by B. Cranford
“I’ll take it, Kitten.” He walked over to her and pressed a kiss to the center of her forehead. It was a move that made her knees go weak, and she wanted nothing more than to just bask in him for hours.
Or forever. That’d work too.
“Thanks,” she whispered, unsure about why she needed to keep her voice low, but appreciating the moment all the same. “For helping, but also for . . .”
She’d been thinking about his one text message since the moment she’d seen it.
It’s only a dad joke if you’re a dad. And I am not.
It bothered her, not that she could really identify why. All she knew was that she liked having him around. Having him help. Having him to laugh with and send pointless text messages to. Having him, she thought, mentally blushing at the implication.
And also at the sudden rush of mental images that had her picturing him, naked, kissing her and—
“For what?” he interrupted, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her in closer. Or, as close as he could, now that her bump had started to grow and show more.
“Coming here. Being mine.” The words came out a little husky, given the direction of her thoughts, and a little shy, though louder than her initial thank you. Because she didn’t want him to miss them.
“I’ve been yours, I think, for a long, long time.” He punctuated the words with a brush of his lips against hers. “And I should be thanking you, Kitten. Until I came back here, I didn’t really know how fucking unhappy I’d become.”
“It’s understandable, Andrew. You know that, don’t you? With your sister—” A bumping, crashing noise from outside the building cut off her words, and they both turned to the front window to see what it was.
Nothing was there, but the moment seemed to pass them by.
Before they could break apart, however, Ashton had something she wanted to say, to ask of him. “I know you wanted the hotel room, just in case.” She’d hated saying goodbye to him the morning after they’d become them, but he’d had all this logic about not taking it too fast, living on top of each other, giving her space. It sounded right at the time, but—“I don’t get to see you as much, because this place is busy and you’re looking for a job and you’re not here.”
“What are you saying?” His eyes flashed, like he knew exactly what she was saying, but wanted to hear the words. Or maybe he needed them. Either way, Ashton was getting what she wanted.
“Just imagine you were job hunting in the apartment upstairs during the day. I’m horny, because holy moly, I swear I always am at the moment, and . . .”
“And you come upstairs so I can help.” He smiled the dirtiest smile Ashton had ever seen and she loved it.
“Exactly. So . . .”
“So?”
“I won’t let you upstairs tonight unless you go back to your hotel room, check out—”
“It’s a bit late for check-out, don’t you think?”
She glared at him, partly for interrupting and partly because he wasn’t cowing to her request immediately. “No.”
“Oh, okay. Anyway?” There was laughter in his voice, like he knew where she was going, but wanted to play with her along the way.
Playing with her was exactly what she wanted, just . . . not this type of playing.
“Anyway, check out, get your things, including those books you don’t think I know about, and come back here.”
“What books?”
She smiled at the furtive look on his face when she mentioned the pregnancy titles she’d found haphazardly hidden underneath a pile of papers on the hotel room desk. It had been during one of her visits to see him, and the sight of not just the books themselves, but the dog-eared pages, had caused her to jump him hard and fast.
Not that he’d made love to her hard and fast that day. No, he’d taken his time and she’d loved every second of it.
And she’d even managed to overlook the fact he’d bent the pages of a book. If that didn’t indicate how desperately swoony she felt about him reading up on baby stuff, then nothing would.
Bringing her mind back to the conversation, she gave him a ‘you’re the sweetest’ look and said, “You know what books. I saw them.”
Her knowledge of his secret seemed to fluster him, evidenced by the slight blush forming on his cheeks and the way he stumbled over redirecting the conversation. “Ah, yes, yeah, so, um . . . are you asking me to move in with you?”
Was she? Yes, in a way. She didn’t view it as permanent, only because she didn’t think of her apartment as permanent anymore. In her mind, she’d be moving soon. She didn’t know when the thought had been planted, all she knew was that now, when she thought of the future, she thought of Andrew, her daughter, and a cute house with a yard and a swing set and big front window with a little seat, where she could bask in the sun and read, or people-watch and daydream.
It had been her dream for a long time. To have a husband and a house and a baby. A simple, maybe old-fashioned dream, and one she didn’t have to have to be happy, but it was hers.
She didn’t have a husband, but she had Andrew.
She didn’t have a baby, but she would soon.
She’d didn’t have a house, but every day the desire for one grew.
“Ash?”
“Huh?” She shook her head, trying to clear a path back to the conversation she’d mentally wandered away from. Again. Only this time, she was the one who was left flustered—not by secret stashes of baby books, but at the realization she was asking him to move in and more.
She was asking him to share her future.
“Oh, yeah. Kind of. I mean, yes, because I want you with me, because I like it better when you’re there, and without the hotel room, there’s no excuse for you to leave. Even if it’s just to give me space or to get clean clothes. I don’t want space. I want you. If you need clothes, wash them. I have a washing machine and a dryer and you can use them, but anyway if you moved into my place, you’d have drawers and a closet with clothes and you could diva-change, like, six times a day and none of those changes would require you going somewhere away from me. And I might sound crazy and whatever, but I don’t care. I missed you without realizing it for years and years and I don’t want to miss you anymore, even if it’s just for a few hours or one night.”
“Goddamn, you’re adorable when you rant.” He laughed, swinging her around in his arms to music only he could hear. “I’ll go get my stuff—including the books—and check out, even though the night-desk staff will think I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“I am. I’m an idiot in love with a girl who speaks in run-on sentences and who sings songs to her belly when she thinks no-one is watching.”
Ashton felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “You heard me?”
He tilted his head, like he couldn’t understand what she was asking, but answered anyway, “You’re not the only one with a secret habit, Kitten. I might be reading about how Ashton Junior is the size of an apple or, this week, an eggplant, but I also pay attention to you. Even when you think I’m not.”
“Oh.” She bit her lower lip, feeling something, something, steal over her as his words floated back. I’m an idiot in love. “You love me?”
His chuckle was low, more of a vibration in his chest that she felt where their bodies barely touched than an actual sound. “I wondered if you’d pick up on that, Kitten.”
“Sorry.” She cringed, feeling like she’d killed his declaration by focusing on her embarrassment rather than his confession. “I didn’t mea—”
“Ashton.” He cut her off, and lowered his forehead to touch hers right where his lips had only minutes earlier laid a gentle kiss. “I love you.”
Her smile was so big, so wide, it burned her cheeks. In the best way. She was happy to the point of bursting when she told him the same. “I love you.”
Their kiss started slowly, heating up fast as he slid his hands from around her back to her sides and used them to hitch
her up onto the bar top. She wrapped her legs around him, her heels coming to rest on his ass, and tried to pull him closer while refusing to relinquish his mouth.
She wanted the kiss to last forever.
But she also wanted him in her apartment, in her bed, and then, in her body.
“Dunk.” She used his nickname to get his attention. She’d pulled her head back, breaking their kiss, but he’d followed, not realizing she had something more to say. “Andrew.”
“Huh, what’s that?” He made a show of being confused, but the haze of desire in the liquid chocolate of his eyes told her it wasn’t just a show.
“Go. Get your stuff. Meet me back here.”
“Then sex?” he asked, hopefully.
“All the sex. So hurry.”
Where is my phone?
Ashton picked up her discarded pants and felt the pockets looking for it. She’d come upstairs after sending Andrew to the hotel to pack up and check out, and quickly changed from her jeans and black blouse into a pair of soft maternity pajama shorts and a long, loose tank.
But now, she was suddenly in dire need of Pringles and yogurt, her go-to pregnancy craving, and she wanted to call Andrew to get them for her. She paused for a moment to revel in the luxury of having someone to call. When she’d embarked on this pregnancy alone, she’d resigned herself to late-night cravings going unanswered, or having to drive herself to the 24-hour grocery store to sate her needs.
And she’d been fine with that. Was still fine with that, actually. Except . . . she had Andrew now and she was smart enough take advantage of that. It’s all well and good to not need a man, but if you have one—and she thought she had the best one—then why not enjoy the perks?
Which included, but were not limited to, craving runs. Sex, foot rubs, forehead kisses, inside jokes, debates about movies and popcorn preferences—those were just some of the other perks she’d been enjoying for the past few weeks.
For God’s sake, I had it earlier, she thought, her frustration a distraction from her appreciation of her man. She closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath. She’d had it with her when she’d run some errands—to the bank, and she knew she hadn’t left it there because Aaron had called her in the car afterwards, to talk about nothing, really.
And then . . .
She’d laid it in the passenger seat beside her. It must still be there, she thought, not recalling seeing it on the seat when she’d picked up her purse to bring it in with her, but unable to remember seeing it since. Figuring it must have fallen from the seat when she’d turned a corner, she slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops she’d left by the door, and grabbed an old fleece hoodie she left there for moments such as this.
The parking lot was mostly deserted at this time of night, as were the streets. It was closing in on one in the morning and there was a briskness to the air that made goosebumps on Ashton’s legs rise. One other car was nearby—four spaces down from hers—but she didn’t recognize it. Assuming it was a patron who’d drunk too much and had opted to get a ride home, she ignored it, grasping her keys in her hand as she swiftly crossed the lot to her vehicle.
Through the window, thanks to the light at the end of the parking lot and the moon shining down, she could just make out the shape of her phone. She smiled seeing it, grateful she’d found it and relieved to be one step closer to food. Her tummy rumbled in an echo of her thoughts and she smiled at how happy something as small as a phone and some chips could make a pregnant lady.
Any lady really. Because chips.
She unlocked the door and opened it, swiping the phone from the seat, just as it started vibrating, making her jump. A picture of her and Andrew flashed on the screen, goosing for the camera. It was the first photo they’d taken together—ever—and she’d made it her lock screen almost immediately, joking that it made them even more official than Facebook official.
It was a dumb joke, but a good memory, and she closed her eyes for the briefest moment as a wave of content and rightness washed over her.
Andrew: Leaving now. Be there soon.
It was a simple message; to the point. He would be there soon, and if she wanted food, she needed to get a move on. She swiped the screen to call him back, since it was faster than text, and just as he answered, she heard low words from behind her.
“Told you I’d be back, bitch.”
“Hey, Kitten, you need something?” Andrew answered her call on the Bluetooth in his car, knowing she was probably calling to ask him to stop for something on his way back, and completely fine with it. “Kitten?”
There was not much more than silence greeting him, followed by a whisper he couldn’t make out and the unmistakable sound of Ashton’s strangled scream.
“Fuck!” He slammed his foot down on the accelerator, desperate to make it back to her and find out what the hell was happening, scared that he’d be too late.
“Ashton, I’m coming,” he called out to the emptiness of his car, wondering if she was still there, if she could hear him. He knew the call was still connected—her name on the display of his car radio told him he was on an active call—but what if someone had taken her?
Please, fuck, please, fuck. Two words, a plea and a fear, cycling around and around his increasingly frazzled mind. Who was there with her? Were they in the apartment? How did they get in?
He took the corners as fast as he could without tipping his car over, sped up to make it through yellow lights, slowing down at red ones just long enough to make sure there wasn’t anyone else around.
It was so different from New York, where there were always cars, whether it was 1am or 1pm. In Madison, there were a handful of lights, and a smattering of people walking along the sidewalks, but not much else. The occasional car, a late-night bus ferrying passengers to and from Club Row, which Andrew had learned from Ashton was where all the nightclubs were located.
All he could think in that moment was that if it was this quiet on the streets, someone could have taken her and no-one would know. Except him. Even without the phone call, he’d have known. Wouldn’t he?
“Ashton, if you can hear me, say something, Kitten. Please.” He tried again to talk to her, knowing it was possibly fruitless and not caring one bit. If she could hear him, he wanted to reassure her. And if she couldn’t . . . well, maybe he was trying to reassure himself.
The final turn was up ahead, The Avenue on the right side of the road, the front window painted with the word “Bitch” in bold red letters.
“Fuck.” It was said with all of the anger that was pumping through his veins. Hatred for the person who did it. Fear for the woman he loved.
And her baby.
Please, don’t hurt my girls, he begged, realizing that they were both his.
It didn’t matter that the baby had someone else’s DNA—she was the daughter of the woman he loved, and she would be his daughter too.
As long as they were both okay.
The brakes of his car squealed as he came to a stop across the entrance to the parking lot. He didn’t want to drive in, in case he needed to leave as quickly as he’d arrived, and he didn’t want to bother with turning the engine off, either.
Instead, he slammed the car into park and pulled on the door handle hard enough that he feared he might break it. His eyes were on the side of the building, where the door that led to the internal stairs to Ashton’s place was ajar, the handle hanging uselessly, having been broken to gain entry.
No hesitation. He ran for the door, wondering what he’d find when he went upstairs, terrified for Ashton and for their daughter. “Ashton!” he called as he made it to the door, hoping the sound of his voice would scare away anyone trying to hurt her.
His body froze when he heard a weak voice say his name. She wasn’t inside the building, though the door was open and the lights on the stairwell filtered through the gap. She was . . .
Bleeding. On the ground, on her back, a gash on her forehead, an eye swelling rapidly. Her hand was on her stomac
h, protectively curled around her baby, and one of her fingers was bent in a way that made Andrew’s stomach revolt.
Broken. Badly.
“Fuck, fuck, what–wh–what happened?” He fell to his knees beside her, watching her eyes close slowly, her breathing shallow—his own getting shallower as he imagined the kind of stress and pain she must be in.
“Inside,” was all she said, making his head whip around to the still-ajar door, expecting to see someone come through it at any moment.
He placed one hand on her arm, noticing for the first time the scratches and cuts there, like road rash from a motorcycle accident. Had whoever had done this to her tried to drag her along the asphalt? Her phone lay just a couple of feet away, the call to him still connected, so he reached for it, ending that call and quickly placing another to 911. Satisfied that help was on its way, he knelt next to her, murmuring soft words that he didn’t recognize but hoped were soothing for her. One eye, he kept on the door, in case the bastard responsible came out before the police arrived.
He didn’t.
Whatever he was doing inside the building consumed him enough that, when the police arrived, sirens blasting, lights flashing, he didn’t make a run for it. Unless he’d taken another exit, but somehow, Andrew doubted it.
Or, at least, he hoped not.
Ashton’s head was pounding, and her body felt weighed down, like someone had layered thick blankets over her, one after the other, until she was immobilized.
Where am I? She cracked an eye open just wide enough to take in Andrew’s dark head on the bed next to her hand. Her hand that was cradled in both of his. The walls, the smells, told her she was in a hospital, and with that realization came the memory of her belligerent bar patron from weeks earlier.
Told you I’d be back, bitch.
She’d known the minute those words had greeted her ears that it was him. He’d spun her in his arms, gripping her finger and bending as he did so. She’d felt it break, felt the hot rush of pain. She’d cried out, hoping that someone would hear her, but no.
