by Xavier Neal
My hand waves him off, and he swiftly exits.
Afterward, the thin, pale, unpleasant looking physician says, “My name is Doctor Scott Harris. We met a few hours ago, do you recall that?”
“I remember your face.”
“Are you usually not well with names?”
“Are you usually this loud?”
“My volume seems excessive to you?”
The incessant questioning that suddenly has me feeling like I’m stuck on an alien planet causes me to glare. “A little. Could just be because I’m tired and really wanna fucking take a power nap.”
He hums clearly making another mental note. “While we conducted the standard neurological exanimation earlier, I believe it would be best to perform cognitive testing as well.”
Ugh. More tests.
“However, before we get that started, I wanted you to know we got the lab results for your bloodwork.”
Not even sure when they drew blood, I simply tilt my head in question. “And?”
“Are you aware that you’re preg-”
His speech is cut short by Calen’s reentering of the room. With his phone pressed tightly to his ear, he apologizes, “Sorry. Just need to grab the tablet.”
We wait in abundantly heavy silence.
The moment he’s disappeared back behind the closed door, Doctor Harris attempts to speak again, but is stopped by my lifted finger. “Do not finish that sentence.”
He seems taken back by my response yet obliges the command.
I sit myself completely upward and ignore the way my head aches. The way my ankle aches. The way my stomach, my chest, and my throat ache.
This can’t be happening. There’s no way I can be pregnant. Not now! Not with just landing my dream job! Not with being in the middle of a wedding! This is not the time for this! I’m not ready to take care of anything other than a baby shark! What the hell am I gonna do? How the hell am I gonna tell Wes? How the hell is this going to be a good thing for us?
“What the hell are we watching?” J.T. complains from the couch he’s stretched out across in the entertainment room of the estate. “Seriously! What the hell is that thing?”
“It’s a stingray,” Brynley exclaims.
“What the hell is it doing?”
“Eating.”
“Eating what? Human babies!?!”
I roll my eyes at the comment, but Brynley retorts, “Fish, you moron!”
“That was not a fish!” My best friend has a gulp of his beer. “Can’t we watch something else? Like anything else?”
“House rules state, injured party picks the show, Puppet Boy shuts his pussy pleaser.” She adjusts her feet in my lap.
Instantly, I drop my attention to her wrapped foot.
The doctor said it was a minor sprain. He explained if she maintains the proper rest and elevation the swelling should disperse in a couple days and she should be back to walking normal by the end of the week. As far as her concussion, they released her early this morning into my care with instructions to continue to monitor her when she sleeps for a few more days. They don’t believe there is any serious damage, but sometimes with head injuries they can appear a bit later. Matt immediately, under my demand, gave her an additional exam when we arrived here. He came to the same conclusion and promised he would keep a close watch if I felt it necessary. Which I do. Brynley however does not. Needless to say it has been a difficult first day.
“And they don’t eat like toes and shit?” J.T. questions and my attention swings to him. “Like take little bites out of them?”
“Dick breath, what is the matter with you?” Brynley scolds. “It’s like you’ve learned nothing from our time together.”
He merely shrugs. “It’s like listening to Scottie ramble on about fixing the ship. It’s informative but not usually crucial to the plot.”
My fiancée grunts, “If I could get up right now and bitch slap you I would.”
They exchange a laugh, but I question, “Are you in pain, baby? Do you need more ibuprofen? Do I need to call Matt for something stronger?”
She offers me a mixed look of sympathy and annoyance. “I’m alright, Wes. Relax.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Is it time for another ice pack?”
Her patience appears to fade. “No.”
“Are you tired? Do you need another nap? J.T.’s handling all calls this weekend so any time you’re ready is absolutely fine.”
The twitched glare doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m gonna need you take it down a notch or seven, mother hen.”
“Where is Lauren?” J.T. asks quickly. “Why isn’t she here fussing over you like your fiancé?”
“Because he banished her to the land of toilet bowl scrubbing, so he could hover all alone.”
I huff, “How many times have I told you Lauren does not scrub toilets?”
Bryn dramatically puts a hand to her forehead and mocks in southern drawl, “Oh forgive me, sir. I meant order the toilet bowl brushes.”
J.T. erupts in laughter, which receives an immediate bite, “Stop encouraging her!”
“Stop babying me!” She pops off. When our eyes lock again, Bryn snips, “It’s a sprain. It doesn’t have to be surgically removed then sewed back on! I’m fine!”
“Your head-”
“Is now pounding because of the screaming I have to do!”
“Stop screaming!”
“Stop making me scream!”
Another stalemate between us is established.
All. Fucking. Day. All fucking day has been a ceaseless cycle of me trying to help and her reprimanding me for trying. It’s like she doesn’t want me to give a shit. Which is too fucking bad because I do. And she’s about one more fight away from me locking her in the highest bedroom of this place until she’s willing to listen to reason.
The sound of a device vibrating manages to break the staring.
Our attention diverts to J.T. who grabs his phone from the coffee table. With a couple of swipes, he announces, “Evie wants to confirm everyone’s attire for the 4th of July festival. Says there are a couple of designers who have sent something from their summer collections for the two of us. She’s insisting we pick from that. She’s also insisting she’s shown anything Brynley is even considering to wear.”
“She’s probably worried I’m going to try to wear the American Flag in an inappropriate way,” Brynley snickers.
He tips his beer bottle at her. “Which you would.”
Before she has a chance for a rebuttal, I snap, “We’re not going.”
To no surprise, Brynley shouts, “What!”
“We are not going.”
Brynley almost whines, “Tell me you’re learning French and just accidentally added the word not to your sentence.”
“J.T., you are going,” I state without making eye contact with her. “You’ll represent the company for all of us. Inform Evie. Wear whatever it is she deems best.”
He begins to type when Brynley snaps, “Don’t you dare fucking text that!”
His movements cease.
My instructions come out in a crisp tone. “Type. It.”
“J.T.-”
“He does not work for you.” The growled words leave no room for discussion.
I expect our positions to become toe to toe once more yet she swings her legs out of my lap and stands.
Irritation surges in my voice. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Wherever the fuck I want,” she retorts, grabbing the crutch she’s been using. “And you can’t fucking stop me because I don’t work for you.”
Having the words thrown back at me hurt as intended.
Instinctively, I prepare to make another attempt to stop her from storming away, but the sight of my best friend profusely shaking his head halts my actions.
After J.T. declares enough time has passed putting Brynley out of earshot, he angles his body my direction, and sighs, “Look, I know it�
��s not my place-”
“Then don’t finish your sentence.”
Despite the coldness in my deliverance, he continues, “But you can’t keep treating Brynley like this.”
“We are not having his discussion.”
“We are,” J.T. counters without concern for my tensed disposition. “Because she may be your fiancée, but she’s also my friend. Plus, you’re my best friend, so really having this conversation with me is beneficial to you both.”
I fold my hands together and lean forward in silence.
“Doesn’t take a genius to understand why you’re overly concerned, Wes. With everything that happened to Lauren last year and with losing your parents, your brain automatically pictures worst case scenario and preps for it. You’re gonna have to learn to reel that shit in because not every situation will reach those extremes.”
The lecture wedges itself poorly in my chest.
“Two doctors have told you she’ll be fine. She is telling you she’s fine. Take the hint. Give her some space and stop treating her like she’s an invalid. All that does is make her do things to spite you, which actually could make the situation worse. And you know, Aquawoman. She is not above hurting herself to hatefully prove a point.”
My body leans back against the couch demonstrating my speechless retreat.
Everything he’s saying is right. I know that. Logically I fucking know that. However, that’s the issue with Bryn. She has this way of obliterating ration for instinct. Deciding to burn down the forest to clear a path rather than risk getting lost. All I want is to protect and provide for the woman who gives me a reason to live. Pretty sure my father was the same about my mother. It’s probably where I secretly get it from….Is that so wrong? Is that terrible to wanna guard a piece of your soul? Better yet, why does trying to do that constantly go so awry for me?
I tap the glass where the bright colored orange and turquoise discus fish are cheerfully greeting me.
After Wes found out Penny was using one of the exotic fish she had him order to help poison my mother he threatened to destroy the entire room. It took a little naked persuading, but eventually I convinced him not to punish them for her bat shit crazy mistake. Plus, I reminded him how much me and Clark loved them, which definitely helped sway the vote. He already felt guilty enough exiling Clark’s only daughter. Taking away the one thing he finds relaxing in the Beast’s castle seemed like an excessively cruel way to treat his surrogate father.
They’re playful moment of following my finger brings a genuine smile to my face.
At least they’re able to have fun in captivity.
“Playing with Spock and Uhura?” Wes cautiously questions from the doorway.
I opt out of glancing his direction. “Is that alright? Did I need to get my permission slip signed first?”
His sigh is heavy. “Can you stop making me out to be the bad guy in this situation?”
“Then stop being one.”
“Bryn-”
“No.” Tapping at the glass again forces them to rush away to find somewhere to hide.
Whenever we come to the manor, I always, always, make time to come visit this pair. They were a birthday gift from J.T. He named them too. Wes was initially jealous, but eventually accepted it as what it was. A gift from a friend who is basically a sibling at this point. I wish he would just learn to accept what I tell him, rather than wait until he’s doubled checked. Again. Where the hell is the trust?
“You wanna sit and look at ideas for adding a tank to the penthouse? Maybe look through the latest exotic auctions for new ones to add here?”
“Guilt gifts? No thank you.” I make my way toward one of the beige colored couches in the middle of the room.
Silence settles between us as I adjust myself into a comfortable position.
The pain is infrequent and also unpredictable. For the most part the swelling has seemed to disappear. My head on the other hand has a pattern of aches, but I know it’s not from the bump. It’s from the overthinking about an unanticipated situation, and how to tell the constable of control his entire life is about to change. Again.
“Do you want some more space?” He sheepishly asks. “I can disappear to the office if you want. Fuck around with some paperwork I have waiting. Sort through some emails. Check the latest updates from the wedding planner.” Wes tries to offer me a smile. “Whatever you want, baby.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I want you stop treating me like a child.”
His cringe is brief. “It’s not my intention. I’m just…concerned.”
“Overly concerned. My own mother hasn’t even checked on me this much.”
She’s come close with the constant texts, but we’re not going to give him ammo.
“It’s just…if anything ever happened to you….” Wes’ expression becomes bleak. “I don’t think I could handle that loss.”
Guilt grabs me by the nape of my neck.
Of course that’s where his mind goes. He still blames himself for his parents’ death. Blames himself for my mother’s close call. He carries so much unnecessary shame and a need for penance that he ends up making situations far worse than they have to be.
My mind immediately begins to wonder how he’ll handle my changing body during pregnancy. How tight he’ll try to tighten the reins on my out of sight choices.
Quietly, I state, “Not everything is life or death, Wes. Sometimes bad shit is small. Like a sprained ankle.”
And other times is catastrophic like an unexpected pregnancy.
“You’re going to have to learn to deal out appropriate amounts of emotion.”
He sulks further. His blue and brown eyes soften in sadness, yet he nods.
I pat the cushion space beside me.
There’s no hesitation in his relocation to my point in the room. He drops down next to me and does his best not to let his attention drift to my propped-up foot.
Sensing his need for reassurance, I lean against him, attention diverted back to the tanks. “It’s fine, babe. I promise.”
His shoulders seem to relax. “Are you hungry?”
“Are you asking because that’s the normal thing to do or are you asking because you wanna spoon feed me like a Gerber baby?”
He lightly laughs, and I let the corner of my mouth kick upward.
“I’m good. Stomach’s still….unsettled.”
Wes turns my face to meet his. “Nerves from everything that happened yesterday?”
The decision whether or not to tell him right now tears me in two. This is definitely not an ideal time and most likely will do nothing more than send him back into the paranoid zone. Then again, how much longer can I really keep this to myself? Well, knowing me, probably until I’m like six months in and can no longer pull off the ‘it’s just a beer belly’ bullshit.
My mouth starts to move yet rather than actually speak it lunges for his. His vacillation to instantly kiss back increases my efforts. I give his bottom lip a hard nip and let my tongue invade his mouth the moment it cracks open. Wes groans at the contact and abandons the kid gloves he was using with me. His tongue aggressively does the scolding he wishes his voice could. Our kiss intensifies, and I willingly succumb to the pending passion.
Wes’ gives my nipple an unanticipated sharp tug.
A breathless moan escapes at the contact.
Are my nipples extra sensitive or is he just hitting the right spot?
“Is that what you really need, baby?” His hot breath feathers the side of my neck. “Need my hard cock buried deep inside of you?” He pulls at the hardened nub again eradicating the previous contemplation. “Need me to make you moan?” The slightest increase of pain amalgamates with deliciousness of his dirty descriptions. “Need me to make that pretty pussy come?”
I barely release a whimper before his mouth is back on mine.
With complete disregard to the part of my body that is injured, we heedlessly shed our clothes and tangle our bodies tightly together. Betw
een broken kisses and begging him to replace our constant fighting with constant coming, Wes manages to blanket my body with his.
Teasingly, I tempt, “Doctors recommend elevation, right? Shouldn’t my ankle be up higher?”
His growl is dark. Brooding. “Ankles.”
In one swift motion both are resting on his shoulders and his thick cock is being coated in my wetness. We share a loud, mutual moan of satisfaction. My muscles squeeze his dick tightly, protesting its long absence. Another grumble festers behind his gritted teeth, and he ferociously begins to pump. In spite of the sprain, I lock my ankles around his neck while I dig my nails sharply into his biceps. He flashes a smile of enjoyment from my brutal actions matching his. The pounding suddenly grows fierce as I watch his eyes flood with the desire to punish me for the position of my wounded limb. I offer him a smirk and drink in a sight I’ve become completely addicted to. His muscular frame is strained. Mismatched eyes hooded. Breathing tenuous.
