Anchor Me

by J. Kenner

  And yet there is no denying that I'm doing exactly that. I'm closing off. Curling in on myself.

  It's not a celebration I want, but escape, and I hate that my traitorous emotions are destroying what should be a moment of romance and joy.

  I swallow, then push off his lap. "Bathroom," I say, then rush across the suite to the master bath.

  I close the door, sit on the edge of the Olympic-size tub, and just breathe.

  A moment later, Damien comes in. I lift my head, blinking as I look at him through tear-filled eyes. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.

  He doesn't reply. Instead, he kneels on the thick pile of the mat laid out in front of the tub. He rests one hand on my thigh, then cups my cheek with the other. For a moment, we just look at each other, and I wish that we could stay like that forever. That we didn't have to speak or think or talk.

  "You're overwhelmed," he says. "Your emotions are all over the place. You're happy. You're scared. You're confused."

  I nod, blinking furiously so that maybe I won't start crying again.

  "Mostly, you're hurt. And maybe just a little bit angry at me. But, sweetheart, you're carrying my child--our child--so how could I feel anything but joy?"

  "No. No, it's not that." But even as I say the words, I know they are a lie. He's right, goddammit. He's so fucking right. I wanted him to be lost with me. To be confused and overwhelmed.

  I wanted it, because I can't stand knowing that even with Damien beside me, I'm completely alone.

  "It's exactly that," he says firmly. "Do you think I don't see it? Nikki, sweetheart, you've been a part of me from the first moment we met. How could I not see the gorge that's opened between us?"

  Those damn tears start flowing again, and I stand up, extricating myself from his touch even as I brutally wipe away the tears.

  "We talked about this," I whisper, my back still to him. "We had a plan. A path." I draw a breath and wipe my running nose. Then I turn to face him, expecting to see an accusation in his eyes. Instead, all I see is love.

  I press my lips together and try to fight back another wave of tears. "We agreed we weren't ready," I say. "Neither one of us. And we talked about how it was important to me to get my business more stable. Hire some employees so the company can grow even if I take time off. Time," I stress. "More time to . . ."

  I straighten my shoulders and meet his eyes. "I'm not strong enough, and we both know it."

  "You are," he says simply.

  "The hell I am." I yank my skirt up to reveal the scars that mar my hips and thighs. The concrete evidence of my weakness. Of everything in me that's broken and fragile.

  "Dammit, Nikki, don't point to your past just because you're afraid of your future."

  "But I am afraid." I take a step closer, a rising anger giving me strength. "That's part of why we were going to wait, remember? Or were all those conversations bullshit? Have you been coddling me? Worse, have you been lying to me? Pretending you were okay with waiting when you've been wanting to build our family all along?"

  "Nikki, no--"

  "I've seen you with Ronnie and Jeffery. I know how much you adore them."

  He runs his fingers through his hair, looking as miserable as I feel. "I do. And I'll adore our children. But I never lied to you. I swear to you, baby, I was one hundred percent with you on our plan. But life never turns out the way you expect. You and I know that better than anyone."

  I stand rigid, so overwhelmed by emotion I fear I'm going to implode.

  "Sometimes it's a crisis when a plan goes wrong. But sometimes it's wonderful." Slowly--with the same care he'd use when approaching a wild animal--he moves to me and places his hand on my belly. "This," he says earnestly, "is wonderful."

  I swallow, trying to process his words. His attention is locked on me, as if he is trying to read our future in the lines of my face. After a moment, his brow furrows, and I see the slightest hint of uncertainty flash in his eyes. "Are you . . . Nikki, I get that you're scared. That you were caught off guard. But is there more going on here? Are you thinking about--I mean, do you not want this at all?"

  At first, I can't even comprehend what he's asking. Then the meaning of the words--so horrible and wrong--hit me with the force of a slap. "Not want this? Not want your child? No, Damien, no. How can you even ask that? You have to know that I--"

  I squeeze my eyes shut and press my fingertips to my temples because, of course, he would think that after everything I've said. "No. No. It's just . . ."

  "What?" he urges.

  "I don't know how to explain, but having a baby with you . . . building a family with you. I want that more than anything."

  "I believe you," he says, and I sag with relief at the pure simplicity and love that color his words.

  "But I still feel numb," I say, sitting on the edge of the tub, "and I don't know why."

  My eyes are welling up again, and Damien comes to sit at my side. "Of course, you know why. Because you're surprised. Unprepared. And," he adds, putting an arm around me, "because you're not sure you can handle it. But you can, baby. I promise you can." He takes my hand, then lifts it and gently kisses my palm. "Sweetheart, you're not your mother."

  A hard knot forms in my gut, because Damien has cut straight to the crux.

  "How do you know?" My voice sounds as small and fragile as I feel.

  "I just do. And I'm brilliant, remember? All the articles say so."

  I laugh, the tightness inside me loosening a bit. "You definitely have your moments," I concede before he leans in to gently kiss me.

  After a moment, he stands, then holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he leads me back to the living room, then gestures for me to sit on the sofa. I do, and he sits beside me, then leans forward and pulls open the drawer in the coffee table. "I was going to show you this at dinner," he says in what seems like a complete non sequitur. "I pulled it from my files before we left Los Angeles."

  He passes me a photo, and I take it automatically, making a little "oh" sound when I see the image--me in a bathing suit on a stage at the Dallas Convention Center. "You really kept this?"

  "How can that possibly surprise you?"

  He's right. Once upon a time, I would have thought it odd. Now I know that Damien cherishes even the most random memories of the two of us together.

  I run my fingertip over the image of me. We'd met for the first time when I was competing in the Miss Tri-County Texas Pageant, and professional tennis player Damien Stark was one of the celebrity judges. I didn't realize it at the time, but that day changed my life forever.

  "You scared me," I admit.

  His brows rise. "Did I?"

  "Because of the way you made me feel. I didn't know you--hell, I barely talked to you--but those minutes in the green room with you were so vivid, I knew even then that they'd be burned into my memory."

  "I felt the same."

  I smile. I know that now, of course, but at the time, I'd had no clue that Damien thought of me as anything but another contestant.

  "I was overwhelmed by the intensity of you. You enthralled me. And I swear that if you'd asked me, I would have run off with you, just like that girl at the end of The Graduate."

  "I was sorely tempted, I assure you." He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. "Do you have any idea what I wanted to do back then? How I wanted to take you away from that reception, find a dark room, and touch every inch of you. I wanted to take you over the edge, Nikki. I wanted to feel you explode in my arms. And as I stood there by those damn tiny cheesecake squares, all I could think of was how you would sound screaming my name when you came in my arms."

  "Oh, yes." I shiver as I think about it. "I wanted it, too. But it never would have happened. I would have walked away, slapped you across the face, even. I was too much under my mother's thumb. Too locked into seeing myself the way that she saw me, and I didn't have the courage to break away."

  I'm no longer talking about running from Damien that night, and he knows it. I'm talking about
escaping from the life I was trapped in. The world where I was a walking, talking Barbie doll, and my mother was the girl playing with her pretty, mindless toy.

  "But you did find the courage," he says gently.

  I swallow, thinking about the scars that mar my body. "A blade isn't courage."

  "No, it's not. It was a tool--the strength was always there. And now you don't need the tool anymore, either. You're strong, baby. You know I believe it."

  I sniffle and nod. It's true. He looks at me and sees strength. He believes in me even when I don't believe in myself. "I have the strength because of you," I say.

  He shakes his head. "That's not true. But even if it is, so what? I'm right beside you, and I promise you, sweetheart, I'm not going anywhere."

  6

  "You're so beautiful," I whisper to the baby in the crib. I reach for her, moving her gently into my arms, and she blinks wide, blue eyes at me, her expression of utter love so like her father's it makes my heart sing with joy.

  I want to hold her close and never let go.

  I want to applaud her first steps, hear her first words.

  Most of all, I want to keep her safe.

  She is the most precious thing in my world--our child. Mine and Damien's.

  Tears of joy trail down my cheeks. Because she's finally here with us, and it's true and it's right and it's perfect.

  I don't know how I ever doubted. How I could ever have been afraid.

  "You can't do this."

  The harsh, familiar voice pulls my attention away from my daughter, and I look up, my blood running cold when I see the woman standing in the middle of the nursery, arms crossed, a stern expression cutting deep lines into her usually attractive face.

  "Mother?"

  "You can't do this," she repeats, her eyes darting down to where I'm cradling my daughter.

  Except when I look down, the baby is no longer there. My arm is still crooked, but there is a deep, raw wound running the length of my inner forearm, blood oozing from wrist to elbow.

  Terrified, I look up again, only to find my mother clucking her tongue.

  "No!" I scream. "I didn't do this."

  "Are you sure?" she asks, and I realize I'm not. I'm not sure at all.

  I look around wildly, wanting answers. Wanting help.

  But we are no longer in the nursery. We're in the kitchen. And in my other hand, I'm holding an aluminum can top, its jagged edge stained with blood.

  "See?" my mother says.

  I can't speak. I can only shake my head as I search the room, trying to remember what it is that I've lost. "The baby!" I finally shriek, as my blood falls in red splotches onto the pristine white floor. "Where's the baby?"

  I'm standing at the sink, and I look out the window, only it's no longer a window, and we're no longer in the kitchen. Now, I'm on a balcony, leaning against a metal railing, and we're so high up the world below looks like a drawing, and I have no idea where we are because the earth is too far away and unfamiliar to recognize.

  But then I see the baby tumbling through space toward the ground.

  "Ashley!" I scream, reaching uselessly for my child.

  "I told you," my mother says. "Of course, she'll fall. Of course, you can't save her."

  "No!"

  I dive off the balcony after the baby, but I'm too far behind her. And she's falling and falling and falling, and she's going to crash against the hard, horrible world, and there's nothing I can do. I can't reach her. I can't save her.

  But then I see Damien standing on the earth below. He reaches out. He pulls her in, then holds her close.

  He saves her, and I start to shake as sweet relief floods through me.

  Then I realize the next harsh truth--he can't catch me. Not while holding the baby.

  I screwed up. I lost our child.

  Thank God Damien was there to catch her, but he can't save me, too.

  And as the ground rushes closer and closer, I scream and I scream and I scream.

  "Nikki! Nikki, baby, wake up!"

  I blink, still sobbing as I slowly come back to consciousness in Damien's arms.

  "Damien." My voice cracks on his name, broken by the weight of my emotions.

  "Do you want to tell me about it?"

  I don't. I don't even want to think about it. But I rub the back of my hand under my dripping nose and then draw in a long, deep breath. "She was there," I whisper. "My mother. And I was holding the baby--and, oh, Damien. She was perfect."

  It's silly because I know it was only a dream, but my breath hitches as I tell him the rest. About the baby falling. The terror that filled my throat--so raw I can still feel the scream that was ripped from me in those last moments. And then my relief when Damien caught our child, even though I plummeted to the ground.

  "It was just a nightmare," he says, holding me close.

  I nod because I know that's true, but at the same time, it felt more real than even the news of my pregnancy in the first place.

  With a frown, I curl up even closer to him. We're in bed, and the last thing I remember is lying next to him as we watched a new spy thriller that Damien rented off the hotel system. I recall the set up and a car chase, but nothing after that, and I realize that I must have drifted off, sucked once again into the pregnancy vortex and then down, down, down into sleep and dreams.

  Now, a news program is playing on the muted television. Either the movie is over, or Damien got bored. But he's still in the same jeans and pale blue T-shirt, so I don't think that much time has passed. Certainly, it's not yet morning.

  I don't nap well--I always wake up disoriented, and right now I'm still trying to get my bearings. I glance toward the window and see the city lights sparkling in the dark. "Is it late?"

  Damien shakes his head. "Not very. You slept through the movie, but I promise you didn't miss much."

  A hint of a smile brushes my lips. "Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep." I sit up, then scoot back so that I'm leaning against the upholstered headboard. I want to shake it, but the dream still lingers, and I clutch the sheet in my lap, twisting it in my hands. "It seemed so real," I whisper.

  "But it wasn't, baby. Just thoughts. Just your mind sorting through everything." He shifts so that he's facing me, then cups my chin and tilts my head so that I have no choice but to look right at him. "But you're not your mother. And I will always--always--catch you."

  I draw a breath and manage a wobbly smile. "I know," I say truthfully. "I guess I just woke up too soon."

  "Or just in time. I'm here, aren't I? And you woke up in my arms."

  I laugh and nod as my eyes well again with tears. I blink furiously to hold them back, then I slide my fingers into his hair and pull him toward me, my mouth closing hard over his. The kiss is raw and deep, but I want it deeper. I want the connection--physical, emotional. And I want his strength.

  Most of all, I want to always feel the way I do in Damien's arms. Confident. Loved. Strong enough to face the world. "We can do this," I say as I gently break the kiss. "Maybe it's not the best timing, but you're right. This is our child, and we can make this work. Can't we?"

  "Hell, yes," he says, then kisses me hard and fast, his face shining with triumph. "You know we can. What can't we do when we're together?"

  I'm crying openly now. Not in fear this time, but relief. And, yes, in joy. "I love you," I whisper.

  "That's a good thing." His smile lights his eyes. "Because we're going to have a baby."

  "Ashley." I tilt my head up to meet Damien's eyes. "In my dream, her name was Ashley."

  Slowly, he presses his hand against my belly. "Ashley," he repeats. "It's perfect." He meets my eyes. "Of course, it might be a boy."

  "True," I say, then flash a grin. "A boy like Damien Stark. He'll be a handful."

  Damien laughs and kisses me. "He certainly would."

  I'd changed into a tank top and yoga pants the moment we got back to the hotel, and now his hand slips under the tank, and the sensation of his palm against
my bare skin sends shivers through me. Slowly, he eases his hand up my body, tracing the curve of my waist and then grazing over my ribs before cupping my breast. His thumb finds my nipple and begins a gentle, rhythmic caress that has me biting my lower lip as tendrils of wanton heat spread out through my body, firing my senses and making me whimper with longing.

  "Nikki."

  His eyes meet mine, and I see the tension in them. An unfamiliar hesitancy that I don't understand, because when has Damien ever hesitated where I am concerned? He has always been bold, taking what he wants--and what I so willingly give him.

  I frown, wanting to ask him what's wrong, but before I get the chance, his hand abandons my breast to slide back down, so it rests just below my bellybutton. "Is it okay?"

  At first, I don't understand his words, spoken with such sweet tenderness. Then I realize that he's talking about the baby, and I smile, utterly charmed. I rest my hand on his, then start to ease it down beneath the stretchy waistband of my yoga pants. "Yes, please," I say sincerely, as a fiery need sparks inside me. "It's more than okay."

  "You're sure?"

  I can't tell if he's teasing me or truly uncertain. "I'm beyond sure," I promise him. "You. Hormones. I don't even know. I don't even care. But please, Damien. Please. I need to feel you inside me. Right now. I need it as desperately as I need to breathe."

  "Do you?" he says, with a deliciously wicked gleam in his eyes. "I think we can do something about that."

  I whimper a bit because the next thing he does is pull his hand out from under the band of my pants, which isn't exactly the direction I want him to be moving. But then he shifts on the bed until he is straddling me, and his hand is under the hem of my tank top, his palm warm against the curve of my waist.

  With wicked slowness, he strokes my skin, the friction and the heat making me crazy. I arch up, my nipples straining against the thin material of my skimpy tank top. "Please," I beg.

  "Please? Please, what?" His palms graze my ribcage until he reaches the swell of my breasts. I whimper, my skin so sensitive now that even a whisper of breath would shoot straight through my core, making me writhe with need.

  "Please, yes," I say. "Please, fast."

  His brow cocks. "Fast? Are you sure?" One thumb lazily teases my nipple as the other hand eases the tank higher until both my breasts are exposed. "Slow has its advantages."