And when I do, I’ll use the knives from that night, and I’ll bring myself some sort of peace.
Sarah comes into the kitchen, and the dark memories fade, replaced by a grin as I watch her tiptoe. She’s holding her stomach, which is still flat, and slowly, gently, and quietly walks to the coffee pot. Sarah is pregnant. After what seems like forever, Prez and his ol’ lady finally get their happy ending, but Sarah isn’t fully excited just yet. She’s afraid of every move she makes because she doesn’t want to miscarry again.
She’s isn’t that far along. Eight weeks, maybe? Twelve weeks is usually the safe space for women not to worry about miscarriages, at least, that’s what Doc told us.
“What are you doing?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
Sarah yelps, holding her hand to her chest and taking deep breathes. Then, she lets out a gasp, sliding her hand to her stomach to make sure nothing happens. Her hand being there won’t stop a miscarriage, and I think she knows that. It’s only about comfort at this point. “Knives, you can’t do that. You scared me,” she says, taking a second to gather her breath. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and starts tiptoeing again to the coffee pot.
Even though Doc said she can have one cup of coffee a day, she doesn’t want to risk it, so Reaper bought a decaf coffee machine for her instead. She stares up at the cabinet above her and opens it, but the mug is just out of reach.
And she won’t reach for it. She’s too nervous to stretch her body. I’m worried about her. I understand she’s scared, but she needs to realize that normal, everyday things she always does aren’t going to hurt the baby.
“Here, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get it for you?” I walk out of the hallway between the kitchen and the gym, and Yeti follows behind me. When Sarah sits down, Yeti falls at her feet, then stares at all the entrances to the kitchen. He’s protecting her.
“Thanks, Knives. I know, I’m crazy for acting this way, but I’m so nervous.”
I grab the mug, set it on the counter, and pour the decaf coffee to the rim. God, I can’t imagine the withdrawals she must be experiencing. I have to have caffeine every day. “Here you go.” I place the mug in front of her, and she uses her hands to cup each side. I bet it’s nice and warm. “It’s okay to be afraid, but don’t be so afraid that you stop living your life. Okay?”
“We’ve wanted this for so long, and if we lose another… Knives, I don’t know what we would do.”
She tries to hold it in, but soon enough, the tears spill right out of her.
I don’t know what to say. I haven’t experienced this situation before. I want to say, ‘you’ll try again.’ It’s the logical answer, but kind of heartless, because I’m not being sympathetic. I used to be. The teenage me would have cried right along with Sarah, but I haven’t cried since that night.
Tears dropped are energy wasted.
“Why the hell is Sarah crying?” Reaper barges into the kitchen, and I lean back in the chair, crossing my hands over my chest to protect my heart.
If there is one thing I am afraid of, it’s Reaper’s ability to yank someone’s heart out of their chest and not blink twice as he watches it beat to a slow, irreversible stop.
“I’m hormonal, Jesse! And I’m afraid of everything I do. Knives was trying to encourage me! Don’t be mean to him.”
My brows raise to my hairline as Sarah buries her face in her hands and sobs. Reaper wraps his arms around her, and then gives me the stink eye when he notices my shirt is off. “You could have covered your hairy chest,” he says. “You’re a goddamn werewolf.”
I rub my hands down the fur, and Sarah turns around just in time to see me do it, which has me stopping, but her cheeks turn red. Something flashes in her eyes, and I stop rubbing down my chest, because she whispers something to Reaper and runs toward his office, leaving me wondering what the hell I did.
I know I’m hairy, but I’m not hairy enough to clear a room.
Reaper points a finger at me. “I’m saying this once. Walk around with a shirt on after this. Sarah is hormonal and the sex… is fucking amazing. She’s always needing sex, and apparently, men shirtless really get her revved up, but I don’t need my woman revved up over anyone but me, got it?”
“This has happened more than once?” I raise an eyebrow, trying not to laugh.
“Knives.”
“Oh, okay. I wouldn’t call it a pattern, Prez. Just a coincidence. Hormones are like that.”
“And Slingshot, Patrick, Badge, and Tank. One second with their shirts off and she comes running to me—” his eyes widen when he realizes what he is saying. “You have my permission to always be shirtless until she has the baby.” Reaper runs down the hall after his ol’ lady, whipping his shirt off to get down to business before he enters his office.
“You’re welcome!” I shout after him, which earns me the middle finger. This won’t be the last time I’m half-naked in front of Sarah. I have to listen to my President, right? I snort, taking Sarah’s coffee in my hand and taking a sip, only to spit it right back out when I taste the lack of caffeine.
How do people drink this?
My cell phone ringing from my bedroom has me getting up, pouring the coffee down the drain, and getting a new cup of coffee. I sit back down, letting the ringing come to an end. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. They can leave a voicemail.
I’m thinking about how everyone around me is finding their ol’ lady and being happy, but I don’t know if I’m capable of feeling happiness like that. My soul was damaged a long time ago, and there is no way it can be repaired.
Then the kiss I shared with Mary plays in my mind, and I remember a sliver of healing that started to thread the gaping hole in my spirit together again.
No, who am I kidding?
I’m beyond repair.
Crap.
This is the second time in a week I’ve been pulled over. The first time, I got out of it because I flashed the cop a pretty smile, but it didn’t work this time. Probably didn’t help that I was apparently “rude”, and “uncooperative”, and “being booked for wanton disregard for safety”.
So sue me, I’m not perfect.
The cell door slides shut, the metal clanking as it slams against the wall, locking into place. It smells like piss in here. I know I’m a bit reckless, but landing in jail for a speeding ticket, of all things, is a new low for me.
Even if it was kind of fun for a moment.
When I’m speeding down the road, the rush is almost too hard to explain. My foot against the pedal, pressing it against the floor as the needle on the speedometer climbs to the red lines. The engine roars, and when I hit 110 miles per hour, I feel like I’m flying, like I’m free.
Then a damn cop had to flip on his lights and ruin everything.
I grab the metal bars and push my face against them. “Hey, come on. Let me out of here. I don’t belong here. My speedometer is broken, honest.” It’s a lie, but I need to try something. The one phone call they gave me was useless, since Knives didn’t answer.
I don’t know why I called him. When they read me my rights and said I get one phone call, the first person that entered my mind was him. He is a pain in my ass ninety-nine percent of the time, but if there is one thing about that damn annoying man is it’s he’s dependable. When the men call him, he drops everything, and he is there for them.