Brawler (28 page)

I fell on her back tightening my grip around her, taking her flush to the bed. Fucking her, claiming her, owning her, pumping my hips, and soon shoot my seed into her perfect body. My last act of claiming is when I attach my mouth, teeth, and tongue to her neck where that motherfucker had hurt her, and bite down.

Erasing that piece-of-shit’s mark forever and replacing it with my own.

She screams in bliss, arches her back, then somehow tightens the hold her pussy has on me, and then I yell some profanity, followed by coming the hardest I ever had in my life. I’m in a daze, totally spent. So minutes later when she’s wrapped around me sound asleep, I realize I’m holding her, one hand on her belly, and still sucking on my mark.

Tonight, I fell asleep feeling pretty fucking smug and pretty fucking peaceful.

W
aking up with a smile on my face is a nice change. Waking up with Jonas’ hands between my legs is even better. Taking my hands and sinking them into his hair, he works me faster and has me gasping, then coming in minutes. Surely that’s a record? Either that or I’m just easy.

Very pleased with himself, he kisses me and pulls me on top of him, whispering a rough “Mornin’, Princess” in my ear. Reaching down to give him some lovin’ in return, he stops me, but before I can ask why he tells me, “I’ve got my ring on your finger, kid in your belly, and your come still on my tongue, so get your sweet ass up so we can go apply for our marriage license.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says. “Rogan and Venessa are meeting us in an hour to act as witnesses, so get that sweet ass dressed and ready to go.”

“What’s the rush? Not that I don’t want to, but —”

“I ain’t waiting to make you mine, I told you that.”

“You did a pretty good job of that last night, Captain.” I smile watching his eyes close, knowing he’s remembering, too.

“I did, didn’t I? Well, I still want it legal, so the first step is the license.”

“Okay,” I say in agreement.

Getting up from the bed, he takes me around the waist, pulling me onto his lap. Tilting my neck for access, he starts sucking on my neck again, and though it hurts, it feels really fucking good, too.

“You still wanna marry me?”

“Of course,” I tell him. “More than anything.”

“Love you, Princess.”

“I love you too, Jonas. Always.”

“I’m going to be a good husband and father, I promise.”

“I never doubted that,” I tell him, turning around. “We’ll do what they didn’t. We’ll do it right.”

“You’re gonna be an amazing mom, Macy.”

When he releases me, I kiss him soundly on the lips, turn, and make my way to the bathroom smiling the entire way, knowing he’s staring at my naked ass. Just before closing the door I say a silent prayer, hoping my ass is spared in the delivery of this baby.

Once in the bathroom I take care of business, then hop in the shower. Nausea is present, but I’m fighting it back, silently begging my own body for a small break. This time yesterday I was an emotional mess, pitiful, destroyed by grief and loss, and now this morning I’m engaged to be married to the man I love. Holy fucking shit.

Reality starts creeping in while I rinse the soap off. What about who wants my data? What of the missing girls? My research? My job? I have so much to do, and not a lot of time to do it in. Oh, and I don’t know, plan a wedding, too. Stepping out of the shower I take a deep breath, towel off, and calm myself. I can do this, all of it. One step at a time, if anyone can multitask, it’s me.

Putting on my lotion, deodorant, and moisturizer I drop the towel to look in the mirror to see if I look as different as I feel. Once the bathroom steam clears I turn to the left then slowly turn to the right and yep, I look different, all right. Leaning forward over the sink and turning my neck, I see I’m sporting a hickey the size of a goddamn hockey puck.

“Jonas Rafe, you motherfuckin’ sonofadonkeywhore!”

Within seconds the door busts open with Jonas looking around for something to kill. When he sees no threat he approaches me and asks, “The fuck are you screaming for?”

“Look. At. My. Neck,” I grate out.

“Oh, right, that. What about it?”

“What about it? A little extreme, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. Since we can’t get married today, I wanted you to wear my mark and now you are, simple.”

“Why didn’t you just tattoo ‘Property of Jonas Rafe’ on my fucking forehead?”

“You’d go for that?”

“I may kick your ass if you don’t promptly exit this bathroom.”

“Princess, come on, it looks hot. Get used to it, I’m going to be doing that every chance I get,” he says, then exits wearing a fucking smirk on his face. “Oh, and that language? Probably not good for the baby.”

Slamming the door closed, I throw my robe on, tilt my head, and look in the mirror one last time. Fuck, he’s right, it is hot. I’ve never had anyone claim me like this before. I don’t know, but it’s very … primitive. I’m so fucked, and with that thought, I grab a scarf before leaving the bedroom, knowing that what’s under this scarf is mine, and I am not sharing it.

C
ity Hall is a clusterfuck, but I expect nothing less. All I care about is that the license is applied for, and the next step is vows. I want those vows. Rogan and Venessa go do their own thing after, while we do ours. If I give Macy her way, she will obsess over finding those girls, who accessed the Rohypnol to dose Venessa, and who paid Briggs to assault her for the info in her head. So I’m taking Venessa’s advice and gently steering her in another direction, hoping she’ll allow Rogan and I to do the investigating. As if I wasn’t paranoid about her in the field before, I’m flat-out frantic now that she’s pregnant. Venessa is going to be calling asking Macy to go shopping which she also told me could blow up in my face because, and I’m paraphrasing here, “We don’t fucking shop.”

After making lunch she goes right back to work collecting more data. Shortly after sitting down she runs to the bathroom to chuck and makes me promise to stay in the kitchen, so here I am. Feeling helpless. Coming from the bathroom, she looks so tired. Beautiful, but tired. She smiles at me and digs right back in, typing all sorts of shit I’ll never understand into her computer. My own brain is getting foggy looking up anything that might link these girls to Macy, her research, the club, or the hospital, but I’m coming up with vague leads. Needing a break, I open a new search engine and type in pharmaceutical scientist to get a better idea of what exactly it is she does, and once I start reading my eyes glaze over. Jesus, it’s like smart people speak a completely different language.

Basically, there are several branches, but she specifically works in pharmaceutical chemistry, and her job is to study drugs and determine how drugs affect the body, and also how the body affects drugs. If I’m reading it right, that is. Bottom line, she’s wicked fucking smart. 

I’m focusing so hard on learning more about her career that she is able to sneak up on me and wrap her arms around. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.

“Venessa called,” she says, licking my ear. “Get this, she wants to go shopping.”

“I take it that ain’t something she usually does?”

“Try never, but she’s excited for the baby and wants to grab some things. Do you mind?”

“It’s cool. Rogue and I have to hit the station, so you can take my truck if you want.”

“You’d let me drive it?”

“It’s insured.”

“I’m not going to wreck it.”

“If you drive like you walk you will. Like I said, it’s insured.”

“It was one time!” she squeals in my ear. “The cement was uneven!”

“Princess, take my truck. Shop, have fun, and meet me back here for dinner.”

“Oh, okay then,” she says, switching moods, then kissing me on the cheek.

Ten minutes later she leaves. Five minutes later Rogan pulls up, and two minutes after that I’m told two more girls from her work are missing, and I can’t help but feel time is running out and that my woman has a target on her back. Rogue and me have to figure some shit out, and soon. My anxiety has anxiety, knowing my woman is out there without me. No, it doesn’t help knowing her and Venessa are a powerhouse. I’m not there, so we need to investigate and put this shit to bed.

F
irst stop was a drive-thru run for a fountain pop. Normally, I drink water or coffee, but lately it’s all about fountain pop. Talking about everything and nothing, we make good time, even though driving on Ford Road at any time of the day brings out the crazy in both of us. Then we hit this baby store in Canton, and swear to god I started sweating the second we walked in. All of the women in there were just so … motherly. They were all so happy and excited to be there, and we weren’t there five minutes when we both felt like we should walk out and just order everything online. It’s obvious we aren’t suburb girls, and if the looks we were getting are anything to go by, the moms-to-be knew we were out of our element and new to their turf. Truth? They all looked alike. They all had this fucked-up hair like they couldn’t decide to cut it off or grow it out; it was just blah. Apparently out here, women are all required to wear cardigans and Sperrys, because there were sweaters and sparkly boat shoes aplenty. Which is funny considering we’re nowhere near water. I have to wonder how out of place we look, because these bitches look ready to lynch. They can’t possibly know we’re armed, can they?

Venessa steers me to the diaper aisle, which seems harmless until you really took a look at it. There are hundreds of choices, dozens of brands, and you can choose from dry fit, ultra snug, leak proof, leak guard, sensitive skin, and overnights. Why not just make one universal diaper? Who has the time and patience for this?

“$30.00 a box? For disposable shitters? Hope your kid doesn’t have plans for college,” she tells me.

“I don’t get it,” I tell, her picking up a box of newborn diapers. “How many times a day can a kid possibly piss and shit? I mean, I may have one in me at best, and that’s even after three cups of coffee. So I have to change it every time it goes? I’ll never leave the house again.”

“I’m all about aunty duty, but I draw the line at shit. I don’t do shit, Macy.”

“You’d think I’d be worried about destroying my vagina, but I’m not. I mean, let’s do the math, it stands to reason the kid will eat every few hours, so … oh my fuck!”

“What?” She says whirling around ready to fight on my behalf.

“My tits are going to be tube socks with tennis balls! This kid is going to suck me dry! Shit!”

“Give it bottles then, save your tits.”

“I’m allowed to do that?”

“Your tits, your baby, do whatever you want.”

“I really need to study up on this,” I tell her, and that’s when we’re interrupted.

“May I help you find anything?” says the voice, a voice I know. Slowly, Venessa and I both turn, and any thoughts of diapers, tits, and wrecked vaginas leaves me, and the urge to choke a ho takes it place.

“You,” I growl.

“Oh my god,” she says, backing up.