I can feel myself crumbling, breaking into pieces. Falling apart. “I can’t do this,” I tell King, his lips on my jaw, kissing a rough path down my neck.
I want to give in, feel him all around me, but I know better. I know I can’t this time.
“Then don’t do it,” he growls, tearing at my shirt. Popping the buttons and pulling it open, I’m in nothing but my lace bra, and it feels so right and so wrong.
I love him so much but hate him just the same. My heart hurts, each beat painful, just being near him. He rips me apart, holding the pieces together with his scarred hands, and at any moment he could let them go, dropping them again onto the floor, and I can’t do that. Can’t let him do that to me again.
“You have to go.” He palms my heavy breast, sucking a nipple into his hot mouth. My head lulls to one side, leaning back against a cupboard. I missed this. Missed him.
I can feel myself falling. Slipping. Tumbling. I can’t let myself fall again.
“I have to stay,” he says, going for my pants. On his knees in front of me, King pulls down the zipper of my gray work pants so slowly, it’s painful.
King does something that breaks my heart—he kisses my belly. “Fuck,” he rasps, his voice gravelly. “Love you. Both of you.”
We can’t do this. I can’t do this. “Please, stop,” I plead, my voice hoarse with clogged emotion. I can’t hear those words right now, not when I need to be strong.
King stops.
“We can’t be together.” He doesn’t look happy hearing my words.
“Why the fuck not?” King stands and steps away from me, his shoulders tense, ready for a fight.
“Because I can’t love you, and I can’t trust you right now. Too much as happened.”
He shakes his head, scrubbing at his beard. “That’s my baby,” he tells me, pointing at my stomach. “I’m not leaving my baby.”
“I’m not asking you to.” I’m asking him to give me time. Give me space.
“So then, what the fuck do you want from me, Samantha?”
“I don’t know. Proof?” This isn’t easy. There’s no simple solution. Things aren’t just going to fall back into place. There’s work. There’s time. There’s proof.
“Proof?” he growls, his face screwed up. Brow furrowed, he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t know what I want. I don’t really know what I want.
“That you’ll stay.” That’s the proof.
King doesn’t push and he doesn’t pull. He doesn’t ask me anything else. He just levels me with a look, a deadly look, and says, “That’s my baby, Samantha. I’m not goin’ any fuckin’ where.” He turns and storms out, the door slamming behind him. A picture falls off my wall from the force.
I feel sick to my stomach.
Standing in my dark kitchen, alone, I stare at the hole he left in my wall while listening to the engine of his bike fire up and take off out of my driveway, and then fades into nothing.
It’s been two days, and I can’t get off my couch. I eat on my couch, sleep on my couch, entertain myself on my couch. I feel like I have the damn flu. Morning sickness and a broken heart don’t mix.
I keep seeing King in my kitchen, on his knees, telling me he loves me, and I keep hearing me turn him away, telling him no. I know it was the right move, the right thing to do, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.
Five months pregnant today, and I feel like a beached whale, laid up on my couch, heart sick. It’s lovely.
Laying a hand on my belly, I feel my baby kick. It’s something I wish King could feel. Something I wish we could share.
My phone vibrates from my coffee table, and Ellison’s name runs across the screen. I debate on whether or not to answer it, but figure if anyone can pull me out of this funk, it’s her. “Hey?”
“Uh…” she says, her voice distracted. “You might want to come down to the club.” She sounds weird. Off.
“Why?” I ask, sitting up.
“King’s here.”
My heart sinks and my stomach twists. “Why? Why is he there?”
I can hear her suck in a quick breath, gasping. “Hurry the fuck up before someone ends up dead.”
I don’t answer her. I hang up and get off the couch and head for my door.
King’s gonna end up killing someone.
Rushing into the bar, I see stools all over the room, knocked over and thrown to the side. The room is a mess, but quiet. A quiet that sends your imagination running into the woods.
I start to panic when I find a sweatshirt on the floor covered in blood. Not a little blood either. Pools of blood.
Sitting on the couch in the corner is Tyler, and he looks bad. Worse than bad. Buck and Rocky are next to him and they’re talking low. They’re voices are soft, but firm.
“What’d you do?” I cry, my voice rising to the level of panic as I look around for King.
He snorts a humorless laugh, lifting his head to look up at me. “Handled business.” I want to hit him.
“Handled business? What? What does that mean?” But I know what it means. It’s not good.
I feel myself swaying, my head swimming. I sit down before I fall down. Choking on my tears, I ask, “What’d you do to him? Where is he? Where’s Dad?” I’m scared to hear his answer. I love my brother, but if he did something to King, I’ll never be able to forgive him.
“Not your fucking business, Sammy.”
I start to spiral, hard and fast. “It is my fucking business. Whatever happened between King and I is between us. Not you, not anyone!” I scream, my throat aching as I jump out of my seat.
Ty’s up and off the couch in an instant too, and in my face. T’s never been one to take shit, but I don’t care, I’m dishing it. “It’s none of your goddamn business. It’s club business,” he sneers, his voice deadly. “Take your ass back home.” He points at the door, sending me on my way without so much as a second glance.
Balling up my fist, I swing and connect, hitting him in his already bloody face. I’m so mad, rage coursing through me. “I fucking hate you for this.”
Someone grabs me—could be Rocky or it could be Buck—but I fight back. Hard. “Calm the fuck down, Sammy,” Rocky growls in my ear, his arms wrapped around my middle.
“Fuck you,” I sneer, throwing my head back and connecting with something hard.
Rock grunts, but doesn’t let me go. “Jesus, Sam. Shut the fuck up and calm down.”
“No.”
I struggle and fight until my dad comes in like thunder. He’s mad. Livid. “Put her down!” He nods at Rock, his face murderous.
Striding across the room and up to me, he grabs my shoulders. “Calm down,” he says slowly, carefully. “It’s club business.” I open my mouth to argue, so beyond fired up, I’m delirious. “But,” he adds slowly, watching me carefully. “King’s outside.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t care how crazy I look. Tears and the tantrum be damned. I haul ass out the door and find King. Relief like I’ve never felt before overwhelms me.
He’s okay.
King’s alive.