Sometimes I wonder if it’s me.
If there’s something about me that repels the good. And the pure. Or if I’m just not meant to have a family.
Brooke is having trouble keeping our baby, and now we’re flying in silence to Seattle.
I carried her to the plane; no Pete, no Riley, no Coach, no Diane flying with us. I want her all for me. All for fucking me.
I can’t even talk.
I can’t even fucking think.
My girl. Our baby.
Breathing slowly, I sit on the bench on the back of the plane and stare up at the ceiling, breathing in and out as I stroke my fingers down her soft hair, her head propped on my lap as she lies down the length of the bench. She’s so sad and quiet I can barely take it.
The doctors don’t want her traveling with me.
Brooke thought it so ludicrous, she laughed when the last one left our hotel suite, then she looked at me, not laughing anymore. “You can’t seriously be thinking of sending me back? Right? Remington, I’ll lie down. I won’t fucking move. This is your son. He’s going to hang in there! He will. I don’t see how being sent away will stress me any less. I don’t want to go home. I’ll stay in bed all day, just don’t take me back!”
My god, I felt like someone was whacking my chest with an axe, especially when I slowly spoke to Pete, who was quietly standing nearby, and I watched her face crumple when I told him, “Get the plane ready.”
She cried all night, and all I could do was hold her. “You can’t protect me from everything,” she whispered, sniffing.
“I can try.”
Now we’re flying in silence, heading for Seattle.
Where I won’t touch her, smell her, or see her.
Bending down to my lap, I kiss the top of her ear, her earlobe, the center of her ear, and there, I whisper that I’m going to miss her, that I’m going to need her to be good, to take care of herself, that I fucking need her.
She doesn’t want to talk. She’s sad and I don’t even know how to make it better. She’s my woman and how do I make her smile again? How do I protect her from the child I gave her?
Quietly, I pull out the extension of my credit card I just got her. “Use it,” I whisper.
She stares at it in stubborn silence, but she doesn’t take it.
“Brooke,” I warn, placing the card into her palm. “I want to see charges. Daily.”
She looks unimpressed by the fact that I want her to spend whatever she fucking wants, and put it on me. I smile down at her, while Brooke looks somberly up at me, not smiling.
Reaching up, she drags her fingers along my jaw. “When I came back, I promised myself I’d never leave you.”
“I promised myself I’d never let you go. What else do you expect me to do?”
I brush her dark hair behind her face, surveying her for a moment. “We’re going to be all right, little firecracker,” I tell her. I glance at her flat little stomach and spread my hand out, trying to encompass as much as possible. “We’ve got this.” I rub her gently and look deep into her eyes. “Don’t we?”
“Of course we do,” she says, but she studies me as if she’s not certain. “It’s just two months, right?”
I tweak her nose. “Right.”
“And it’s not like we can’t communicate in other ways.”
“Exactly right.”
She sits up and starts massaging my shoulder. “Let your body rest. Ice yourself after your workouts. Warm up properly.”
Fuck. Her warmth. The sound of her voice. I dip my nose into her neck and inhale, listening to her breathe me in. I pull her closer and lick her neck, then whisper, so she understands, “I can’t let anything happen to you, Brooke. I can’t. I had to bring you back.”
“I know, Remy, I know.” She runs her fingers through my hair and looks at me, as tormented as I feel. “We’re going to be all right, all three of us.”
“That’s the point of all this,” I whisper, reminding myself as well as her.
“And like you say, we’ve got this. We really do.”
“Damn right we do.”
“You’ll be back before we even have time to feel sad or miss each other too much.”
“That’s right. I’ll be training and you’ll be resting.”
“Yeah.”
When we fall silent, we stay close, and she whispers, “I left some arnica oils in your suitcase. If you have any muscle soreness or any pain.”
“Are you still seeing blood?” I ask, and when she nods, my concern and frustration feel like a spiked ball in the middle of my chest.
“Every time a cramp starts, I feel like it’s going to come out of me,” she admits.
Soothing a hand down her back, I press a kiss to her forehead. “I know it’ll kill you not to run. Stay off your feet for me.”
“Not as much as it would kill me to lose our baby,” she whispers.
We ride in silence toward her apartment, and I scoop her out of the car and carry her into the building. She clings to my neck as we walk into the building, up the elevator, and into her apartment, and she feels so right in my arms, I don’t even know how I’ll let go of her. “Stay. Remington, stay. Be my male prisoner. I promise to take care of you all day, every day,” she whispers.
I laugh softly, and I look into her laughing, pleading gold eyes, and I don’t even know what to do with her, I want to sink in her and live in her.
She gives me a tour of her place, and then we go into her room.
I take in our surroundings as I set Brooke by the foot of the bed. Her room has earth-toned walls. Framed photographs of biceps, triceps, and abs. A nutritional chart, and a framed quote that says:
A CHAMPION IS SOMEONE WHO GETS UP WHEN HE CAN’T—JACK DEMPSEY
There’s a big wall with pinned photographs. And there she is, sprinting past the finish line with a number 06 in her chest.
I reach out to run the pad of my thumb down the length of her running figure. “Look at you,” I say, turning. She’s right behind me. Standing, like she shouldn’t be. I scoop her up and set her on the center of the bed, brushing some escaped tendrils of hair behind her shoulder. “Stay off your feet for me,” I chide.
“I will. I forgot. It’s habit.” She scoot backs on the mattress to make room for me and then she pulls me over her, whispering in my ear, “You should go or I won’t let you leave me.”
Instead, I cuddle her to me, my arms wrapped around her waist as I scent her, slow and deep, then I lick her slowly, then kiss her and murmur, “When you tell me you’re in bed, this is what I’ll picture. This is what you see.” Her eyes glisten with tears as she quietly nods.
“I’ll be back soon,” I assure her, curling my palm around her cheek as one lone tear slides down her cheek. I try to smile. “I’ll be here soon,” I repeat.
“I know.” She wipes her cheek, turns her head, and kisses the inside of my palm, then she forces my finger closed around her kiss. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Shit, come here.” I crush her in my arms, and she trembles and starts crying for real.
“It’s all right,” I whisper, rubbing her back, but she sobs harder. I whisper it’s all right, but the way she cries guts me. It’s not anything close to right. She needs me. She fucking needs me and she will be here, without me, struggling to keep our baby. Our baby that might just end up being like me, and instead of making the woman I love happy, our baby will hurt her, just like I do. It pains me. Maybe the child I put in her isn’t right. Maybe it’s not strong. Maybe it’s just like me, and everything I don’t want her to have to struggle with.
But I’m so fucking selfish, I still want it.
I don’t want her to lose it.
I want her, I want everything with her.
“You need to go,” she whispers, suddenly pushing me away.
Fuck, I haven’t even left and it already hurts as I breathe her in one last time and set my forehead against hers. I take her face in my hand and wipe her tears with my thumbs, rasping, “You okay, baby firecracker?”
“I will be. More than okay,” she assures.
Her phone vibrates, and she checks the message, her eyelashes wet with her tears. “Melanie is five minutes away.” Her voice cracks in the end as she turns her attention back to me. “Please go before I cry,” she begs.
I curl my fingers around the back of her neck and shut my eyes closed as I lean my head on her. “Think of me like crazy.”
“You know I will.”
I lean closer. “Now give me a kiss.”
She presses her lips to mine, and I spread out my hand on the small of her back, memorizing her, drinking her up because I’m going to be thirsty and there won’t be water for me until she’s home. With me. I feel a tear against my jaw and I lick it up from her cheek when we hear Melanie outside.
“Brookey!! Where’s the hot dad and the upcoming momma?”
I curse and take another hard, fast kiss before I go, sucking on her tongue, taking everything I can, then I ease back and survey her pink swollen mouth and beautiful wide eyes, with the dilated pupils, just for me.
“You’re everything I never knew I wanted,” I huskily whisper, tucking her hair behind her. “And all mine, remember that tidbit,” I add, forcing myself to stand. “Completely mine . . . Brooke Dumas.”
She watches me back up to the door, her chest heaving, her heart in her eyes. “I’m pregnant with your baby, if there was any doubt about whose I was,” she says, with a shaky smile.
“You’re both mine.” I point right at her. “Especially you.”
When I turn, she calls me.
“Hey! You’re mine, too.”
Nodding, I pull out my iPod and toss it straight at her. “Don’t miss me too much.”
She catches it like she just caught my soul, holding it tightly. “I won’t!” she cries, and I memorize every inch of the smile on her face. Brand it inside your fucking skull, Tate.
And I do.
It’s still in my head when I meet her friend out in the hall. “Hey, Melanie.”
She gives me the same doting look all my fans give me. “Hey, Remy.”
My eyebrows furrow. “I want to be the first to know anything. If she’s sick, if she’s lonely, if she needs me.”
She keeps nodding with that ridiculous smile. “Don’t worry, I will call you or make sure she does,” she assures, patting my chest with sparkling green eyes. “Now go.” She pats my chest again, this time flattening her palms and pushing, to no avail. “Go! You sex god! I’ll take care of your girl.”
I grab her wrists, lower them, then force myself to head to the elevator. In the car, I’m drumming my fingers on my knees. In the plane, I’m flying with my headphones at my side, but no music. She has my music now. She’s ALL. MY MUSIC.
When we land and I power up my phone, I get a message from her.
Call me tonight if you want to?
Hell, of course I fucking want to.
I’m still sweaty in the gym as I try to work out, but I grab my phone and call her, dropping down onto a bench while I suck up my Gatorade. No answer.
I call again.
No answer. After several tries, it vibrates with a text message.
My friends are still here. Maybe we should talk tomorrow?
I set my Gatorade aside to text. Same time?
Yes, any time
My thumbs are too blunt and big and I struggle to pound out Ok
Good night Remy
More struggling to write down You too.
Then I stare at the screen, but there’s no more.
I can’t sleep that night. I do sit-ups, push-ups, jump rope. I want her to marry a fucking champion, so I’ve decided I’ll be training like one. Hours later, I stop working out, sit up on the carpet, prop my arms over my knees and hang my head between them as I think of the smile I’m carrying around, branded in my head.
I take a shower and play on my iPad, beating the hell out of some guy at chess at five a.m., trying not to think how much I’m craving her. The smell of her, the feel of her, the look of her. I move my pawns and in my head I’m thrusting her and making her moan. In the morning, I’m calling the florist closest to her apartment, but it’s too early and they haven’t opened.
During breakfast, Pete and Riley study my face. “Who are you calling and calling? Let Brooke rest,” Riley says.
I sigh and put the phone down.
“Hey, look at me for a sec, Rem,” Pete says, alarm in his voice.
I lift my head, and I meet his gaze so he knows I’m not fucking black. This time my sadness doesn’t come from a chemical imbalance in my body. My sadness comes from my heart.
“Remy, here we go,” Diane says as she comes up with my breakfast, and she’s smart, that one is. She seems to sense I’m not hungry and will give her shit about the food, and she’s blended all kinds of things with egg whites in three huge glasses. I down them one by one. “Why do you keep redialing?” Pete asks, watching me. “I can do it for you, what do you need?”
“I don’t want Brooke to miss me.”
“All right, so what’s the plan?”
I drag my hands down my face and growl, “I feel like I’m breathing under fucking water without her.”
“Dude, she’s a fighter, like you. They’ll be all right. Both of them,” he stresses.
He heads over to grab my iPad to check the store number. He pats my back before he calls the florist.
“I want hundreds of roses, Pete!” I yell as he walks around the living room, talking into the receiver. “I want them all over her apartment,” I continue instructing. “All of them red. And I want every dozen to have a song so she’ll think of me. I need her to think of me.”
She does, think of me.
She calls and texts me, and I call and text her.
Every day I hear a report on what she did, how she is. The guys tell me it will get easier, but it doesn’t. It gets worse.
It doesn’t get any better until that fantastic day I finally get to go pick her up and bring her back on the circuit with me.
♥ ♥ ♥
THE FINAL, FINALLY. My little firecracker and I made an agreement when she came back, and she better fucking stick with it. The thing is, Scorpion has blackmailed her sister back to his side too. Motherfucker.
Pete and I have planted a snitch, and we now know Scorpion had something on her, which must’ve been why she went back to that asshole. But I’m not letting Brooke step in this time. Tonight I take care of it all.
This season hasn’t been easy, but then nothing worthwhile ever is.
We’re headed down the hotel elevator, on our way to the Underground, and I’ve barely been able to shake myself out of the deepest hole in the history of my lows.
I’m trying to pump myself up for the fight with some mashups as we ride down the elevator, but though my body feels ready, my mind is with my girl. As we shuffle out of the elevator and into the hotel lobby, I grab Brooke by the hips and pull her back to me, murmuring, “In my peripherals.”
Her worried gold eyes meet mine, and I yank down my headphones.
“In your seat at all times, Brooke,” I say, while winding my fingers into her hair, then I crush her sweet, hot, delicious fucking mouth under mine. She looks dazed when I pull her back an inch, and I set my forehead on hers while I keep my eyes on her. “I adore you with every breath I take—in every ounce of me, I adore you.” Another fast, hard kiss later, I slap my favorite ass and whisper, “Watch me break him.”
I play my music while we ride to the Underground. I need to concentrate, but I’m eyeing the back of her neck, the way her breasts rise and fall, and for a moment, I forward into the future, to the way she’ll look at me when I ask her. The guys tell me everything is ready, and I just hope that she is. Ready for me. For all of me.
I’m winning tonight. Even if I have to kill for it. I’m taking it all. Everything I’ve never had, by force if I have to.
My championship, my woman, I’m winning, and when the crowd is screaming my name, I’m taking the yes out of her mouth that I want.
When we reach the Underground, I keep my headphones on my head as I watch Brooke head to her seat. She ducks her head and spreads her hand over the mound of her little round stomach as she follows Pete, avoiding looking at me. God, she stirs up all my protective instincts and then some.
She’s nervous.
I don’t want her to be.
The last time she saw me in a final, Scorpion broke me. This time I want her to watch me break him. I want her to be proud. I want her to be proud of being with me.
I wait in the locker room—no other fighters here tonight. Just Coach, Riley, and me. They’re arguing about something. I can see the tendons popping out of their necks while Coach tapes up my hands. I know it’s hard for them to trust me when I’m pulling out of a swing. Maybe they think I’ll do what I did last season.
No shit I’m getting Brooke’s sister back again. But this time I’m the one who fucks Scorpion in every damn hole of his body. I get the girl, the championship, rescue the sister, and break the blackmailing motherfucker. All of which he can watch from his prime spot inside the ring—with me.
I turn up my music and tune into the rhythm of my heartbeat, the hard, steady pump of my blood reaching every inch of my muscles. I do a mental check, head to toe. Nothing hurts. I study my taped hands and squeeze my fists, popping out my knuckles. Every part of me is ready to fight.
I’ve been a sad, depressed fuck for weeks. Wondering if I’m good enough for Brooke, for our baby.
Tonight, I’ll prove to myself that I am worthy.
Despite what every other person in my life has thought about me.
I stop my iPod when I see Riley lift two fingers in the air. Pulling off my headphones, I set them aside and stand to jump in place when I hear the voice out in the arena.
“Ladies and gentlemen, hello! Well, here we are this evening with you all! Are you people ready? Are you all READY for a fight unlike any other? Unlike ANY OTHER, people! Ringmaster?”
There’s silence.
Breathing as I warm up, I twist my neck to each side, then forward and back.
“Sir, we won’t need your services tonight,” the announcer says.
The crowd lets loose a roar.
“That’s right!” the announcer joins them as he keeps on yelling. “Tonight, there are NO rules, NO ringmaster. Anything goes. ANYTHING GOES, PEOPLE! No knockouts—this is a fight of submission. Submit!”
“Or die!!” the crowd screams.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Yes! It’s a submission fight here tonight in the Underground! Now, let’s call your worst nightmare into the ring! The man your daughters cry about. The man you want to run from. The man you certainly don’t want to be up in the ring with. Our defending champion, Benny, the Blaaaack, Scorpionnnnnn!”
I keep jumping in place and pumping out my arms, keeping my shoulders loose and my core tight.
“Booooo!” the crowd yells outside. “BOOOOO!!”
A few feet away, Riley stretches out my RIPTIDE robe, and I step up and ram my arms into the sleeves, tying it loosely around me.
“And challenging our champion tonight, we all know his name! We are all waiting to see if he’s gonna bring it to this ring tonight. So . . . is he? Get rrrready to welcome the one and only Remingtooooooon Tate, yourrr Riiiiiptide!!”
I charge out the walkway to the instant chant of the crowd.
“Rem-ing-ton! Rem-ing-ton!”
The color red streaks across the arena as the fans stand to greet me. “Remyyyyy, kill him, Remyyyy!”
“Go, Rrrrrriptide!”
I leap into the ring and take off my robe, then I look around with a smile, sucking it all in, my fans’ faces full of expectation, the way the arena looks in this season’s final.
I will not fail.
I stretch my arms out and do my turn so that they can keep on screaming like they like to, feeding me, and the noise heightens as I start slowly turning around.
That’s right, I’m going to break him tonight, and it’s all for . . .
My eyes spot her, and I smile.
Brooke Dumas.
I have fought my life to control my mood swings. I have fought for my health, for the hell of it, and to vent. I have fought in anger, and tired, depressed, hungry, excited. I have fought to prove myself to my parents when they didn’t care. I have fought to prove to myself I’m strong. But now I fight to prove myself to her. And I’m taking this one home.
The bell rings, and I lock eyes on Scorpion and leap into action. Going to center ring, I watch Scorpion jump around for a moment, then I hit him—fast and hard—one punch, two, three. He stumbles back.
“Remy!!”
Brooke is screaming at me, her voice loud, clear, thrilled. It charges me like a bolt of lightning. I drive my fist into Scorpion’s jaw and knock him back a step, then I slam him again and knock him back yet another one.
“Go, REMY!!!”
“Kill him, Remy!”
“Remington, I fucking love you! Ohmigod, I love you!” Brooke screams.
Holy god, I’m so fucking wired to show her I’m the man, I’m the only fucking man for her, I drive my knuckles into Scorpion even harder, alternating between guarding, then hitting, guarding, then hitting.
The crowd loves it.
“Kill him, RIP! Kill him, RIP!” they chant.
The fight continues through the night, pausing only during small resting periods where we drop down on our stools and our coaches drill us with instructions.
I listen to what Coach says, pretending to listen, nodding. But it goes in one ear, and out the other. I know what I’m doing. Scorpion and I don’t take our eyes away from the other as we head back to center again. I can see it, in his eyes, when he plans to move. We hit again, both of us landing hard punches. He clinches me, but I pull free and slam out my right hook. He covers and pounds my ribs.
My breath goes, but I quickly recover, going at him with my fastest punches, so fast he barely sees them coming. Wham wham wham. Soon blood starts pouring out both his nostrils, and his balance is rocking with my hits.
I know I have him, but the gleam in his fucking eye tells me otherwise. He doesn’t plan to submit. Swinging out, he hooks an arm around my neck and pulls me down as he rams his knee into my gut.
He looks excited about that. But I don’t think I’ll let him land any more. Shoving him back, I drive my fists fast and hard into his body, slamming him like I do my hard bags until he’s covering, ducking, trying to escape my payback.
I don’t let him. I follow and pound him into the ropes.
He falls to his knees and spits on the ground, then he gets up and comes at me.
He hits my jaw, ribs, temple, slamming me into the ropes.
Fuck! I straighten and stalk him as he backs away, my eyes trained on his as blood trickles down my face.
I hit. He hits back. Wham-pow-wham.
In my peripherals, I see Brooke’s sister by her side. Her sister who she loves.
Her sister who this motherfucker screws around with, which means he indirectly screws around with Brooke.
I start battering Scorpion until he’s stumbling on each step—but he still won’t fall.
He will.
He’ll be falling at my feet and it’s only a matter of three . . . two . . . one . . . Clenching my teeth when he doesn’t, I grab him by the neck with one arm and spin him around to look at the girls.
“You think I wouldn’t kill you in front of them? You think I wouldn’t enjoy having them watch me break you?” I growl.
He laughs and I promptly break his elbow. He moans as I let go of his arm, and it drops at his side, dangling and useless.
He backs away now, and I corner him, slamming his head to the side, over and over. He rams his knee into my gut, but I recover and punch, left-right, left-right, until I drop him to his knees.
I won’t be merciful. I grab Scorpion and pull him to his feet, forcing him to look at Brooke. Her sister is crying, her head down, and Brooke’s cheeks are stark white, and the helpless fear in her gaze only makes my protectiveness rise tenfold.
“Look at her very well,” I whisper with my lowest voice in his ear, “because what you see belongs to me. It’s because of her that I’m going to break every inch of your body, beat you to within an inch of your life, then I’m going to prolong your agony until the pain alone is what kills you. You think I won’t kill you because she’s watching? You’re wrong. It’s because she’s watching that I will kill you.”
He spits black blood to the mat.
I shove him away, pull up my fists and pop out my knuckles, ready to go at it again.
We don’t lose time. We fight. I punch him, over and over, slamming hard and fast, all my power running up and coming from my gut, straight into my hit. I jab, jab, hook, until the sound of my knuckles meeting his flesh is replaced by the sound of his body crashing to the mat.
The chant rises up. “REM-ING-TON! REM-ING-TON!”
“Rip! Seal the deal, Rip!!!!!!!!”
I head over to his prone form, working some air into my lungs. Sweat drips down my chest and arms. I watch him crawl on the ground in an effort to avoid me. I keep approaching, my eyes on Brooke now, because that’s where I’ll see the victory, and not anywhere else.
“Go, Remy!!!!!” she says.
At my feet, Scorpion tries to move, and I swing my arm and slam him down.
The crowd roars. Bending over, I grab his unbroken arm and break all his fingers, then I move to his wrist, and I lift it up for the crowd to see, then I break that easily too.
A low sound rumbles up his throat, and he squirms on the mat. I slide my hands up to his elbow and I start twisting, wanting to make it painful, and slow. Oh, yes, fucker. It’ll be slow.
He thrashes and sputters, and the bone is about to snap when I hear his coach yell out, and a black towel falls into the ring.
I see the towel and grit my teeth in frustration when I do.
“Booo!” the public shouts. “Booo!!”
Fuck me, I’m so wired, I don’t think I can back off. I want his blood. I want to break his elbow, his shoulder, and then his goddamned face. I want him to pay for the little box of goodies he sent Brooke, and I want him to pay for what he did to her sister, and I want him to pay for what he did way back when that meant I’d never be able to box professionally again. It would be so easy to pretend I didn’t see the towel, and just like that, I can twist his neck and he’s dead.
. . . And I’d prove to Brooke that I’m a killer.
Only seconds before asking her to marry me . . .
Which isn’t right.
With an inhuman effort, I let go and step away. Scorpion spits out blood and raises his head to look at me. I start walking away when I hear him, “Pussy, come and finish me!”
I do. I turn and slam my fist down, hard enough to knock him unconscious.
“RIPTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE!” the announcer’s yell reverberates across the arena.
The crowd stands with a roar, and I immediately search the stands for Brooke. I’m fucking hungry for her. For the acceptance I see in her eyes, the joy. I want to see that she’s proud of me, and I want her to know I would kill him. For her. I would maim, destroy, do anything, for her. But I also won’t. For her.
Her lips are curled into the sweet little smile I like, but her forehead is puckered, and she’s crying softly in her seat, the only person in the arena that’s not standing.
I’m barely aware of my arm being raised as a kernel of fear settles deep in my gut.
“The winner of this season’s Underground Championship, I give you, REMINGTON TATE, RIIIPTIDE!!! Riiiiiiiiptide!! Riptide . . . where are you going?”
Something’s the fuck wrong. Something’s the fuck wrong and the instant it hits me, I leap off the ring and charge for her, kneeling at her feet, wrapping my sweaty, bloodied arms around her.
“Brooke, oh, baby, she’s coming, isn’t she?” She nods, and my heart has never pounded so hard as I wipe away her tears, murmuring, “I got you, all right? You got me, baby, now I got you. Come here.” I scoop her up in my arms, and she cuddles into me, so vulnerable and sweet as she cries into my neck.
“He’s not . . . supposed . . . to come yet. . . . It’s too soon. . . . What if he won’t make it . . . ? ”
The crowd has flocked around us, but I tuck her head under my neck and use my shoulders to bulldoze past the fans, determined to get us out of here as fast as I can as hands reach out to rub me. “RIPTIDE, YOU ROCK! RRIIIIPPPPTIIIDE!” they scream.
White roses start raining over us from the stands when the announcer speaks.
Fuck this is all wrong. I’m supposed to be on my knees. She’s supposed to be happy tonight.
“At the request of our victor, who has a very special question to ask . . .”
I spot the exit when the music starts playing in the background, and my heart starts pounding in a way it doesn’t even pound when I’m fighting. Brooke’s confusion seems to grow, and the chorus that asks what I’ve wanted to ask her from the moment I held her in my arms, kissed her for the first time, and introduced myself to her, plays out loud.
She was mine then.
She. Is. Mine.
She will be mine.
“Wh-what?” she asks me in confusion.
Pushing out through the exit, I tell Pete, “Pull the car around,” and I keep walking until Pete screeches to a halt before us. Brooke’s sister climbs up front.
I tuck Brooke into the back, and she keeps looking at me expectantly, watching me close the door as Pete drives us out of there. I hold her face between my hands, and my heart is still galloping.
This is it.
This is what I want most in the world.
I feel like I’ve been waiting since before I was born to ask her. It’s like asking her to jump off a cliff, with me. It goes against my instinct to protect her, but my instinct to claim her overrules anything else. She’s mine, my girl.
Her eyes hold me, hot and pained but shining expectantly, and I hear the need in my voice when I speak, “The song was supposed to ask you to marry me, but you’ll have to settle on me doing the asking . . .” She stares at me, her lips apart, and she’s trembling so hard, she doesn’t know my hands are trembling too as I squeeze her face between my hands. “Mind. Body. Soul. All of you for me. All of you mine . . . Marry me, Brooke Dumas.”
“Yes!” she exclaims, sobbing and grabbing my jaw and pressing her lips to mine, no hesitation in her answer, no worry, no concern. “Yes yes yes!”
“Fuck baby, thank you,” I murmur, my throat tight as I pull her to me and she buries herself against me. She can’t see my face, and I exhale a breath against her hair and hold her, my adrenaline starting to crash almost instantly. She moans in pain and I quietly rock her, whispering in her ear, “Tell me what to do.”
“Hold me,” she says, groaning softly, then breathing fast, “Stay with me, don’t go black, stay with me.”
I nod and hold her, but I start to worry when she keeps moaning in pain.
Don’t fucking go black, asshole!
When we check her in, I’m trying to calm down, but she’s moaning and grimacing and I can’t stop thinking I’m the bastard who knocked her up.
I try to think of the look of happiness on her face when I proposed. I try to hang onto it and remember what she’s told me before. We want this. We want a family. We deserve it like anyone else. I try to think of that look of happiness when she’s on the delivery table, pushing.
Holy god, I don’t even know how I’m in one piece.
I hold her hand as her cries tear through my ears and split me open.
I brush her hair behind her face and watch her chew on her lip as she pushes, while I quietly beg myself to please just hang tight and not let my daughter first meet me when I’m black.
It feels like forever by the time Brooke lets go a sigh and drops back on the table, suddenly relaxed, when I see the doctor holding a squirming, wet, pink figure. “It’s a boy,” he says, and a soft cry follows.
“A boy,” she gasps, delighted.
“A boy,” I repeat.
“Breathing on his own. No complications. He’s preterm—we still need to incubate,” the doctor murmurs.
“We want to see . . .” Brooke cries.
She lifts her arms and they tremble as she waits for them to clean the baby, and it howls in protest, and then, the nurse brings it over.
I’m staring in disbelief as Brooke holds it . . . not it . . . him. Our son.
Our son who stopped screaming when they placed him in her arms.
She ducks her head, her hair tangled, a sheen of sweat across her neck and face, our son wrapped in a small blanket and in her arms, and my body loosens as I bend my head to her, and to him, as a whole truckload of protectiveness, and love, and pure raw happiness slam into me.
“I love him, Remy,” she whispers, tilting her head to me, and I feel so fucking grateful for her giving me this, I just need to kiss her, feel her whisper against my mouth, “I love you so much. Thank you for this baby.”
“Brooke,” I rasp, protectively wrapping my arms around both of them. My throat is raw, and my eyes are killing me, and I’ve never had something so perfect, pure, and precious in my life than my little firecracker and a little part of her, with a little part of me.
“If he’s like me, we will support him,” I whisper to her. “If he’s like me . . . we’ll be there for him.”
“Yes, Remy,” she agrees, looking at our son, and at me, her expression so loving I feel renewed by it. “We will teach him music. And exercise. And how to take care of this little body. It will be strong and astound him and maybe frustrate him sometimes too. We will teach him to love it. And himself. We will teach him love.”
I wipe the moisture from my eye and tell her yeah, that yeah, we will, but I won tonight, and I still wish I felt worthier and I were different. I wish I were perfect for them. I wish I were perfect in every way so they’d never shed a tear for me, worry, or stress because of me. But I love them more than anything perfect ever could. I love them more than anything perfect ever will. Nothing perfect would kill for them like I would, or die for them like I would.
Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she stretches out her arm, and I realize I stepped back like some pussy afraid to be rejected by them.
“Come here,” she whispers, and I come and bow my head to hers, and I’m not sure if the wetness on my jaw is mine or hers, but it’s taking all my effort to hold myself under control. “I am so in love with you,” she whispers as she nuzzles me, caressing me in a way that makes my eyes burn even harder. “You deserve this and more. While you fight out there, I will fight for you to come home to this.”
I growl, angry that I’m crying, and then wipe my tears and kiss her lips, rasping, “I fucking love you to pieces. To pieces. Thank you for this baby. Thank you for loving me. I can’t wait to make you my wife.”
