Brawler (33 page)

The thought of her drug getting in the wrong hands terrified her, so once she had made her decision, I supported it. I explained all this to Rogan who agreed it was a smart decision, but the odds of the bad guys giving up looking for it were slim. They knew what it did, they knew how to get it, and because of that, my wife was still a target.

Tomorrow morning I’m taking her to the lab to clear out her things and to keep watch while she delivers her resignation. In the meantime, I want her to enjoy having her friends here. Seeing her happy makes me happy.

Looking down I see Boner dry humping my leg. I try shaking my leg out to get him off, but he ain’t letting go. “Dude, call him off, seriously.”

“That dog don’t listen to no one but Venessa. Just let him finish up; he don’t last long.”

“Fuck that,” I tell him. “I don’t want your dog coming on my leg. Venessa!” I yell. “Get rid of your Boner!”

Venessa leaves me hanging, Boner humping, and Rogan laughing. But when Macy walks in I forget all about the leg-humping Chihuahua and stare at my wife. Leaning down she pats the dog’s ass and he instantly let’s go in favor of being held by her. Can’t blame him, really. I wish she was rubbing my fucking belly right now.

“All better?” she asks.

“Feeling jealous, Princess.”

“Aww,” she, says kissing my cheek. “I’ll rub more than your belly later, Captain.”

“Fuck,” says Rogan. “You’re going to keep her knocked up all the time, ain’t you?”

“Let’s start with one,” she says, while I say, “Yes.”

“Ain’t got no problems with that,” he says, smiling. “Looking forward to being an uncle.”

My wife walks over gives Rogan a hug, and when he hugs her back instead of jealously, I feel peace. He’d protect her when I couldn’t, just like I’d do for him. He’s not a threat; he’s family.

“You’ll be a kick-ass uncle,” she says, breaking from him. “Nobody would fuck with my kid when you’re around.”

“Damn straight,” he says, serious.

“Hey Rogan? What’s your middle name?” she asks, which makes me smile because we talked about this last night.

“Jackson, why?”

“Just curious. Have fun boys,” she says, leaving us to manly things.

“So, RJ, I say, what’s our next step?”

“Call me RJ again and the next step is breaking your fucking nose.”

“Sensitive much?” I ask.

“What’s your middle name then, fucker?”

“It ain’t fucker,” I tell him. “It’s Michael.”

“Why’s Macy want to know my middle name for?” he asks.

“Because if it’s a boy she wants to use our middle names.”

He’s quiet for a moment and I go back to what I’m doing. Then he knocks on the table to get my attention. Looking up, he’s got a weird look on his face. “What?” I ask.

“You can’t let her give your kid my middle name, partner.”

“It’s supposed to be an honor, man. What’s your problem?”

“What’s your middle name again?” he asks.

“Michael,” I say. “I just fucking told you that.”

“What’s my middle name again?”

“Jackson,” I tell him, and oh. “Fuck.”

“Good to know I’m the thinker of the group. You need to Plan B that shit, partner. You name that kid Michael Jackson, we’re gonna be kicking all kinds of ass for him.”

“Point taken,” I tell him. “Still would be honored to give the kid your middle name, though. Back to the leads. What do we got?”

“Whatever,” he says. “Tapes ain’t bringing up nothing; not a single match. Those pics didn’t do shit, either. You got any ideas?”

“Not really,” I tell him. “She’s cleaning out her table at the lab tomorrow. Maybe I can snoop around there and see if I have any luck.”

“Fuck,” he says. “We gotta do something. I feel like we’re missing the big picture here. What does your wife think?”

“Truth?” I ask. “She won’t admit it, but she’s scared. I can tell by the shit she says that she thinks someone’s coming for her, and goddammit, man, I think she’s right.”

He nods, then adds, “You’ll protect your wife, partner. With your fucking life; I know you would. I’ll be there to help, too; ain’t gonna let nothing happen to either of them.”

I nod back, because really, what else could I do?

That night when my wife says goodbye to her friend, Venessa and Rogan go home and we go to bed. That night, I hold onto her with everything that I have because my gut tells me someone wants to take her.

J
onas is struggling.

I can feel it. He won’t admit it, of course, but he is. His worry covers him like a second skin. He wants to get me to the lab and back to the house where I’m safe. He’s not alone, though. I feel it too. I don’t want to make matters worse by saying what I’m thinking, but I feel it like he already knows. If I had to describe it, it’s like there’s this energy out there that wants to pull us apart. Sleeping last night was impossible. Jonas held onto me so tight I couldn’t move, and I could hardly breathe. But if keeping me close was a comfort to him, I wasn’t going to argue about his methods.

I’m hoping today’s prenatal checkup calms him a bit. Since it’s been well over a month I’m due to be checked, weighed, and measured. Putting on a smile for me, we stroll into the office hand in hand. Just having him here relaxes me. In my spare time I’ve been reading everything on babies and pregnancy and none of it eases my nerves. While he was in the shower this morning I made the mistake of Youtubing a birthing video. Three pushes, several screams, and a crowning shot later I shut it off, ran to the sink, and chucked in it. Fucking gross! Yes I’m a nurse, but I want no part of the delivery process. Especially when it’s my vagina being stretched out like an inner tube.

“Princess,” he says, nudging me getting my attention. “They called our name.”

On suddenly shaky legs we walk back, they weigh me, and I’ve gained six pounds, which are all in my ass. Handing me a paper gown I put it on open in the front and scoot back on the table while he stares at my tits.

“What’s that for?” he asks, pointing

“Vitals,” I explain. “Temp, BP, and pulse.”

“Do me,” he says.

I blink once to catch his meaning; then I laugh. He always lightens the mood. Standing up I roll it over to him, roll up his shirt to attach the Velcro cuff, insert the resonator onto the ditch of his arm, connect the  ear pieces, and start pumping it so I can get his blood pressure. “BP is 130 over 90,” I inform him. “Feeling nervous, Captain?”

“Yeah,” he says. “This room is filled with plastic pussy and it smells like crotches.”

“Plastic pussy?” I ask, taking his temperature.

“All those diagram things. No man needs to see the inner workings of pussy. We just know we like it in there, but I didn’t need to see it like that. Kinda ruins it.”

“Temp is normal, pulse is good,” I tell him. “So I guess you don’t want to watch the birth?”

“That’s an option?” he asks, rubbing his jaw. Rolling the cart back, I ease back onto the cold table.

“It is,” I explain. “Although it’s not mandatory. Would you want to cut the cord?”

“What cord?”

“The umbilical cord,” I say. “During the pregnancy and delivery it’s the lifeline from me to the baby. After delivery, the cord is cut so the baby can take his first breaths on his own.”

“The hell you say.”

“The cord provides food and oxygen while he grows, hence the term eating for two. Once he’s out, the cord isn’t needed anymore.”

“I’m gonna regret this, but what’s the cord attached to?”

Taking his hand, I put it over my belly button and nod, waiting to see if he gets it. When he pales he looks up at my face then down to my belly several times before speaking. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Laughing he slowly shakes his head and sits back down. Two quick knocks and my OB comes in and makes introductions. She goes on to explain how far along I am, asks me if I was having any problems, measures me, and then offers an injection to help with the nausea, which I am all for. When she brings the needle out, I look up at him and see his eyes are wild and he’s sweating.

“Jonas,” I say. “Look at me.” When he finally focuses, I start to worry. “Do you have vasovagal?” When he looks confused, I repeat myself. “Do you faint when you’re around needles?”

“No,” he whispers, so I ask him to pull up a chair close to the head of the bed. Turning toward him so he can’t see it the doctor wipes my hip, injects me, and I made it a point to not even flinch.

“All done,” she says.

In an effort to soothe him I make a request. “Could my husband and I hear the heartbeat?”

“Certainly,” she says, exiting the room, no doubt going to grab the Doppler.

“How bad?” I ask.

“It’s getting better,” he whispers. “We can really hear his heartbeat?”

“Yes,” I whisper, looking at him. “You’re going to be fine, Captain.”

He nods while rubbing his hands in mine. I tell him I love him and watch him fight to not let the panic take over. I’ve never had a panic attack, but to see my big, strong husband suffer from one was not easy. Deep down, I hope thearing the heartbeat won’t send him over the edge.

A
ll sorts of dirty thoughts were running through my head while my wife played nurse for me. Even the plastic pussy all over the room couldn’t stop my woody. But seriously, I could have done without all the reminders that my kid is hanging out inside his mother like he’s on a rappel line like a mountain climber. Cut the cord? I’m supposed to do that?

That’s when the panic started. I’m expected to
do
things. I thought my work was done. I mean, she’s carrying my kid. I hold her, she pushes; game, set, match.

When the doc pulled out a needle as long as my arm, the room started to close in on me. Heat took over my body and I was close to hitting the floor. Macy noticed and had me sit facing her. Holding onto her, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the doc jab that fucking sword into her hip, but I decided to focus on my wife. She didn’t even flinch.

Fuck.

When the doc says “All done,” I want to groan. Yeah, the needle may be done, but I’m not. I ain’t feeling so good. Then she asks to hear the heartbeat and the fog lessens a bit. She asks me how bad it is so I lie and tell her it’s getting better. It’s not getting better, but I am managing it. Then I felt excitement creep in a bit. Asking her if we can really hear it, she confirms, and the fog lessens some more.

She promises me I’m going to be fine and I choose to believe her. The doc rolls a machine in and explains it’s called a Doppler. Macy pulls her gown away and the doc puts a gel all over her tiny bump. She shivers and giggles. The fog lessens again. Watching her, watching the doc, and watching a screen that looks like some deep sea diving equipment, I wait to hear it.

Nothing.

The doc tells Macy to lean onto her side so she does; then it’s like the room explodes in sound. She squeezes my hand, but I’m just staring. The fuck is that?

“The heartbeat is strong,” says the doc, and Macy squeezes tighter. “Jonas, take this,” she says handing me the wand. “Hold it here.” I do, and the sound gets louder.
Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

“Move it slowly if you like.” But I can’t. I’m happy where I am. “That’s his heart?” I ask in wonder.

“Strong like his daddy,” says Macy. “Apply a little more pressure, Jonas, see what happens.” I do as she says and the
whomp whomp whomp
has a
whoosh
followed by another
whomp
. My eyes tear up. That’s my kid in there, connected to his momma by a cord where she feeds him and gives him what he needs to survive.

Panic gone.

Just peace now. Looking up at the doc, I motion for her to take the wand back. She does, wiping Macy off and closing her gown. “Congratulations, Mom and Dad. See you next month.” Then she quietly exits the room and I help my wife sit up.

“Well?” she asks quietly. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

“You scared, Princess?”

“A little, yeah,” she whispers, putting her shirt on. “But I think I’m more excited than anything.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I vow. “I’ll be right there with you.”