As she placed pressure on the crook of his arm, she bit down on her lower lip, reminding him of the kiss he’d stolen earlier. He wanted to taste her mouth again, to fill his hands with her breasts and bury his face in her hair.
But she’d told him not to touch her, and he planned to honor that request. Now that she knew about his past, she wouldn’t change her mind. The fact that he was covered in filth was another powerful deterrent.
He tore his gaze away, determined to resist temptation.
* * *
OWEN’S PALM ACHED from Penny digging her nails into it.
He didn’t complain about the discomfort. Next to her pain, it was nothing. And, in a sick, sad little way, he enjoyed it. Any touch from a woman, even a woman in labor who hated him, felt like an illicit thrill.
He’d also enjoyed touching her. The massage had been fraught with tension, and she’d cried through most of it, but she seemed more at ease with him now. Maybe she was no longer afraid he’d hurt her.
“Tell me a story,” she said between contractions.
“About what?”
“Anything. Your life.”
Owen drew a blank. His mother hadn’t been the storytelling type, and his childhood memories might disturb Penny.
“Why’d you get this tattoo?” she asked, indicating the swastika on his hand.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
He pulled away from her slowly. She rolled onto her other side to face him. Even with flushed cheeks and anxious eyes, she was beautiful. “I asked for it.”
“At a tattoo parlor?”
“No. There aren’t any tattoo parlors in prison.”
“Then how do you get them?”
“We smuggle in the parts. All you need is ink, a motor, some tape and a needle.”
“Pen ink?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds gross.”
“We use clean needles.”
“It doesn’t look professional.”
He just shrugged. His tats weren’t pieces of artwork. They were body armor, used for protection.
“Why do you hate Jews?”
“I don’t hate Jews.”
“That’s what the symbol means,” she said, rolling her eyes. She thought he was ignorant. “Do you hate black and brown people?”
“Only if they’re in prison with me. And I don’t hate them because of their skin color. I hate them because they’re my enemies.”
Her mouth thinned. “What if I was in prison with you?”
“You’re a girl.”
“So, you only hate guys who aren’t white? Girls get a pass?”
For members of the Brotherhood, dating a nonwhite woman wasn’t allowed. Owen hadn’t needed to worry about that. He’d never had a girlfriend of any color. “These are prison rules. You can’t apply them to the outside world.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Brotherhood is my team. My crew. In sports, you wear jerseys to show which team you’re on. My tattoos are like that. They let everyone know who I represent. It’s not about hating the other team. It’s about being down for your crew.”
“Why did you join?”
“Why not?”
“Did you have a choice?”
“Of course.” He could have been raped and beaten, instead.
“Were you jumped in?”
“No,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the ugly mark on his hand. “I had to prove my loyalty.”
“How?”
“By doing a favor for the gang or getting a visible tattoo.”
“What was the favor?”
“I can’t remember,” he evaded.
“And if you said no to both?”
“Then I’d be on my own. Unprotected.” For some prisoners, that was fine. Old guys didn’t get hassled much. Big, muscular men like Garrett could defend themselves. At eighteen, Owen had been skinny and weak, an ideal target.
“The guards don’t protect you?”
“Hell, no. They take bribes to look the other way.”
“Before you joined, did you get...attacked?”
“No,” he said, heat suffusing his neck. “I joined the gang because I felt like it, and I got the tattoos because I wanted to.”
Maybe he’d protested too much, because her mouth softened with sympathy. Then she sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed his hand again, crying out in pain. Each contraction seemed to last longer, and hurt more. Her fingernails cut into his palm.
When it was over, she opened her eyes to look at him. Her lashes were wet with tears, her lips trembling. “Your stories suck.”
He couldn’t argue there.
“I’m so miserable,” she moaned, rolling over again. Although her stomach was huge, she looked slim from the back. “Keep talking.”
Owen tried to think of a pleasant subject. He wasn’t used to having polite conversations with women. Even before he’d gotten locked up, his interactions with the opposite sex had been limited. Good girls ignored him. So did bad ones, unless they were drunk. And then...they hadn’t done much talking.
“My last name’s Jackson,” he said, opting for neutrality. “I have an older brother named Shane.”
“The murderer?”
“Yes. He’s in San Quentin. We grew up by the Salton Sea.”
“Where’s that?”
“East. In the desert.”
She curled her hands under her head, listening.
“My dad was born in Salton City, like us. His name is Christian. My mother is Sally. She’s from Palm Springs.”
“Describe the sea.”
Owen stared at the back of her head, memorizing the part in her hair, the graceful curve of her neck. “It’s dark blue, and full of fish. Feels like heaven to go swimming in the summer.” In reality, the sea was a vast wasteland. It stank to high heaven, and felt like brine. “My dad took us out in his boat every weekend when we were kids. We’d drink beer and fish all day. When we came home, my mom would fry up the fresh catch.”
“You drank beer?”
“Root beer,” he amended, moistening his lips. Damn, he was thirsty.
“What else?”
“We worked on old cars after school, or whenever we had spare time. For my sixteenth birthday, my dad and I fixed up a Chevy SS. It was midnight-black, with leather interior. Mint condition. Sweetest ride I’d ever seen.”
“Is that what you were driving when your brother robbed the liquor store?”
“No,” he said, backpedaling. “I was driving his car.”
“Did your dad really take you fishing every weekend?”
“Yes.” The Jacksons did whatever it took to make ends meet. Owen had eaten enough carp to last a lifetime.
“What’s your mom like?”
“Tough,” he said honestly, picturing the heavy lines in her face. “Protective. She favored me over Shane. My dad always complained when she told him to lay off of me. He said she was making me a sissy.”
She fell silent for a moment. “My dad said I’d shamed our family.”
“By getting pregnant?”
“Yes. He asked me to give the baby up.”
“What about the baby’s father?”
“He didn’t want us.”
Owen couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting Penny. It was beyond his comprehension.
“My aunt offered to take me in. But now she’s dead.”
When she started crying again, he didn’t know what to do. His real stories were depressing and his fake stories were stupid. He reached out to squeeze her shoulder, but his hands were clumsy. As soon as he touched her, she screamed.
It dawned on him that she was having another contraction. This one seemed to go on forever.
“I feel like pushing,” she gasped.
He stared at the apex of her thighs in horror. “Well, don’t!”
“I can’t help it.”
“I’ll get Lauren.”
“Hurry,” she said, her eyes wild.
Heart racing, he jumped to his feet and ran out the door. Inside the tent, Garrett was laid out next to Don. They both looked peaked. Lauren was giving Don blood through an IV line. Cadence had fallen asleep on the ground beside him.
“Penny thinks the baby’s coming,” he said in a rush.
“She feels the urge to push?”
He nodded, swallowing dryly.
“I can’t leave Don right now,” she said. “He’s still hanging by a thread. You’re going to have to help her.”
“What?”
“Wash your hands with the foam cleanser and go back to the RV. The last stage of labor usually takes about an hour. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just let her push and be supportive. Don’t reach in or pull on the baby.”
His jaw dropped. He turned to Garrett, incredulous.
“Garrett just gave two pints of blood, so he can’t move,” Lauren said. She gave Owen a few more instructions. “Try to stay calm, for Penny’s sake. She’s young and healthy, and the baby is in the head-down position. Everything should be fine.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Then come and get me. Now go. She’s probably scared.”
He used the cleanser she indicated and hurried back to Penny, his stomach tied in knots. What if he did something wrong, and she died in labor? What if the baby died? He couldn’t handle this responsibility. It was too intense.
Selfless acts were not his style. His natural instinct was to follow the path of least resistance. He was tempted to steal something to drink, slink into the shadows and find a dark corner to hide in.
Owen had never been courageous. He hadn’t stood up to his dad, or refused to go along with his brother’s schemes. Instead of challenging a rival gang member, he’d marked his skin with racial epithets. He hadn’t told Penny the truth about why he’d joined the Brotherhood, or what he’d endured his first few weeks in prison.
Screw this. She hated him, anyway.
But when she screamed again, he wavered, thinking of the small kindness she’d paid him. She’d listened to him. She’d cared about what he said.
Cursing under his breath, he went to her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PENNY STARED AT THE DOOR and focused on taking even breaths.
The contractions were coming very close together now, and the urge to push was overwhelming. She wanted this baby out! Giving birth couldn’t be any worse than labor. She was in agony, desperate for relief.
When Owen came back inside, she groaned with disappointment.
“Lauren’s on her way,” he said, glancing around the space. “I need those baby blankets.”
She pointed to the lower cabinet.
He opened it and rifled through the bag, selecting a soft white blanket with little ducks. Then he found a stack of newspapers. Straightening, he approached her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to put the newspaper under you.”
“Get away from me!”
Another contraction struck, robbing her ability to think. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out.
“Do you want to push?” he asked.
“Fuck you!”
He waited at the foot of the bed, quiet. His eyes were like the sky after a gentle rain. Light gray-blue.
“I want Lauren,” she panted.
“She’s busy with Don. He’s dying. You’re just having a baby.”
Penny’s blood ran cold. Lauren wasn’t coming to help her? She shook her head in denial. “You’re a liar.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Go get Lauren, you fucking psycho!”
His brows rose at her choice of words.
Penny was surprised by the unladylike language, too. She rarely used the Lord’s name in vain, let alone dropped the F-bomb. But the words just...exploded from her mouth. She felt out of control, as though a stranger was speaking for her.
“Lauren will be here as soon as she can,” he explained. “She said you could push if you wanted to. It might take you an hour to get the baby out.”
An hour? An endless wave of misery shuddered through her. Penny sobbed and gripped her pillow, wishing it was over.
“Let me put this paper under you.”
She couldn’t believe this was happening. A white-trash jailbird was going to look at her private parts. He was going to put his filthy, tattooed hands on her baby. “I’d rather die,” she said through clenched teeth.
But her body wasn’t on board with that decision. As the next contraction hit, she dug her heels into the mattress and cried out. She pushed, surrendering to the innate need to expel the pain-causing entity from her womb.
Owen slid the newspaper under her hips. “Good job,” he said, glancing between her legs. “Keep breathing.”
She panted in and out. “Do you see the baby’s head?”
“No. I don’t see...anything.”
“I hate you,” she moaned, almost beyond humiliation.
“Okay,” he said amiably. “Are you comfortable?”
“No, I’m not!”
“Do you want some more water?”
She nodded. He gave her the last bottle, which she sipped and shoved back at him. During the following contraction, she pushed again, straining toward an elusive goal. He still didn’t see the baby’s head.
For what seemed like an eternity, the process repeated. It was a marathon of suffering. She’d never worked so hard, or felt so awful, in her entire life. He told her she was doing great. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her face, and her jaw ached from clenching.
Finally, she felt a burning sensation between her legs. “It hurts,” she gasped, startled by the fresh bite of pain.
Owen checked her progress. “Holy fuck!”
“What is it?”
“I see something. Oh my God.”
He sounded appalled, as if there was a monster down there, but Penny was too far gone to care. This foreign object was coming out, ready or not. The fact that part of it was visible just encouraged her.
“Wait,” he said. “I’ll get Lauren.”
“Don’t you dare leave me,” she rasped, gripping his forearm.
He glanced at the door, conflicted. It was obvious he wanted to get the hell out of there. But he stayed with her. “Okay,” he said, meeting her eyes. “You can’t push hard anymore. You’ll...tear.”
“What?”
“Lauren told me that. You have to go slow at the end.”
Penny didn’t want to slow down. She felt like she’d been in labor for a hundred years, and she was exhausted. It would take all her strength to finish. During the next push, she tried to hold back a little. Although she was afraid of tearing her delicate tissues, she was more afraid the baby wouldn’t come out at all.
“You’re almost there,” he said, looking again. “I see the head.”
“Is it halfway out?”
“No.”
She fisted her hands in the sheets, writhing in agony.
“Keep going, Penny. You can do it.”
With a strangled cry, she hunched forward, bringing her knees toward her chest. She pushed with all her might, biting down on her lower lip until she tasted blood. There was more burning, followed by the most intense pain she’d ever experienced. It went on and on and on. Then she felt a tremendous release of pressure.
“That’s it,” Owen said, his voice filled with amazement. “The head is out!”
Sobbing, she looked over her rounded belly, trying to get a glimpse of her baby. Its skin was purple.
He wiped the baby’s head with the blanket. “Hang on. I think—I think the umbilical cord is around its neck.”
“What should I do?”
“I don’t know. Push some more.”
She pushed again, her mind screaming with panic. The baby’s shoulders came through, and everything happened quickly after that. With a rush of fluid, the entire body was out. Owen untangled the cord, which was still attached to the placenta inside her.
The baby started bawling immediately. Penny was so relieved to hear the sound, she burst into tears.
Owen wrapped the blanket around the baby and put it in her arms. “It’s a boy.”
She was crying too hard to study his scrunched-up little face. Instead, she just hugged him to her chest and wept.
When her emotions settled, she dried her tears and examined the baby carefully. She counted his fingers and toes. They were all there. He was definitely a boy. Those parts were unmistakable. His hair was dark and straight, his skin wrinkled and purplish-red. As babies went, he was ugly.
Penny’s heart swelled with love for him.
Remembering that Owen was still in the room, she looked up. He was leaning against the door, his back to her. Judging by the tremor of his shoulders, and the way he had one hand over his eyes, he was crying.
“Thank you,” she said, touched.
He wiped his face, trying to play it off. “Sure. I’ll just...go get Lauren.”
Aftershock Page 17
