Sitting up straight, unable to relax, I rub a small circle to try to relieve the tightening cramp in my side. My lower back seemed to spasm all night, or maybe it was junior working out some kickboxing moves. Either way I can’t seem to shake the feeling that this baby is getting way too big for my body.
I take another gander through the small coffee shop, swiveling on my stool. A couple, some people in business suits, and a small group of girls, but still no Trip.
My eyes scan the area back and forth, unable to shake the feeling that somehow Braeden knows I’m up to no good. I told him this morning I was meeting up with some girls to walk for exercise and that he wouldn’t want to come and listen to them talk about menstrual cycles and yeast infections. After he recovered from gagging, he let me go, as long as I promised to text him when I got here, which I did, and before I leave, which I will.
A tall man with short brown hair, the color of milk chocolate, enters the café, stops, and immediately locks eyes with me.
Trip Miller.
His sky-blue eyes widen for a second before he continues toward me. I study him as he approaches. His worn jeans fit nicely on his long legs, a black long-sleeved collared shirt is left untucked and rolled up to his elbows, and as he gets closer, I can see part of a tattoo that curls up the left side of his neck. Although his hair isn’t as shaggy as it was in high school, it’s spiky in a way that still gives him an edge, and his face is still as handsome, but now more rugged and grown up.
The sight of him used to send my stomach tumbling in a flurry of butterflies, but now there’s nothing but simple appreciation and anxiety.
He stands at the edge of the table and blows out a deep breath with his hand on his chest. “Layla, wow . . . you look great.”
“Thanks, um . . .” I motion to the seat across from me. “Have a seat.”
He pulls out the stool and sits, the waitress on his heels to take his order. “Coffee, black.”
After she disappears to grab his drink, he turns to me. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“You didn’t really give me much choice.” I thumb the ceramic handle of my mug. “How did you get my number?”
“The receptionist at the UFL Training Center.” His cheeks take on color and he ducks his chin, clearly embarrassed over his stalking behavior.
“Vanessa.” That bitch.
“Um, yeah, sorry about that.” He peeks up. “You’re pregnant.” His eyes dart to my ring finger, and I’m grateful to have Blake’s engagement ring on so he doesn’t get the impression that I make a habit out of getting knocked up out of wedlock, which I do. “How many kids do you have?”
“This’ll be my second.”
The waitress delivers his coffee, but Trip doesn’t take a sip, only cups it in his hands as I’m doing with my tea. Silence stretches between us, and a sense of urgency to get what I need, call Trip off his interest in me and Axelle, and get home to welcome Blake back rides me hard.
“Listen, Trip, I don’t mean to rush this, but—”
“Cut to the chase.” His lips form a tight line, as if he’s disappointed that we won’t be skipping down memory lane holding hands for a while longer.
“Please.”
His knuckles go white around his coffee, and he fixes his eyes on mine, but doesn’t offer a word.
Great. I guess I’ll lead. “About the night at the party, you have to understand I remember very little. After hearing from Stewart that . . . I was raped . . .”
He cringes and rubs the back of his neck, but doesn’t confirm or deny it.
“I thought not remembering was a blessing, but after talking to you, there are missing pieces, and I have to know if anything Stew told me was even true.”
His expression hardens. “Fuckin’ hate that guy.”
I flash him what’s sure to be a weak smile. “You’re not alone in that, I assure you.”
He finally sips his coffee then sets it down, staring into it. “I had my speech planned out, thought through everything I was going to say, and now that I’m here, I don’t know where to start.”
I lean forward, my forearms braced on the table. “How ’bout the beginning?”
He nods, takes another sip of his coffee, and then leans back in his chair. “I had a shitty upbringing. My stepdad was a prick. He’d slap me around, get drunk, and make my mom cry. I was kind of rebellious. I’m sure you noticed.”
“Yeah, I did.” It’s one of the things I adored about him.
“I liked you freshman year, but always thought you were too good, too, uh . . . sweet for a guy like me. Sophomore year came then junior, and as every year passed, I became more obsessed.” He shrugs. “You really stood out.”
He was obsessed? I was the one who was obsessed. “You never even spoke to me.”
“I know. You scared me. There was something about you, even just the way you looked, that intimidated the hell out of me. You were so confident.”
Huh . . . I guess I was, back then, before Stew.
“Anyway, when you showed up at that party, dressed like a rock-n-roll princess, I knew I was done for. I couldn’t resist you any longer. I drank, trying to build up the courage to talk to you. Seeing you hanging out with Stew and all his fucking losers just drove me to drink more. I hated seeing his arm on your shoulder, his eyes eating you up when you weren’t looking.” He looks down and I follow his gaze to see his knuckles go white gripping his mug. “I wanted to pull you away from him.”
A shiver runs up my spine at the menace in his voice. “Did you?”
His cobalt eyes find mine. “I didn’t have to. You came to me.”
I blink, trying to crank back in my memory and remember. I wanted to talk to him that night, told myself I wasn’t going to leave until I did, but don’t recall actually doing it.
“I knew you were pretty wasted, but I had no clue just how wasted you were until . . .” He turns away, his face flushed. “Until later.”
I sift my hand into my hair at my nape and massage the back of my neck, trying to recall that night. “I don’t remember any of that. I must’ve made a total fool of myself.”
“Not at all.” He wipes something invisible off the tabletop. “You were sweet. We talked about music and cars, Mrs. Caffrey’s wig.”
A tiny grin ticks my lips. “Her wig was hideous.”
“It really was.” He chuckles, but his laughter dies when his eyes meet mine. “We were talking and laughing. Then out of nowhere you just leaned in, wrapped your arms around my neck, pushed up on your tiptoes, and kissed me.”
My cheeks flame and I duck my chin. “Oh wow, I’m, uh . . . I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He tilts his head, his eyes on my lips. “I loved it.”
Why does reliving this now feel like cheating? He couldn’t possibly have feelings for me now, nine months pregnant with another man’s baby and his ring on my finger.
I bury my face in my tea and take a long sip.
He shakes his head and blinks. “Anyway, one thing led to another, and it was like the more we kissed the more we needed. Two years of pent-up feelings mixed with liquor, and I was helpless to stop it.”
The baby does what feels like a backbend, and I try to rub away a low cramp. “And by ‘it’ you mean . . .?”
“We found an empty room in the house. I swear I didn’t plan to let things get as far as they did. I just wanted to get you alone for a little while, kiss you without an audience, but when I tried to slow down”—he shakes his head, a tiny smile curling his lips—“you told me you loved me.”
I groan and drop my head into my hands. God, that’s totally something I’d do. I was so infatuated with him I’m sure I did that.
A soft chuckle calls my eyes to his. “Hey, don’t be embarrassed. It was amazing. I mean . . .” He shakes his head, his eyebrows dropped low with the seriousness of whatever he’s about to say. “No one in my life had ever loved me, and there I was locked in a dark room with this gorgeous girl who has awesome taste in
music, and she loved me. I can’t tell you how long I held on to that.”
That’s sweet in a sad way. “I don’t understand. How could I have been aware enough to do all this, but not remember?”
“I didn’t say you didn’t slur it.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You were stumbling and giggling. It wasn’t until about halfway through that I realized you were—God, this is so humiliating.” He runs one big hand over his face.
“We’ve come this far, Trip.” As much as I don’t want to be witness to my teenage self’s embarrassment, I have to know. “Might as well put it all out there.”
“I didn’t have a lot of experience back then. I was pretty fucked up myself, but looking back on it, I’m pretty sure you were slipping in and out of consciousness.”
I cringe. “That’s awful.”
“By the time it was over, you were out. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to wake you up, but you were totally gone. I checked to make sure you were breathing, heart was still beating, but I panicked. I dressed you as best I could, pulled the covers up over you, and tried to figure out what the fuck to do.” His hand fists into his hair as if he’s reliving that night eighteen years ago. “I sat there for what felt like hours when someone knocked on the door. It was that girl, the one I’d seen you talking to earlier.”
Oh shit, what was her name? “Daphne . . .”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I think she figured out pretty quickly what had gone on. She seemed . . . I don’t know . . . worried about you? Or concerned? I wanted to get you out of there, get you home, but I couldn’t exactly carry you out of there unconscious and thrown over my shoulder.”
Dread drops like a rock in the pit of my stomach. “What did you do, Trip?” The words drift from my lips on a whisper, something inside already well aware of what he did.
Pain slices through his expression. “She said she’d take care of you.” He swallows hard. “Told me she’d stay with you until you woke up, make sure you got home okay.”
“Oh my God.” I drop my forehead into my hand and groan.
Daphne hated me. Even after that night, she had nothing but contempt for me as if my being with Stewart robbed her of her plan to seduce and marry the asshole.
“I’m so sorry.” His voice shakes with emotion, but I feel nothing for his pain. “I really thought she’d take care of you.”
I rub my temples and search for a feeling, a memory, something that validates his story. “She didn’t.”
“Fuck, Layla.” His eyes darken in a scary way. “I never should’ve left you.”
“I can’t believe this shit. She was in on it.” Fuck! “Why you didn’t tell me this sooner? We had an entire year together, and you wouldn’t even look at me.”
“At first, I tried. When I’d pass by you in the hallway, you’d always have your eyes to the floor. After that night, you weren’t the same girl.”
“You took my virginity, Trip.” My whispered shriek sends him back in his chair as if it delivered a physical blow. “I wasn’t the same girl.”
“I’m so sorry, I know, and I deserve your anger.” His pleading gaze fixes on mine. “I broke you. I could see it. I assumed that you’d woken the next day hating me for leaving you after having unprotected sex with you. You’d have every right to. And then you were hanging out with Stewart every day. I never saw you again by yourself. You were always with him.”
I dig the heels of my palms into my forehead, pushing back the headache that’s starting to form behind my eyes. “Still, when you realized I was pregnant, you had to have wondered.”
“I didn’t wonder.” His jaw is hard. “I knew.”
He knew? My jaw falls loose on its hinges. He fucking knew!
My blood ignites with the heat of my anger. “Why didn’t you say anything? Do you have any idea what he put me through? What he put Axelle through? You had the power to save us!”
He leans in, eyebrows low. “I had nothing to offer you. Stew had his father’s fucking legacy. I had a drug-addict mom and a stepdad who knocked me around. I thought by letting you go I was doing what was best for you and our baby.”
I lean in, pinning him with a glare. “You were wrong.”
“Why the fuck do you think I’m here?”
“Now? You show up now, eighteen years later? It was you who checked Axelle’s birth records and my divorce records, wasn’t it?”
His chest puffs out. “Yes.”
“Why?” I take a deep breath through another slight cramp. Blake would kill me for allowing myself to endure this kind of stress. I need to relax, if not for me, for the baby. For Blake.
“After the news broke about what Stewart did to that fighter and the gossip back home carried its way to me, I’d realized that I fucked up. But Layla, you don’t know the life I’ve had. I wasn’t fit to be a father, a husband, or even a friend. After my mom moved me to Oregon, I lost it. I hated knowing that you were out there raising my baby and I was so far away.”
“Didn’t hate it enough to come searching for us,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I was in prison for ten years for armed robbery.” He recoils at his own words, as if they came out without his permission.
I gasp and try to slam my lips closed, but I’m too late to stop it.
“Look, I don’t know what happened with Stew and his crew of fuckheads after I left, but I do know that what happened between us meant something. Axelle was created by two people in love. Maybe not a conventional love, but Layla, I haven’t stopped thinking about you once since then.”
The power of his words, the sincerity in his eyes, all of it is sweet, but I don’t know if I felt the same even back then. I had a crush, a really intense crush, but as soon as I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t think much about Trip Miller. My baby was all I cared about, she became my world, and I relinquished all my own dreams to make sure she was taken care of.
“What are you saying?”
He licks his lips and seems to think carefully about what he’s going to say next. “I know I’m too late.” He nods to my ring finger and then to my swollen belly. “I’d hoped there could be a future for us—maybe we could get to know each other again and see what happens—but now all I ask is to know my daughter.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t give you that.” I push my tea away, suddenly repulsed by the smell or maybe just sick of all I’m hearing. “She knows everything, Trip. She was there the night Stew confessed.”
He recoils. “Fuck . . . really?”
“She wants nothing to do with her biological father. She thinks he’s a rapist.”
His mouth twists in disgust. “Do you think you could talk to her for me? Let her know that . . . tell her our story.”
“My fiancé has legally adopted Axelle.”
He drops his head into his hands with a mumbled “Shit.”
“I’m sorry.”
His head still in his hands, face to the table, he nods and sniffs.
My heart breaks a little at seeing him like this, but he should’ve come forward sooner. Sometimes amends come too late.
“So that’s it then?” He rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve lost you both.”
“Can’t lose what you never had.”
He lifts his head, his eyes bloodshot and watery. “Right.” I can tell he’s pissed, but what was he expecting? To breeze into our lives and have us run into his open arms?
“I appreciate you coming all the way out here to explain, and I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you, but I need to get back.”
He curls his lips between his teeth, avoids my eyes, and nods.
It takes me a few seconds to hoist myself down from the stool. I grab my bag and study the side of Trip’s face. No one in his right mind would need a paternity test to see that he’s Axelle’s father. His profile is a masculine version of hers, coloring identical. A sharp pain twists in my chest and another in my side.
I breathe a few times until it lets up then rest my hand on his
shoulder. “I wish you the best.”
He doesn’t reply, and I turn my back on Trip, on the past, and refuse to give it another second of my time.
A sense of freedom overwhelms me as I exit the café. I’m grateful I got the story of how Axelle came to be. Chances are the other stuff Stewart spewed happened after Trip left, but at least I know that my daughter was brought into this world under better circumstances. I willingly lost my virginity to Trip Miller and made a baby. I can live with that. And I think Axelle can too.
I move through the hotel, ambling along the man-made river where gondolas filled with tourists glide slowly across the water. Another cramp hits me, this one harder than the last. I grip the railing that runs along the river and breathe in . . . out . . . Shit! This one is lasting longer than the others. In . . . out . . . in . . . I blow out a long breath, and a soft breeze of air conditioning against my face brings my hand to my forehead. I’m sweating?
This can’t be labor. Can it?
Just breathe, get to the valet, and get home.
I take a deep breath and test my legs to make sure they’re steady before I start moving again. Although the cramp is gone, there’s an awareness that I haven’t felt until now. Maybe I’m overreacting, but I can’t help but feel as if another cramp is coming.
“It’s okay. My water hasn’t broken. Until then, I’m fine.” I keep whispering my pep-talk as I follow the river’s edge to the casino.
Weaving through the tables and machines, another cramp hits me. “Holy fucking shit!” My jaw locks hard, my entire belly tightening up so much that I can’t take a full breath. I brace myself against a stool at a roulette table.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
I don’t know who said it, the dealer or maybe someone at the table. I wave and force a smile. “Fine. I’m fine.”
I try to move on, my goal to get somewhere private to grab my phone and call Braeden, but two steps and I’m holding onto another stool.
“Fuck, Layla!” Strong hands grip my shoulders and pull me up. “Shit, you need to go to the hospital.”
Trip? I peer up at his face. “Are you following me?” A cramp twists in my gut, and I fall limply to his chest.
A Father's Fight Page 12
