by S. E. Hall
“If he does, he does, and we’ll figure it out. He had it coming, Em. Men who prey on women are cowards and need to be taught a lesson, especially if it’s my woman. I didn’t kill him, just kicked his ass good, and not half as good as I wanted to. You can thank Dane for that. He stopped me.” His chest moves my body with it as he takes a deep breath, rubbing his lips lightly back and forth on my forehead. “I just kept thinking about you, how you’ve been hurt before, stupid, fucking guys thinking they can do whatever they want. No one gets to touch you, Emmett. I’ll always protect you, or die trying.” He cradles my cheeks and uses his thumbs to wipe under my eyes. “I don’t want you to worry, all right? And it’s not good for you to get so upset.”
I nod, putting on a stoic face for him, and grab the sides of his head. “Thank you,” I whisper, kissing his lips softly. “Thank you for being exactly who you are and loving me exactly how you do.”
“I don’t know about all,” he chuckles with a small frown, “but I will always love you the best I know how.”
My head rests in the crook of his neck and shoulder, my eyes heavy with exhaustion. I can feel the tension in his tightly drawn muscles dissolve slowly as we embrace in silence.
“You better now?” he murmurs with a kiss on my jaw some time later.
“Mhm?”
“Can I go get a shower and something to wear besides this damn robe?” He shakes his head. “Of all the nights to get in a fight.”
“Are we staying here or going home?” I climb off his lap, settling into the bed so he can go get cleaned up, pretty much answering the question for him.
“Do you mind if we just stay here tonight, babe? Neither of us has a vehicle and it’s late. I kinda need to talk to Dane anyway.”
I’m already snuggled under the covers, he knows I’m fine with it, but he’s too considerate not to ask. “Here’s fine. Get your shower. You know where to find me when you’re done.”
He stands, but stops to lean onto the bed and kiss me once more. “I love you, Emmett.”
“FUCK!” The flesh of my knuckle rips open, blood dripping down the tiles. What a shitstick I am…punching Dane’s shower, running around in a goddamn robe almost killing dudes, letting my girl be whisked away to a strange house where she now lies in a foreign bed, crying, worried I’ll be taken from her.
Tonight I put everything that’s important to me at risk. Going to jail is a real possibility—yeah, that’ll help Emmett and the baby out a lot. Fighting at Dane’s club—we pay people to stop that shit from happening and here I am the one doing it.
Am I losing my mind? Apparently, since I’m going vigilante at my job with a baby on the way. What if I had killed him, what if I do get locked up…who will take care of Emmett?
Sure, Dane will most likely fix my mess, like always, and I’ll probably never spend a day behind bars, but what kind of father has his friends clean up after him? And sign his checks? And loan him cars?
I’m a fucking joke. She deserves better than some half- cocked punk who can’t provide enough to keep her from having to serve drinks to handsy pricks in a bar.
A knock on the door saves me from my own mental beating. I know who it is.
“Come on in, Dane.”
“Hey,” he says quietly and I hear him close the door behind him. “Girls are both asleep; I just checked on ‘em. You all right?”
I’m too strung out to give him shit about being a perv and wanting to see me in the shower. I think about it, though, and decide it’s a good sign; there’s still some “me” left in there somewhere. “Dandy. So?”
“So, broken nose, cracked rib and eight stitches for his lip and above his eye. All fixed up now. He won’t be pressing charges and neither will she. Cool?”
“You’ll have to make sure that’s fine with Emmett, but should be.” I brush my hands over my face, pushing the water from my eyes. “Thanks, man, I owe ya one.”
“You don’t owe me a thing; the prick deserved it. Her car’s in the driveway now. Get some sleep.”
He fixed it, but I already knew he would. Like it never happened.
If you get used to someone else fixing your little shit for ya, how do you learn how to handle your own big shit?
“Hey, Sawyer?”
“Yeah?” I say too loudly; I thought he’d already walked out.
“You almost lost it tonight, bro, you had me worried for a minute. When’d you get so volatile?”
“When I found something worth fighting for.”
“SAWYER, HONEY, WAKE UP.” I’m shaken from my slumber. “Hm? What?” I look around, senses slowly coming to me; Dane’s guest room, Emmett beside me. “Wh—you okay? The baby?”
Her warm hand soothes across my chest as she sits up over me. Dark strands fall over her worried eyes so I reach up to tuck them behind her ear. “We’re fine. You were having a nightmare.”
“I don’t have nightmares, Em. Go back to sleep.”
“But you were. You were thrashing around and yelling about being a man.” Even in the dark, I can clearly see the concern lining her face.
“Only thinking, Em, not a nightmare and nothing for you to worry about. Okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers, lying back down and snuggling into my side.
“I got it, babe, I promise. Get some sleep.”
UNSWEETENED NOVEMBER
SAWYER HASN’T HAD ANOTHER NIGHTMARE, at least not any bad enough to wake me up, but I swear he’s not getting any sleep. He’s not so much looking tired, but he seems at odds with the world, not absent-minded really, but definitely more distracted. So distracted that half the times I’ve asked if he’s all right, if he wants to talk…I’ve had to ask twice just to get his attention and often don’t even get an answer.
So although he’s home early tonight, when he heads to bed still chewing his last bite of the dinner I’d made, I don’t even suggest a movie. Instead, I clean the table and load the dishwasher as quietly as possible, giving him time to get settled. With school and work, I understand he’s carrying a full load, but a quick kiss would’ve been nice. I refuse to complain though; I haven’t forgotten that I’d been the first to doubt us and withdraw into myself. Sawyer had been sure from day one, so now it’s his turn, and I need to keep reminding myself that turnabout is fair play.
I deserve this.
I’ve stalled long enough, straightening couch cushions and wiping counters for a good thirty minutes before I decide it’s time to join him in bed. I tiptoe down the hall to the bedroom, trying to shoo the hope out of my heart.
At least I didn’t wake him up. He’s lying on his back, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling.
“Hey,” I mumble awkwardly, heading to the dresser to find something to sleep in.
“Hey,” he turns his head to look at me, “you coming to bed?”
“Yessss,” I hitch up the flirt in my voice, totally receptive to anything he’s about to suggest.
“Cool, will you turn out the bathroom light?”
I have to stop my jaw from falling open as I watch him roll over, punching at his pillow before closing his eyes. Even with only one case study under my belt, this I know for sure—men are uncomplicated, predictable creatures. Much like a baby, all you have to do is run through the “checklist,” and the box left unchecked at the end—that’s their problem.
I fed him. He used the restroom earlier. And now he’s going to sleep.
The box not checked? The voice in my head is a bit fuzzy, so I’m not sure if it’s Gramma or one of the Real Housewives, but somebody says, “If he’s not getting it at home, he’s getting it somewhere else.”
Surely not…said the naïve, stupid woman in each and every Lifetime movie, seconds before she came home unexpectedly on her lunch break and heard suspicious moaning coming from the back of the house.
Seriously though, he hasn’t “left early” for class, and I work with him a solid four days a week. His phone is on top of the dresser, inches from me, unguarded, and he do
esn’t madly dash for the shower right when he gets home. Am I missing something? Again, had Lifetime not taught me all the signs?
Maybe I’m a fool. I debate with myself the entire time I get ready for bed, changing my clothes and brushing my teeth, but find myself confident enough in his character and that he really is just spread too thin and tired that I crawl into bed beside him…after turning off the bathroom light, of course. His back is turned to me, so I lightly kiss his shoulder goodnight.
“WHAT THE,” I jolt awake and upright from a deep sleep and instantly feel it again. Stretching my arm out blindly, I find and flip on the lamp then push the covers off me hurriedly, not quite sure yet what’s happening.
This time, I feel it and see it, a massive bulge rolling across my stomach. My thin shirt hides nothing, rippling with the baby’s movements. “Sawyer!” My hand fumbles for him as my eyes stay trained on my stomach in awe. “Sawyer, you gotta see this, babe! Wake up!” Shaking him with one hand, I squirm around, pulling up my nightie with the other.
“Hmm?” he grumbles, rolling toward me. “What is it?”
“Watch this, watch my stomach!”
He sits up and rubs his eyes, a small “hrmph” trying to penetrate my bubble—not happening, buddy. With baited breath, I will Alex to do it again, to show him the fabulous new trick.
“Come on, little one,” I urge, tapping my hand on the side of my belly.
I feel like Jacques Cousteau on a whale watching expedition. Any second now, the hump will emerge, breathtaking and majestic, then slowly roll back down, out of sight into the depths.
“I don’t see anything, Em,” he frumps. “What was it?”
“The baby rolled over, like a huge wave across my stomach.” I demonstrate a wave with my hand. “It was amazing!”
“Very cool.” He bends his head and kisses my belly. “Do it for me tomorrow,” he tells the bump, then lies back down and turns on his away side.
And just like that, before Sawyer’s even completely settled, my baby gives me, the patient, anxious one, another show, which I smile upon and watch in silence.
THE LITTLE ORCA I’m carrying around never stops now, clearly visible acrobatics a daily occurrence which Sawyer finally got to see. I’ve got baby all figured out now, and sometimes, when I’m alone or bored, I purposely eat some sugar and lay flat on my back and watch as the little bundle puts on a full rock show in there. It makes me laugh, and makes me feel like they’re right there with me—entertaining Mama.
Dr. Greer got to see it at my appointment yesterday, too—she made a big deal about it, as animated as I’ll probably ever see her. She also said I needed to stay off my feet for a few days and see if the swelling there would go down.
I followed my doctor’s orders and traded my shift tonight, so here I sit, once again alone and mindlessly bored. I’d already checked and Laney’s busy, so I guess it’s Steel Magnolias and a fat-free yogurt fest. I hate being bored…I’d take more than my one class if I had the money, and work more if my feet didn’t look like water balloons, because stagnant is just plain lonely. I’ve always been independent, able to entertain myself, but even my beloved books and journal don’t hit the spot these days.
I feel invisible. I feel useless.
And I miss my best friend.
Perking up at the thought of him, I take the chance he won’t be too busy at work and text him.
Emmett: Hey babe, how’s your night?
After I stare at the screen of my phone for at least five minutes solid, I decide a watched pot really doesn’t ever boil, tossing the phone beside me and pressing play on the movie.
Barely past the opening credits, my phone dings and I hurriedly push pause.
Sawyer: All right, yours? Everything ok?
Emmett: Ya, fine. I just wanted to tt you. I miss you.
Sawyer: Me too Em. So you’re good, nothing’s wrong?
Emmett: I told ya, I’m fine worrywart. Lol
Sawyer: Cool, so can I ttyl? Need to get back to work.
Emmett: Sure, hagn babe. I may go down n chill w/ Laney in the hot tub for a while.
I shouldn’t tease him and get him all riled up while he’s working, but I’m a brat when I’m bored. That’s not it at all, really, I’m not a brat. I’m desperate for some Sawyer…some “no you don’t, because you’re my woman.”
Sawyer: K have fun.
Or not.
PREGNANT WOMAN with her feet up here, people! I’ve yelled come in four times, and yet, they do not. Obviously it’s someone I don’t know, so I grumble, lowering my legs with a grimace and heading for the front door.
On my tiptoes, I look out the peephole to find a young guy standing on my porch, beside him a dolly stacked with red tackle boxes.
“Can I help you?!” I yell through the door.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m Scott from Baby Steps. I’m looking for Emmett Young?”
“What is Baby Steps?”
“We’re the baby proofing specialists. I’ve got an order to safeguard the home of Emmett Young.” He holds up a piece of paper so I can see it through the peeper.
Knowing who sent him, and pretty sure the odds on random serial killers taking the time to plan a ruse that coincides with the fact you’re actually pregnant are pretty low, I open the door to him.
Holy hormone.
Scott from Baby Steps is not ugly—Scottie Too Hottie indeed.
His smile rivals the sun as he greets me, biceps trying to rip through the sleeves of his uniform shirt. “Hi there,” he says in an adorable country accent, “are you Emmett Young?”
My head bobs up and down while my eyes argue with my mind over breaking his beautiful eye contact.
“Okay, well I have a work order to baby proof,” he sweeps his brown eyed gaze down to my belly then back up, question in them, “your place today?”
Bless his heart. I blush at his inferred compliment, suddenly not feeling nearly as frumpy and dumpy as I have been lately. “I can guess who sent you.” I laugh, stepping aside and motioning him inside. “Come on in.”
He springs into action, laying his clipboard on top of the pile and scurrying around to prop up the dolly and wheel it inside. He turns to shut the door for me and wipes his feet thoroughly, smiling the whole time. “All right,” he picks up his clipboard once more, glancing over it, “looks like you’re set to have all the rooms done. Anywhere specific you’d like me to start?”
I should know the answer to this, being the expectant mother and all, but it was just so cute to let Sawyer read the book instead. Not so long ago, he’d even read in the bathroom, screaming out factoids to me as he took care of business. Perhaps not the cutest of moments I could have referenced, but to me, every time he read about baby stuff was precious.
“We could start with toilet locks. Usually only one or two of those, knock out one item quick.”
“Oh,” I shake off my reminiscent thoughts, “I’m sorry. Sure, only one toilet.” I point down the hall to the bathroom. “Do you need me to do anything?”
“No, ma’am, but when I’m done and mark off each task, I’ll need you to initial that I’ve shown you how to work it. Which I will,” he grapples, unable to situate the pen under the clip as he desperately wants to, “show you, I mean.” He’s so adorably nervous, his voice shaking unsurely through his constant smile.
“Scott, is this your first time doing this?” I ask, sure of the answer.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nods his head, “but I swear I know what I’m doing. All three of my sisters have kids and I got their places fixed up water tight.”
I giggle, but reign it in fast. I don’t want to make the poor guy think I’m laughing at him. “I’m sure you do. So go ahead and do your thing and I’ll just try to stay out of your way.”
He nods again briskly, then starts unsnapping the lids of his tackle boxes, getting to work. I leave him to it, finding my phone and heading to the kitchen. If he’s going to the bathroom, this puts me furthest away from him as I make
my call.
“Hey, Em,” he answers, winded.
“What’re you doing? You sound out of breath.” I steal a peek around the corner, confirming Scott’s occupied in the bathroom.
“I’m jogging, late for class way the fuck across campus.
What’s up?”
I wonder why he’s late for class, but don’t ask. For reasons that can’t be precisely defined, I’ve let lots of small things here and there go unquestioned lately. It’s not that I need to know every move he makes—it would drive me insane if he expected a daily recollection of my whats, wheres and whos, which would take approximately ten seconds with my boring life lately—no, this is more about me and what it means that I consciously don’t ask the little things anymore.
“I thought I’d call and let you know the baby proofing guy you ordered is here. Anything special you wanted done, or—”
I wish you’d told me? Asked what I thought? Be here when it happened?
“Ah shit, I forgot! He’s there now?”
“Yep, he’s in there locking up the toilet as we speak. I was surprised when he showed up, since I’m not sure what we’re having done.” I keep my tone nice, ‘cause it is very conscientious and thoughtful of him, but insinuating all the same.
“Hey, Sawyer, where’ve you been hiding?” I hear the girl’s chirp in the background.
“Hey,” he answers her a tad awkwardly, yet wears a smirk on his face as he does so. I can hear it.
“Sawyer?” I draw him back tersely. “I’ll let you go, just telling ya.”
“I’m sorry, Em, I should be there. I…” His frustrated breath is loud in my ear. “I forgot. I’m not really sure what else to say.”
Lucky for him we don’t take the time to play our “I’m sorry” game anymore; he’d run out of facts.
“It’s fine, really. It was nice of you to think of it, thank you.” The goodbye is tickling my lips, but I pull it back, and try again. “Hey, babe?”
