“You okay?” Even though there’s only the faint flicker of a candle to light the room, I can still make out the frown etched on Story’s face.
I hastily squash the ember of my blunt, clearing my throat. “Yeah, just a headache.”
She lingers by the door, shoulders heavy. “You don’t have to stop on account of me,” she says, gesturing to my makeshift ashtray; one of Killian’s discarded Red Bull cans.
Shrugging, I sink deeper into the water, letting the heat unwind my muscles. “I do if I want you to get in here with me.” This tub is one of the best parts of the house. Long enough for my legs, wide enough to accommodate a pretty, naked brunette.
She ducks her head, but I can still make out the edge of her grin. “I don’t want to intrude.”
I grab the sides of the tub to heave myself into a sitting position. It helps me level her with a dark, threatening look. “If you don’t take off your clothes and get into this tub, then I’ll come over there and do it for you.”
There’s a beat of tense silence, but it’s broken by her snorted laugh. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” she says, lifting her shirt over her head. Smirking, I lean back to watch as she uncovers herself, inch by inch. Her tits are truly something else already, full and heavy and begging to be licked and fondled and sucked. Her baby bump is more obvious now than it was even a couple weeks ago, slightly stretching the elastic of her panties. Unthinkingly, I take her hand to help her into the water, spreading my legs to give her room to settle between them.
It’s a new view for me, looking over her shoulder at the swell of belly that rises out of the water. I press her against my chest and melt back against the tub, letting the sensations of warmth and skin and Story soothe me. I’m just coming off the afternoon shift at the community center, so I’m already tired. It was seven hours of scaring the living daylights out of fucked up teenagers and the even more fucked up adults who think it’s somehow cool to deal to them on our goddamn turf. I don’t think any of us are dumb enough to think we can clean up South Side, but we can at least try to keep the kids sheltered from the reality of it. For a little while, anyway.
In any case, South Side might be my obligation, but I’m doing what I can to make sure I have a career. That means auditions, studio time, and late night performances that pay something adjacent to jack shit. But I never got into music for the glory. Glory is something I’ll earn at my brothers’ sides, with a gun in one hand, and a knife in the other.
Still, the late nights are beginning to make my head throb.
“It’s okay, you know.” The words emerge in a soft breath of air I can feel against my chest.
“What’s okay?”
Her fingertips glide lazily through the water, and I watch them, hypnotized. “That you’re not sure about this yet,” she answers, rubbing her stomach. “I can tell you’re not quite on board. Not like Tris and Killian. But it’s okay.” She twists to meet my gaze, blinking those big, soulful eyes at me. “I just wanted you to know I can wait.”
Brows pulling together, I touch the curve of her jaw, rubbing my thumb into the skin. “You’ve got it all wrong.” She raises a shrewd eyebrow, as if she’s expecting me to deny being a little distant lately. I don’t do her that disservice. “I’m on board for this,” I assure, reaching down to place my palm over the swell of stomach. “I guess I’m just finding out what that looks like. For someone like me.”
She puts her hand over mine, lacing our fingers together. “What do you mean?”
Sighing, I observe our hands on her stomach. It’s so fucking weird to think that there’s a baby in there. A baby I possibly made. “Tristian and Killer would be good dads on their own. I’m not bringing anything to the table for them, you know? But take them away, and what am I? Just a South Side reject with a fine arts degree who wouldn’t even be able to afford rent with it.”
There’s a stretch of stillness, the water settling around us, and then Story is spinning to face me, features hard and sure. “Bullshit.”
I shield my nuts, yelping, “Careful!” but she steamrolls over me.
“First of all, there’s a difference between being a good provider and being a good father.” She tucks her knees up, but I pry them apart, threading her feet around my hips. “Second of all, Killian and Tristian don’t shoulder our financial burdens because you wouldn’t be able to. They do it so you won’t have to. So you can chase your dream and do something you love.” There’s an unbearable sadness in her eyes when she looks at me, cupping her hands around my elbows. “I don’t believe for a minute you couldn’t provide for us if you absolutely had to. What was it you told me?” Her lips quirk up into a shadowed grin. “People like us find a way, because there’s no other option.”
Those are nice words, but they don’t really cut to the center of this roiling doubt in my chest. It’s been a long time since I could look into this girl’s eyes and make her cower away, and it doesn’t work now. Instead, it just pulls the words out of me like a decaying tooth. “Baby, I don’t know what my place is here.” I soften it by touching her belly again, fanning my fingers out as if I could hold the future inside.
“You still don’t get it,” she says, head tilted as she regards me. “That is your place, Dimitri. Killian and Tristian… they’re practical men. And that’s useful and good, and it suits them. But you,” she holds my hands to her belly, giving me a wistful smile, “you’re going to be the dad that teaches her to follow her heart. You’re going to show her music, and who knows—dance, art, whatever makes her heart sing. You’re going to teach her that it’s worth something, and she’s going to be such a happier person for it, because I don’t care what you say. You could earn money hand over fist by making commercial music.”
My head snaps back in outrage. “Commercial music? I’d rather be poor.”
“Exactly,” she says, laughing. When it dies down, she gives me this long look—soft and assured. “You’re going to be a fantastic dad. You’ll see.”
Still, I frown, eyes falling to her stomach. “And what am I going to tell her the first time she comes home crying because some jackass at school was a dick to her?” Quieter, I wonder, “What am I going to tell her when she asks why boys are so mean?”
“You tell her the truth,” she says, reaching out to cup my cheek. “That you’re all sentient manifestations of Satan’s ballsack.”
I swat her wrist away, glaring halfheartedly. “You’ve been spending too much time with Ms. Crane.” When she’s done laughing, I add, “I’m serious. Being a girl must be shit. All the guys want to fuck you, hurt you, or some combination of both, and the girls all want to compete with you for the privilege. One day, she’s going to ask us how we met. What the fuck am I supposed to say?”
She lifts a shoulder, all casual. “We’ll tell her we met through Killian.”
Blandly, I correct, “We’ll lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” she argues, scooting closer. “It’s just a little stripped down.”
I pitch forward, my forehead landing on her shoulder, and it feels like the flutter of her fingers in my damp hair is the only thing anchoring me down. “Can I tell you a secret?” I whisper, eyes falling closed. At her hum, I confess, “I’ve been looking into this music academy nearby…”
She pauses. “You want to go back to school?”
I roll my forehead against her shoulder. “Not for me. For her.”
“Oh,” she breathes.
When her fingers resume their soft massage against my scalp, I explain, “I could teach her piano. Or guitar. Drums. Violin. Anything that calls to her.” I rub my thumb against her belly, imagining it. “We could play music together.”
There’s a smile in her voice when she says, “You could.”
Nodding, I conclude, “So I don’t want you to think I’m not in this. The problem is that I might be into it too much. Sometimes I think of some little fuckface doing to her what we did to you, and it makes me fucking crazy. Because I know what I’d do.” I glide my hand up her ribs, watching as it cups her breast. “I’d fucking murder him.”
“Mmm.” She arches her back, pressing her tits into my palms. “So would I.”
It’s been a while since we were like this, and not entirely because I’ve been so distant. Story’s been so busy with school, trying to speed up her credits to give herself some downtime farther along in the pregnancy. I’ve been all tangled up in the dregs of South Side, struggling to balance it with all those dreams she seems to think are worth half a shit.
My cock’s been hard since she took off her shirt, but it surges at the sight of her tits in my hands, and when I dip down to press my lips to one, the sound she makes in response is enough to make every muscle in my body flex in anticipation.
Grunting, I push her back against the other side of the tub. The water sloshes messily over the edge, but I’m too busy licking into her mouth to notice it. She makes a plaintive sound and wraps her legs around my waist, a hand fisted tightly in the back of my hair.
“Please,” she mewls into my mouth, reaching down to wrap her fingers around the hard length of me. But I know what she wants—what she needs. Tris and Killer have been treating her like spun glass. Even when they’re fucking her, it’s usually planned and slow and painstakingly normal.
But she’s right. I’m not like them.
I am not a practical man.
With a twist of my hips, I enter her in a hard thrust, hands clamped onto each side of the tub for leverage. Her eyes fly wide as she grasps for me, fingertips slipping against my wet shoulders. I give her a moment to send me a signal that it’s too much—too rough—too fast.
She traps her lip between her teeth and bucks up into me.
Alright then.
I pull my hips back and slam forward. The sound of her sharp cry mingles with the slap of water against the tiles, but I don’t stop. Not this time. I fuck my girl the same way I always have. Ruthless, seeking, desperate for her desperation. My muscles strain and flex as I hold myself up, surging into her like waves battering a coastline. The dim glow of my candle throws the cut of her jaw in sharp relief when she throws her head back, gasping. She digs her fingernails into my shoulders, a nice slice of pain to go with my pleasure.
I like making love to Story. At night, when all of us are in bed, moving together or waiting our turn, the way she looks at us as we fill her up is so potent that my knees still feel weak the day after.
But goddamn, I love doing this too.
Steady, hard fucking.
I shift my weight to one hand so the other can palm her tit, thumb toying at her nipple. It makes her cries bite off into something high-pitched and full of agony.
“Tell me, baby,” I grit out, slamming my hips into hers. “Tell me what you want.”
Her throat swells with a moan, but she lifts her head long enough to look me in the eye for her answer. “I want your cum.”
My balls tighten, jaw clenching. “You gonna come with me?”
She’s nodding before the words even leave my mouth. “So close, Dimitri… please…” Her ankles lock around my waist, and beyond the sloppy, wet sounds of bathwater splashing between us, her voice trails off into sharp, indistinct fricatives.
I take them into my mouth with a deep kiss, feeding her my grunts as we move together. The tub is hard and unforgiving against my knees, but I soldier on, driving my hips faster and deeper into her hot cunt.
She comes first, heels digging into the small of my back to grind me closer. She rips her mouth away from mine, pulling in these deep, strained gulps of breath as it shudders viciously through her body. I have a split second to think that Tristian would kick my ass if he saw how thoroughly I was fucking her before my brain whites out.
After, when we’re both a breathless mess of wet skin and shivering muscles, I pull her back up into my lap, crushing her to my chest in a borderline animalistic embrace.
“You don’t need to wait for me,” I say, pressing a kiss to her neck. “I’m here. Forever.”
One downside to having a house the size of a fucking cruise ship is that it takes like a week to actually find someone in it. I shoot off another text.
D: its 3, where r u?
Usually, the use of text speech would at least grant me a disapproving emoji, but today, nothing. Sighing, I keep searching, looking in the entertainment room downstairs, checking the garage to make sure her car’s still here, even popping my head into the bathrooms. Her bladder has been a demanding bitch lately.
I find Tristian and Killer before I catch sight of her, both of them out back bickering.
“It should be three feet,” Tristian says, spreading his arms between the pool and the grass. “That way we’re not losing real estate.”
Killian marches about twenty feet out from the pool, raising his palms in a ‘see?’ gesture. “This will give us room for some deck chairs and some tables.”
Tristian storms over and snatches the measuring tape from his hand. “Those can go outside of the fence!”
“Why the fuck,”’ Killian asks belligerently, “would they go outside of the fence?! Who wants to walk around to a gate after checking their phone or having a sip of beer? That’s asinine!”
“Rath,” Tristian says, waving me over when he notices me. “Give us your opinion. We need a fence around the pool to keep the baby out, but—”
“This idiot thinks it should be right up on the edges.” Killer demonstrates this by pointing to a little orange flag that’s been buried into the grass. “Tell him that’s stupid.”
I look at the grass, then the pool, then at both guys. “Yeah, I’m just gonna level with you here. I couldn’t possibly give less of a fuck. This is some shit-tier rich-people problems, guys. Where’s Story?”
They both looked annoyed at my lack of investment, but Tristian tosses the measuring tape aside, saying, “I think she’s upstairs napping.”
“Oh.” Well, that works out nicely. “Carry on, then.”
But before I can walk away, Killer mentions, “Maybe I should go up and see if her back still hurts.”
Tristian adds, “I should take her a smoothie, too. The ones I’ve been making have been helping her with morning sickness.”
“I think fucking not,” I snap, thrusting a finger at them. “Three to four is our time. Tristian gets her at the ass crack of dawn and Killer gets her all night. But the afternoons are mine.”
Tristian raises his hands defensively. “Geez, fine. Bite our fucking heads off about it.”
But Killian’s eyes narrow. “What exactly is it you do from three to four?”
Catching on, Tristian adds, “Yeah, you’re so touchy about it. Are you painting her toenails or something?”
Killian slides him a look, muttering, “Fuck off, I painted her toenails last week.”
“What we do from three to four,” I stress, giving them both a threatening look, “is none of your business. Enjoy your urgent fence crisis, you lame-asses.”
I trudge back inside and then up the stairs, stopping on the way to grab the paper bag I’d stashed in the nursery a few days ago. When I carefully push the door open, the sight of her on the bed greets me. She’s above the covers, fully dressed, like maybe she just collapsed there. I’m quiet as I enter, closing the door softly behind me. After a second of thought, I lock it, too. She’s on her back, right in the middle of the mattress, pillows stacked up around her. Her belly rises up, so fucking cutely round that we have a hard time keeping our hands and faces off it. She’s at the end of her second trimester, which is why we’ve set up these little afternoon dates.
Around week 25, your baby may begin responding to voices and other noises.
I unpack all the supplies, laying them out on the bed as I kick off my shoes. I’m careful not to jostle her too much as I settle in at her side, my head beside her belly. Propped up on an elbow, I take a moment to observe the bump. It’s kind of fucking freaky to think there’s a human being in there. It’s kind of fucking freaky to think I made the human being in there. Slowly, I ease the hem of her shirt up, tipping down to press a kiss to the highest point. My hand still seems large in comparison when I press my palm to it in a gentle hello.
Like Story, I never knew my dad. Maybe he would have been awesome, or maybe he would have been utter shit at fatherhood. Either way, I don’t exactly have anyone to look to for advice. The closest thing to a role model I ever had was Daniel Payne, and the thought makes me scowl.
I don’t know what makes a man a good father.
But I know the kind of father I would have wanted.
With a deep breath, I pick up the book. “The Light Behind Your Eyes, by Jan Clare,” I read, giving the belly a peek of the cover. Keeping my voice quiet, I turn to the first page. “Once upon a time, a brave girl was on her way to see her Mommy.” I turn the book so the illustrations are visible; a girl in a cape skipping through an autumn forest. “This girl was so brave, she de—” I take a second to sound the word out in my head. “—decided to take a shortcut through the…” Hm. This is a harder word. I glare at the letters, annoyed this isn’t one I’ve memorized yet. “The Bramble Woods,” I finally figure out, flipping to the next page. Annoyed, I mutter, “I’m better at this than it seems—trust me.”
I’d chosen this book because the art was really nice, and I thought the girl with shining eyes on the cover vaguely resembled the woman currently dozing beside me.
“The woods were very dark,” I say to her belly, keeping a close eye for any movement. “But she wasn’t any normal girl, for whenever she got scared or lost, her eyes would light up.” I flip the page, and it doesn’t matter that I’m talking to my girlfriend’s stomach. I still show it the page. “All the other kids would make fun of her strangely glowing eyes, but her Mommy said it was her… uh, co—courage.”
I’m just getting the word out when I feel the flutter of fingers in my hair. My eyes jolt up, finding Story’s staring back at me. Her gaze is still heavy with sleep, but the small, gentle smile she gives me feels more alive than anything I’ve ever known.
Her fingers skate down to touch my mouth. “I love hearing you read.”
I look away, shifting uncomfortably. “Is she moving?”
Story hums, stretching her legs. “A little bit. It’s like I have butterflies dancing around in there or something.” I put my palm on her stomach, hoping to feel it. I’ve only been doing this for a few days, but a secret part of me hoped she’d begin reacting a little more boisterously to my voice. Tristian and Killian have both felt the kick. I’ve gotten fuck-all. Story’s belly bounces with a laugh. “You look so grumpy. She’s just a fetus, Dimitri. She probably sleeps when I do.” Quieter, she asks, “Read us some more?”
I don’t think I’ll ever be great at reading, but after a couple years of literacy coaching and practice, I’ve gotten good enough to bumble my way through books harder than the ones I bought for our little girl. It makes something hot and embarrassed rise up inside me at the knowledge she’ll surpass me one day. She’ll come home from school with a worksheet or assignment that I won’t be able to make heads or tails out of, and then I’ll have to send her to Tristian or Killer, and it’ll fucking kill me. But I’m going to make damn sure that she never has to feel this. I’m going to make sure we teach her all there is to know, even if some of us have less to teach than others. I’m going to make sure people look at my girl and see someone who’s just as smart as she is beautiful and strong.
Clearing my throat, I turn the page. “Even though she had her eyes to light the path, the little girl was still frightened, because she knew some things were drawn to her light, and not all of them were good.” In the story, the little girl’s shining eyes attract a group of woodland friends; a moth, a fawn, and a wily raccoon. Together, they take her to shine a light in the deepest, darkest parts of the Bramble Woods. “Seems a little exploitative to me, but alright,” I mutter, raising an eyebrow as I flip the page. They run across an evil spirit who wants to take the little girl’s light, which, as I tell the belly in front of me, “is probably a metaphor for capitalism. More on that when you’re twelve…”
Story laughs, resting her hand on mine against her stomach.
At the end of the book, the girl finds her Mommy, who’d been searching for her daughter all along. She tells her, “The special thing about the light behind your eyes is that it isn’t special at all. Everyone has a ray of courage in their soul, eager to brighten their way.” I raise my eyes to Story’s and make an exaggerated gagging sound.
“It’s sweet!” She gently whacks me upside the head. Catching her hand in mine, I laugh, lacing our fingers together. “You know what it reminds me of?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Remember that first year, when I was reading your Lit assignments, and Robert Frost—”
I recite it without even needing to think, “Whose woods these are I think I know…” I’ve long since memorized the whole poem—not that it’s very long. The truth is, I kind of wish I could go back to those three idiots and that gorgeous girl who did us the honor of calling herself our Lady. If I could, I’d tell them to pull their heads out of their asses and treat her right. I’d tell her it gets better. I’d ask her to hold on, just a little longer, until we found that cheesy fucking ray of courage in our souls. I finish, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I—”
She gasps, eyes flying wide, and before I can even scramble upright, she has my palm pressed to her stomach, face splitting into a grin. “Do you feel it?!”
It’s a kick.
It’s such a little thump of movement that it takes me by surprise. I’d been expecting something bigger, stronger, but this is somehow even more significant. This little human being only has so much strength and energy, and she’s using it right now to press against my hand.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, fanning my fingers out.
Story lets out this excited little laugh. “Think she just prefers poetry?” she asks.
I’m still gob smacked by the movement under my hand, but I tear my eyes away long enough to shoot Story a grin. “Poetry? Wait until she hears music.”
