to wait here or...?"

  She gestures toward the front. I wave her away, mortification stealing away some of the pain, if only for an instant. "Go. Help them when they get here."

  The relief in her gaze is palpable and she scurries away from me, as if I'm contagious. I close my eyes, gripping onto the seat as tight as I can, waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

  It seems to take a small eternity, but they do, in fact, arrive within the allotted time. I'd counted the seconds in my head, just to be sure. A dark shape pushes the door of the stall open and my eyes follow the line of a long pants leg up to a scrumptious torso. The white shirt hugs tight across a broad chest, and a leather jacket covers most of him. It's familiar, and my heart stutters to a brief halt when I realize that I know this man. Even before I see the patch to confirm it.

  "Ryker--ahhh!"

  Another wave of pain hits me, knocking the breath from my lungs like a blow. Ryker drops to his knees beside me at once, sliding into the space left. It's almost not enough to house a man of his dimensions, but he somehow manages. Embarrassment wars with gratitude as he slides his hand into mine. I lock our fingers together, squeezing as
hard as I can. It's not much, but it eases some of the discomfort.

  "Hang in there, Cleo." His voice is a low rumble and I lean into him without conscious thought. His hand comes up to stroke my hair, and the gesture is intimate, but welcome. I'll take any distraction I can get at this point.

  A tall blonde who is as pretty as the waifish saleswoman pushes into the stall as well and her eyes zero in on Ryker's hand in mine for just a moment. I see something akin to jealousy there, but it fades. Her eyes are all business when she drops to her knees in front of me.

  "Hello there, Miss," she says. "I'm sorry to ask this, but I need to check your progress. We have to determine whether we can get you to the hospital in time to deliver the neonate, or if this has to happen here."

  My gaze flicks up to Ryker's, panicked. This cannot be happening. Not with him here. Not in front of God and everyone at a freaking department store.

  "I c-can't have him here." It comes out as a half sob. "I need a hospital. An epidural!"

  "Cleo, you have to do what's safest for the baby. You can do that for Bryan, right?" There's something in his gaze that I can't read, but the words have their desired impact. This isn't about my comfort. This is about little man and getting him out safely.

  "For Bryan," I whisper.

  The female EMT pushes up my dress still further, and I try not to look and see if anyone is watching. Tears haze my vision, and Ryker keeps his gaze locked on my face, watching me with so much intensity it makes me squirm.

  "The baby is crowning. I'm sorry Miss, but there's no time to wait. We need to get your pelvis elevated, and you will need to push."

  That's the last thing I want to hear. I want to be in a sterile hospital room with someone feeding a long needle into my back to numb the pain. Hell, at this point I'd even take a swimming pool and a midwife. Anything but this.