Raining Down Redemption (Raining Down Series Book 2)

by BK Rivers

Dinner is delicious—it always is here. Thankfully I know the owner and have the privilege of ordering off his secret menu. When Reggie’s had her fill of the pasta I ordered for her, she pushes the plate away, leans back in her chair, and rubs her tummy.

  “Thank goodness I wore this skirt,” she says with a laugh. “It hides my food baby.”

  I glance at her, cocking my brow in question. “Food baby?”

  “You know when you eat so much it looks like you’re pregnant.”

  I laugh and enjoy how her cheeks flush again. And then as strange as it may seem, I try to imagine what Reggie would look like while pregnant. Would her belly be round like a basketball or stick out like a torpedo? Would she waddle or get swollen feet? I scan her body, stopping at her “food baby,” and am hit with the cold realization that I would love to make a baby with her someday. But I’d probably make a horrible father since mine wasn’t exactly the best example to me. I shake off the thought, knowing I’ve got a lot of growing up and staying clean before that dream ever comes to fruition.

  “You ready to head out?” I ask after I pay the bill and scoop the mints off the leather check folder and hand them to Reggie. She quickly snatches them from my hand, smiling wide, and drops them into her tiny purse. She nods, and we make our way back to my car.

  Neither one of us is ready to call it a night even though Reggie has to work both jobs tomorrow. We drive up the road to the theater and catch a movie that just started, even though neither of us knows anything about it. We sit in the front row so we can put our feet up on the bars in front of us and settle in for the next ninety minutes. Halfway through the car chases and flying bullets, Reggie falls asleep against my shoulder. I kiss the top of her head, move in the chair to stand up, and then gently stroke her cheek. She stirs beneath my touch, slowly opens her eyes, and smiles.

  “Let’s get you home, Bug,” I say, helping her to her feet and tucking her into my side as we walk to my car where I get her buckled and ready to go. Her hands cup my cheeks as she pulls my lips to hers.

  “I love you, Jordan Capshaw,” she says, smiling against my mouth. “I hope you know that.” I move to stand upright, but she grips my shoulders, speaks drowsily with her eyes nearly closed. “I’m sorry I’m so tired. I wish we could go back to your place for some alone time. I don’t have any privacy at my place. I never know when Micah will show up.”

  Her hands drop to the seat, taking my heart right along with them. Who the hell is Micah? And what is he doing showing up at my girl’s apartment?

  I close her door and sit on the hood of my car, trying to piece together a scenario where my life makes sense. One minute I don’t know if I can love this woman any more than I already do, and then the next minute it feels like someone’s fist is wrapped around my heart and they’re trying as hard as they can to pull it out from between my ribs. I’m an idiot to think she wouldn’t have some other guy showing up to take her from me. She probably has dozens of guys knocking on her door. The woman is perfection defined, in looks and personality. When does that ever really happen?

  Back inside the car, I drive across town, stewing in the silence. Reggie’s soft snores are the only things keeping me company, and honestly, at this moment, I’m not sure I even want those.

  “We’re here, Reggie,” I say, hovering over her. I purposely parked illegally against the curb, knowing I have no intention of following her inside. Her exhaustion is obviously the only reason for the slip. She’d probably never have told me otherwise, and the thought makes me want to push her out of the car.

  Reggie wakes with a yawn, her arms rising over her head in an exaggerated stretch. She smiles as I help her out of the car.

  “I’m sorry I was so tired,” she says, yawning once more. “I’ll stay awake next time, okay?”

  I can only manage a tight-lipped smile and an awkward hug, but apparently it’s good enough for her since she gives me a quick kiss on my cheek and runs up the stairs to her apartment.

  I have suddenly developed an all-out, raging hate for all guys named Micah.

  Chapter 30

  Reggie

  Micah’s birthday party is next Saturday. I still can’t believe my little man will be eight—where has the time gone? The day I found out I was pregnant with him was one of the worst days of my life. The breakup with Jordan was still so fresh, my heart was broken and even though it was me who ended the relationship, I still cried into my pillow every night. To the world I appeared fine, that the breakup didn’t matter. But the truth was I loved him too much not to let him go, knowing he was going to make something of himself, and I didn’t want to be the one to hold him back.

  When the nausea showed up, followed by the extreme fatigue, I knew something wasn’t right. Stacey marched me to the drug store where she bought me a pregnancy test. The pink box in my hand felt like a bomb about to explode. I didn’t want to hold it and have it confirm my suspicions.

  Stacey sat with me in the bathroom of Walgreens while I peed on the stick. It didn’t even take the allotted three minutes to show up positive. I cried even more after that, realizing my life was about to seriously change. The morning sickness hit me at all times of the day, making it impossible to hide the pregnancy from my parents. After they learned the truth, Mom yelled at me and told me I needed to move out, saying if I was old enough to have sex and get pregnant, then I was old enough to be on my own. Thank goodness for Stacey, because she went out with me that day and, with the help of her parents, signed a lease for an apartment. We moved in that night and have been living together ever since.

  Now, I have this wonderful boy browsing the aisles of Whole Foods with me, searching for a specific gluten-free cupcake mix I need for only one boy at the party. Everyone else can eat the crap I apparently feed my son. Back when I was younger there was no such thing as gluten-free anything, and kids got along eating the same stuff as everyone else. Now it’s like we have to cater to each allergy or food-related issue known to man. I mean, come on, it’s a birthday party for eight-year-olds.

  “Finally,” I say with a sigh, pulling the mix off the shelf. Micah beams up at me as he picks out the cake mix he wants for his real cupcakes and hands me the box. Devil’s Food Cake—he is totally my son. I grab a tub of dark chocolate frosting and another of gluten-free vanilla and check my list for anything else I can grab here.

  “Can I have ice cream for my party too, Mom?” Micah asks, batting his eyelashes. I hang the basket over the crook of my elbow, muss his hair, and pull him toward me.

  “Of course,” I say, giving him a quick squeeze. “What my boy wants for his party, he gets.” Micah’s eyes widen in disbelief as his lips open in a massive smile. He’s so happy he does a series of five quick jumps and pumps his fist in the air.

  “I want the one with chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry,” he says eagerly. My son is the only kid I know who actually likes Neapolitan ice cream. He loves to let it soften and then swirl the three flavors together so it creates a gooey gray mess he can dip his cake into.

  “You do realize you’re the only one who likes that kind, right?”

  His smile widens as he shakes his head and runs toward the freezer section in the back of the store. I pass the bread aisle, grab a yummy-looking whole wheat bread with an assortment of nuts on the crust, and toss it in the basket. As I get closer to the ice cream, where Micah is trying to reach the kind he wants from the top of the freezer, my feet literally stop walking. It’s like they’ve suddenly been cemented in place.

  The sight I’m viewing from twenty feet away makes my heart feel like bursting from my chest and running forward to usher my boy back to me. Heat and shame cover my body as though I’ve suddenly developed a fever, and I break out into a light sweat.

  And then Micah is handed a small carton of Neapolitan ice cream, and his cheeks puff out in a smile that breaks my heart. He then turns, points to me, and everything that has taken place over the past month flashes through my mind like a black-and-white movie.

/>   Jordan is walking this way, his hand on my son’s—his son’s—shoulder, wearing a look of sheer confusion. His eyes are narrowed, his lips are pulled into a tight line, and his shoulders are stiff. Seven paces between us, and he glances to Micah and then back at me and then back to Micah.

  Three paces.

  Oh shit.

  “Reggie?” he says sharply, though there is also a questioning tone to his voice.

  I swallow, because I can’t do anything else. I feel like I’m sinking, like I’m taking a bath in quicksand and it’s pulling me through the dark tile of the grocery store. Jordan’s face is a mask of confusion that quickly turns to anger and all I can do is sink further and further into the pit of lies I’ve created.

  “Is he your son?” Jordan asks, once again glancing between me and Micah. Micah steps away from Jordan, his face twisted with worry. He grabs my hand and pulls me to his level.

  “Mom? Are you okay?” he asks as I pull him close. Jordan takes two steps back, and that muscle tick in his jaw is back while he stares at my arms around Micah.

  “Dammit, Reggie. You should have told me you had a kid,” he says before turning around and walking away. The words I want to say are stuck in my throat, lodged somewhere between my shock and the apology he’s owed. I want to run after him and confess everything, tell him about our son and how wonderful he is. Show him this little boy who’s growing into a young man and how they share the same eye color and nose. But I’ve lost my chance. He’s walked away, and I’m clinging to my son, tears streaming down my face in the middle of the bread aisle.

  People step around us, avoiding eye contact and whispering, but never once do they stop to ask if we’re okay. What would I tell them? That I’ve just screwed up the one chance I had at love? I want to laugh, scream, pull out my hair. I was given a second chance with the man I’ve been in love with for years and I kept him away from the only other good thing in my life. What’s worse is what he’s going to do when he finds out Micah is his son.

  Fresh tears spill down my face, and it’s all I can do to sit against the grocery shelving and not curl into a ball on the floor.

  “Mommy, the ice cream’s melting,” Micah says as he twists his lips like he does when he’s nervous. My poor son is squatting next to me, running his hand over my hair, looking at me like he’s not sure if I’m all right. I’m not okay, but I need to be strong for him now.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I say, swiping away the tears with my index fingers. “Mommy’s going to be okay. Let’s go home.” There’s no use trying to hide the mess I am, so I stand up, grab the basket, and walk with Micah to the checkout counter. The middle-aged woman at the register glances at me, and her eyes nearly bug out.

  “Such sad faces on you two,” she says with a pleasant smile. “Chin up; tomorrow is another day.” She winks at Micah, scans our food, and bags it all up. As she hands me our groceries, she pats my shoulder and says, “Nothing is worth crying that hard over, dear. You go on home, take a long soak in the bath, and put on a smile for that little boy of yours. A hot bath can solve just about anything.”

  She sends us on our way with another wink. Ha! I wish a long, hot bath would cure me of my guilt and bring Jordan back to me. If only I could go back to all those years ago when I found out I was pregnant. Maybe it was selfish of me to keep it a secret. I truly believed by not telling Jordan about Micah that he could go on to live the life he always wanted and I’d never see him again. I never imagined a scenario where Jordan and I were dating again.

  Somehow I manage to make it through the rest of the day without breaking down in front of Micah. Stacey arrives home about an hour after I put Micah to bed, and that’s when the floodgates open. I nearly hyperventilate reliving the encounter with Jordan. While I cry like a baby, she hugs me on the couch and hands me tissue after tissue.

  “If I’d have known what I was coming home to, I would have come prepared with Tonight Dough ice cream,” she says, making us both laugh. Stacey brushes her hand through my hair, hands me another tissue, and leans back against the couch.

  “Have you heard from him yet?” she asks as I sniff back the last of my tears.

  I shake my head in an attempt to clear the crazy thoughts running through my head, but all it does is make the hurt more real. I’ve really, truly lost him this time.

  “He’ll call when he’s had some time to calm down. When it finally hits him that he has a son, he’ll call.”

  Tears. Another sob slips out as I pull more tissues from the box and blow my nose. “I didn’t tell him that Micah is his. There wasn’t enough time before he walked away.”

  Stacey closes her eyes and sighs. “Reggie,” she says as a warning. When she opens her eyes she stares right at me, making me feel about an inch tall.

  “I know, Stacey. But how can I tell him now? What if he never wants to talk to me again?”

  “Send him a text to see if you guys can talk. Let him take the lead. Heaven knows he’s going to have another hard choice once you tell him the whole truth.”

  I nod, grab my phone, and type out a dozen texts before settling on one.

  Me: I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my son. Can we please talk?

  And now I wait.

  And wait.

  Chapter 31

  Jordan

  She has a kid. My girl has a kid, and she never thought of mentioning him to me. I want to punch my fist through a wall, not because I’m angry, but because I gave Reggie my heart and it feels like she tore it from under my ribs and used it for a damn trampoline. A kid. This hurts on a whole new level.

  I couldn’t buy the groceries in my cart. I just left them sitting next to the freezer section and walked out of the store. Now I sit here in my car, hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. Like any moment I could float away to a world where the woman I love never lied to me about having a kid.

  She has a kid.

  What the hell am I supposed to do with this information? I never signed up to fall into the role of a father, and that’s exactly what I’d be doing if we continue down this path. Shit. I release the steering wheel only to slam my hands back down on it. The kid has a dad out there somewhere, which means in some sick way, I’d have to share Reggie with him. No way is that ever happening.

  I turn the key and peel out of the parking lot before I have to see Reggie and her kid walk out of the building. I can’t be here to see that—I’m not ready. But I’m ready for a drink, and I don’t care if that means throwing away the last twenty-one months of sobriety. This kind of news isn’t for the weak.

  And right now I’m about as weak as a sapling in winter.

  The street names don’t register while I drive through Phoenix. The buildings pass by in a blur, and it’s only when I nearly run a red light that I snap out of it enough to pay attention to my driving. Today is not a good day to die.

  But it’s a great day to drink.

  Any bar will do at this point; I just need to find one. How, after fifteen minutes of driving, have I not found a place to get a drink? And then, as if by magic, one appears. It’s a hole-in-the-wall near the base of the mountain. The bar appears inviting with its sapphire blue door amidst the desert-gold stucco. The parking lot is nothing but tiny bits of gravel, and there’s a hitching rail on the side of the building. Huh. Drinking and horseback riding, who knew?

  I climb out of the car, pull on the rubberized door handle—in the summer the metal can give you third-degree burns—and step inside the dimly lit bar. It smells like cigarettes and beer, making my mouth water with need. The Saltillo tiled floors look as though it’s been ages since they’ve seen the wet side of a mop, and the crowd is small. As long as they serve alcohol, I’m drinking.

  The bar is long, with enough seating for about twenty people, and the shelves on the back wall are well stocked. It’s only a little before lunch, which means I’ve got the rest of the day and most of the night to put a good dent in those bottles.<
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  “Whatcha drinking?” the man behind the counter asks. He’s about my age, though completely bald and tatted all over his arms and neck. The guy could probably bench-press a small car with those arms that are as round as my thighs.

  I survey the liquor behind the bar and settle on my old favorite. “Give me a bottle of Wild Turkey and a shot glass.”

  “Can’t give you the bottle, man, but I can pour the shots all night long. Name’s Colt when you need another.” Colt turns, pulls an opened bottle of the whiskey from the shelf, slides an empty shot glass my way, and then fills it nearly to the brim with the amber liquid. My trembling fingers grip the small glass, and the scent of sweet corn and vanilla hits me as he pours. My heart pounds feverishly in my chest, and the Wild Turkey ripples in the shot glass due to my shaking hand.

  Get a grip, Jordan. It’s just a drink; it’s not going to kill you. Something in my stomach lurches as I scoot the glass closer, and I just can’t find it within myself to lift the shot off the bar. It’s like the alcohol is dead weight and no matter how much I try to lift it off the counter, I can’t. Maybe I need something else?

  “Colt,” I call down the bar. He glances up from his phone and struts over, puffing out his black t-shirt covered chest.

  “’Sup?” he asks with a flick of his head. “Something wrong with the whiskey?”

  “No, man. I’m just not feeling this one. Give me something stronger maybe?”

  Colt nods while reaching for the Wild Turkey, but I stop him by grabbing his forearm. His eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare—don’t touch the bartender, got it.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’ll keep it in case I change my mind.”

  A moment later, Colt returns with a lowball glass, a couple ice cubes resting at the bottom. He pours some Jim Beam Black over the ice and then steps away. Now I have two drinks, one for each hand, and I still can’t drink them. What is wrong with me?