My mind is a swirling mass of red and black, and I don’t know what the fuck is happening. I taste blood in my mouth, feel Gale thrashing beneath me as I kiss her again and again. Somewhere in the background I hear sirens, and then I feel myself being pulled off my woman by strong hands. I roar in protest, swinging wildly as I try to fight off the cops. I feel my fists connect with one of them, and then I yelp like a dog when I feel the TAZER rip through my body and drop me like a stone.
“Oh, Gun,” I hear her whisper as I gasp and stare up at the ceiling. “It’s going to be OK, Gun. I promise. It’s going to be OK.”
8
THREE MONTHS LATER
GALE
“You’re OK,” says the guard, and I smile politely at him as I step past the metal detector and go to the conveyor belt to pick up my stuff. This is the first time I’ve been to a prison. Well, of course it’s the first time I’ve been to a prison! Who the hell goes to a prison?! How in the world did I end up visiting a man who’s locked up for assault?!
“Why did you come here?” Gun says to me as I sit across from him at a table in the open room where inmates and visitors get a few minutes together. “I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me after what happened.”
I take a breath and blink as I look into Gun’s ice-blue eyes. That memory of my blue-eyed prince as a young man drifts past my mind’s eye, and I can’t help but think back to that feeling like this is just another test, like the universe is seeing how much I can take, how badly I want the dream, how fiercely I’m willing to fight for my forever. In the three months since Gun went to jail I’ve been going back and forth, fighting anxiety and doubt, second guessing myself and him, wondering if that magical first meeting was an illusion, a mirage, just make-believe.
I’d retreated to my house in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, lost myself in working on that quilt, sewing furiously, like a woman obsessed. I’d been so consumed, so lost to the world, so out of it that it was only when I opened the bathroom closet and stared at a box of tampons that it hit me: I hadn’t used one in almost three months!
“Please let it not be true,” I muttered as I drove to the pharmacy and picked up a pregnancy test. But I knew it was true even before I peed on the damned thing, and when the pink stick stared up at me like it was fate laughing, destiny smiling, that fairy-tale begging me to keep the faith, to stay on my path, to follow the twists and turns of the road to my forever, I collapsed on my newly-made quilt and just laughed like a freak. Yup. After being a good girl my entire life, I’m now knocked up by a tattooed criminal who’s sitting in prison for trying to strangle someone with his bare hands. You couldn’t write a more twisted tale.
I smile at the tattooed criminal sitting across from me dressed in prison orange, reminding myself that he’s also a millionaire quarterback in another life. If I thought my path to forever was twisted, how must he feel about where events have taken him after one encounter in a locker room?! Does he hate me? Does he wish he never met me? What will he say when I tell him the news?!
“I have some news,” I say, blinking and looking down at myself, wondering if I’m showing. I think maybe I am, but that’s one benefit of being a bigger woman, I guess.
“Me too,” Gun says, exhaling and smiling. There’s a calmness in him that’s palpable, like something’s changed. Maybe he’s been meditating in prison or something.
“You first,” I say quickly, almost thankful that I can delay telling him what I know I must.
He nods, shifting in his chair and clearing his throat. “You were right,” he says softly. “There was something wrong with me. I did need help.”
I frown as I see a flash of vulnerability in those steel-blue eyes, a sense that’s he’s shaken by whatever he’s about to tell me. I sit up straight, my full attention on him. This is important.
“I’m listening,” I say softly, feeling a warmth that reminds me of how I felt in his embrace the first time we met. The only time, really!
“Remember when I made that public statement about getting tested for a concussion?” he says, his voice wavering a bit like he’s afraid to tell me the truth, afraid to admit that there really might be something physically wrong with him, that this man who’s been a model of physical and athletic achievement his entire life might actually be less than perfect.
“You mean after you punched out that reporter but before you tried to kill him?” I say with a sweet smile, keeping my voice as low as possible After all, he’s only in here for assault, not attempted murder.
Gun clears his throat again and finally breaks a grin that sends a wave of heat through me, reminding me that this is still my blue-eyed prince, that we still have a shot at turning this into a fairy-tale and not a tragedy.
“Yeah, exactly,” he says, shaking his head and looking down for a moment. “So I just made that statement on the recommendation of my lawyers and PR guys. I’ve never actually taken a hit to the head, never actually sustained a concussion. But they did some tests anyway, just to follow through on my statement.”
He pauses, and I narrow my eyes when I see that vulnerability in his eyes again.
“And they found something?” I say in a whisper.
He nods slowly, his jaw tightening, his eyes misting over. “Did I ever tell you why my kid sister died?” he says softly.
I shake my head. “No.”
Gun sighs and settles back in his chair. “She was born with a brain tumor. It was inoperable, and there was nothing we could do but wait for the inevitable.” He pauses and blinks at me, his grin fading to a tight smile, like he’s wondering if he wants to tell me what I’ve already guessed by now, like he’s afraid that maybe I won’t want him if I know there’s something wrong with him, that he’s not invincible, that he’s less than perfect.
“Didn’t they check you out when you were a kid?” I ask, suddenly feeling indignant, even angry, that Gun had something this seriously wrong with him and no one figured it out until he was at the point of doing something from which there’d be no way back! Where were his parents? Where were the doctors? How could the people who supposedly loved him have let him down like that?!
Gun nods and then shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Of course. But they didn’t find anything. Not back then, at least.”
“But they should’ve said you were at risk if something like that ran in your family. They should’ve said you needed to be tested every year to see if anything was up,” I say firmly, my jaw tightening as my heart opens up for this massive mountain of muscle who was at the mercy of something out of his control. Growing up I had a dog that was a sweetheart most of the time but would sometimes just lose it and lunge at people, even the people he loved. We found out he had a brain tumor that was pressing against the part of his brain dealing with impulse control. Is that what was happening with Gun?
“They did say that, but by then I was technically an adult, a millionaire draft pick with the world at my feet,” he says with a wistful smile. “The signs were there for me to see—for everyone to see. But I played in a violent sport, and in a way the lack of impulse control might’ve helped me at times.” Then he shakes his head, that smile turning to a hard grimace. “But it might also have been the reason I could never win the big game, take my team all the way. I let my own arrogance get in the way, Gale. I believed I was invincible, all-powerful, the fucking king. But I’m no king. I’m just a muscle-bound beast who was heading for self-destruction.” He smiles again, a warm smile that almost floors me, almost breaks me, almost wrecks me to the core as I think of his babies growing in my womb. “And I would’ve achieved complete self-destruction if you hadn’t walked into my life right then, Gale,” he whispers, placing his big hands on the table and looking me deep in the eyes. “I was a ticking time-bomb, and if it wasn’t that reporter, it would’ve someone else who set me off. You fucking saved me, Gale. Thank you. That’s all I gotta say. Thank you.”
/>
I fight back the tears as I look into my prince’s blue eyes, see the broken warrior behind his scarred face, feel the isolation and uncertainty racking his muscled, tattooed body. They say that there’s no better way to break a man than to give him fame and success and then take it all away. There’s also no better way to test a man than to take everything away and see what’s left at the end, see what’s left at the core, see what he’s made of, see who still stands by him, who still loves him . . .
“I love you,” come the words, and I don’t even realize I said them until I see Gun almost break down in front of all his tough-guy inmate buddies. “I fucking love you, you big, tattooed, muscle-bound sweetheart of a psycho. I love you, and I’m going to be proud to bear your children.”
Gun’s eyes go so wide I wonder if he’s going to pass out. “Holy shit, little quilter! Did you just use the f-word?” he says with a grin that lights up his handsome face in the most wonderful way.
“Wait, I just said I loved you and that I’m pregnant with your babies and the thing that you’re most excited about is me using the fucking f-word?” I say in amused indignation.
“You . . . love . . . me,” he says, blinking as if he’s only just processing everything. “You’re . . . pregnant. Wait, what? You’re . . . pregnant?!”
I nod, my eyes wide as I shrug and hug myself. “Um, yeah. I said I had news for you, didn’t I? Now, when do you get out? I really don’t want to perpetuate the stereotypes of women from Middle America raising children whose fathers are in prison.”
Gun is rubbing his face and shaking his head, grinning ear to ear as he stares down at my belly and then looks up into my eyes, taking a quick glance at my boobs along the way, of course. “Well,” he says through that grin of unbridled happiness. “And I don’t want to perpetuate the stereotypes of tattooed football-player baby-daddies not marrying their baby-mamas. You get what I’m saying, little quilter?”
I stare at him, my eyes going wide as my face lights up, as stars explode in my head like fireworks, as if suddenly my story is heading towards that fairy-tale ending I dreamed of when I clutched that crinkled photo of my blue-eyed prince.
“Um, are you asking me to . . . if I’ll . . . whether I’ll . . .” I start to babble.
“I’m not asking, little quilter,” he growls across the table, those blue eyes narrowing as that cocky, determined grin breaks wide on his taut face. “I’m telling you how it’s gonna be. Remember, I’m a sick man with no impulse control. So don’t cross me.” Those blue eyes are narrowed to slits now, and I can see his body tightening as he furtively glances at the guards milling about at the far reaches of the open visitors room. “And by the way, just because I have no impulse control doesn’t mean my impulses are wrong. The impulse to kick that reporter’s ass wasn’t wrong. The impulse to break his skinny neck for leaking those photos of us wasn’t wrong. Yeah, I shoulda controlled myself for my own best interests, but the impulse itself was right on, baby.” He pauses and shrugs. “Just like the impulse to make you mine wasn’t wrong, was it, little quilter?”
I shudder in my seat as I feel the heat pass through me in the most wicked way. “No,” I whisper, glancing at the guards as I see Gun’s body coil up like a beast about to pounce. “The impulse wasn’t wrong. It was right on. It was perfect. It was fate. I’m yours, Gun. I was always yours. I knew it when I was ten years old and clueless what that even meant.” I swallow hard and shake my head. “In a way I still don’t know what it means, where this is all gonna lead. But I know I’m yours. I’m yours, Gun. Just like this baby is yours. Just like—”
But I can’t finish my sentence, because Gun has kicked his chair away and leaned over the table, grabbed me by the back of the neck, and is kissing me like he means it, kissing me like I’m his, kissing me like there’s no one else in the room, no one else in the world, no one else in the universe. He’s kissing me like I’m his forever, and I am.
And as the others inmates hoot and holler, cheering on the hero quarterback and his curvy baby-mama, I just laugh and clap too as the guards wrestle my beast of a man away from me and cuff him tight. I cover my mouth and gasp, hoping they don’t beat him down. Then I smile again when I see that the guards are grinning too, shaking their heads at each other. It’s only then that I remember that yes, my man is a tattooed criminal in prison orange. But he’s also a millionaire athlete, and fair or not, millionaire athletes in America are royalty. They’re kings, flawed though they may be. Kings . . . or princes.
“My blue-eyed prince,” I whisper to myself as the guards lead my new fiancé away in handcuffs. “And in the story the prince always ends up with his princess, doesn’t he?”
“Three months, babe!” Gun shouts from near the door, grinning wildly as the guards just keep laughing at the crazy scene of their hometown quarterback acting like a lovesick fool “After the diagnosis came through, they moved up my parole hearing and granted an early parole so I can have surgery. And if I behave myself, that’ll be it. See you then, babe! Take care of my babies. I’ll see you in three months! I’ll see you in—”
9
THREE MONTHS LATER
GUN
I see nothing at first. Then slowly a light shines into my eyes. I wonder if I’m dead and this is the light at the end of the tunnel or some shit. But no, it’s a flashlight, and when I blink my eyes back into focus, I see a doctor’s smiling face.
“You can come in. He’s awake,” says the doctor to someone else, and I turn towards the curvy outline and break into a grin that makes my fucking head hurt so bad I almost shout.
It’s Gale, and I can see from the lines on her face that she hasn’t slept at all, that she’s been worried sick about me, that she’s been sitting outside the operating room and praying, wishing, fighting this battle with me.
“They said the surgery was a success,” Gale whispers, reaching out and touching my face gently. I smile up at her, and then glance down at her beautifully pregnant body. “You’re going to be fine, Gun. You need to stay here for two weeks so they can monitor your brain scans. But they said the operation was clean and there isn’t any swelling or scarring. You can even play football again. Eventually. If you want.”
I raise an eyebrow at the last question. I’d been following the progress of the Philly Firestorm while in prison. The last season was a total fucking bust after I flamed out. But the Firestorm had such a shitty record that they got a top draft choice and ended up selecting a hotshot young quarterback who is admittedly pretty good. His only weakness is that he had a lot of success in college tucking the ball down and running for first downs. That works well in college, but not so much in the pros. Out here the defensive guys are big but they’re also fast as fuck. You step outside the pocket, away from the protection of your offensive line, and these defensive ends and linebackers will hunt you like prey and run you down before you know what hit you.
And the day before my surgery, the Firestorm’s shiny new quarterback got swallowed up by a linebacker the size of a semi-truck. Nothing career-ending, but he’s out for the season with a broken leg, and my old team is looking at another lost season with just a journeyman second-stringer who doesn’t know the offense and has a noodle for an arm. I saw some speculation in the Philly press about me being out of prison and technically eligible to play as long as I was healthy. After news of my brain tumor got around, there was a lot of sympathy for me. And after it came out that I was now engaged to the woman I supposedly forced myself on, it left all the doubters and naysayers looking like fucking idiots. Strangely enough, I’m now more popular and loved than I was even after my best season at the helm of the team! As much as the bloodthirsty American media loves to bring a man down when he gets too big, they love a redemption story even more! Go figure! Sometimes you need to fall to rise up, don’t ya?
“I’m retired,” I say softly, reaching out and taking Gale’s hand in mine, feeling the love betw
een us in a way that makes me think I could pull the needles and wires out and just walk out of here. “This is Chapter Two. This is our story now, Gale.”
She sighs and squeezes my hand. “It was always our story, Gun. But that doesn’t mean you need to give up what you love, stop being who you are, who you were born to be.” She forces a smile and shrugs. “I’m certainly not gonna stop making quilts, no matter how ridiculous you think that is. In fact, I brought you a gift. Lookie!”
Gale turns and bends over to reach for something, and I take the opportunity to glance at her ample ass. To my delight I feel my cock move under the blue hospital sheet, and I grin as if that’s the foolproof signal from my body that I’m just fucking fine. If my cock still works, who gives a shit about my brain.
I’m still grinning at the sight of my wife’s pregnant, curvy body, imagining how delightful it’s gonna be to fuck her brains out once I get a chance. The urgent need for my surgery was a major factor in my early release, and in fact my parole date was scheduled to coincide with the surgery. So I still haven’t had a chance to seal the deal with my fiancée and baby mama. Fuck, it’s been six months since I’ve sucked her boobs, smelled her cunt, slid my cock into her—
“What in God’s name is that?” I say as she holds up a multicolored rectangle of patchwork colors that makes my head hurt again. “Hey Doc, I think I need some more painkillers!”
Gale gasps in mock horror, tossing the quilt at my smiling face and putting her hands on her wonderfully wide hips. “I think maybe they missed something in that surgery,” she says, raising an eyebrow and glaring at me. “I think that impulse control thing still isn’t working right. You’re supposed to say, Aw, that’s beautiful, honey.”
“Aw, that’s beautiful, honey,” I say in a muffled deadpan, the quilt covering my face. I reach up and pull it off me, and when I actually take a moment to look at it, I realize that fuck, that really isn’t half bad. “Huh,” I say after I look at how much care she’s taken on each little square, how it’s three layers of cloth with perfect, symmetrical stitching that must have taken immense focus and concentration. Slowly I go over each square, realizing that she’s put my entire fucking life into this quilt. It’s like a scrapbook of my past, everything from my childhood to my teenage years to the date I was drafted. I blink as I see a game ticket from the day we met six months ago sealed under a layer of cloth so thin it’s transparent. And then I frown when I see two more squares with the names Grace and Gillian embroidered in pink thread.
Curvy for HIm: The Quilter and the QB Page 6
