Kat

8 days later…

Folding laundry on the bed in my quasi-room, I separate the girls’ clothes from mine in nice, neat piles while they do their homework in their bedroom. It’s been an exhausting week. Between Kade and Rosie’s constant bickering, aka weird foreplay, and me being unusually tired, I’ve not been in the best of moods. I could blame this on Ryker, but that’d give him more credit than he deserves. The singular text he sent on Sunday has gone unanswered. As I said, I’m ignoring him. That’s what you get when you choose to skip out on family without a word. Dad and Bear assure me it’s not what I think. Of course, they’d say that. What else can they say? Sorry, but your ex, who says he loves you, is taking care of his pregnant wife? I think not. Hell. I’m not even mad about it. Just tired. Tired of being cooped up. Tired of not working. Tired of my feet hurting and ankles swelling. Tired of peeing every hour. This is as much pregnancy woes as it is anything else. The little one isn’t taking it easy on mama. Three a.m. ballet in my belly has become the norm as of late. I’ve tried to convince her that when I sleep she should sleep, but she’s rebelling—typical kid. She’s unborn going on fifteen.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door.

“Yes?” I call out.

“It’s me.”

The air seizes in my lungs, and my heart sputters to a disbelieving halt before refiring all engines. The shirt I’m holding slips through my numb fingers, tumbling back onto the small pile as I stare blankly at the wall straight ahead, teeth sunk into my healed bottom lip. I blink twice, praying that I’m hearing things in my old age.

A second knock reverberates.

No such luck.

“We need to talk.”

No, we don’t.

Shaking myself out of this fog, I pretend I’m deaf and fold Roxie’s shirt that I dropped.

“Katrina, I know you can hear me.”

Nope. No, I can’t. Real mature, I know. Don’t hold it against me.

“You never answered my text.”

Sure didn’t.

“It’s not what it seems.”

That’s what they all say.

Why’s he here anyhow? Eight days of absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. Whoever made that line up is a big fat liar liar pants on fire.

The next shirt gets half-assed folded and tossed atop the others. Not that the girls will care. Doing laundry is my least favorite chore. I only do it when I have to. Folding clothes is more of a pain than it’s worth. If I wouldn’t feel guilty about balling the clothes up and chucking them into a drawer, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

“I miss you.”

Uh huh. And I’m Lord Voldemort. Whoops, my bad. I mean, he who shall not be named.

“Baby, please. We need to talk.”

Damn him, and that lusciously deep bass steeped with regret that calls to my tender insides like a broken tiger to his tigress… Why’d Ryker have to go and pull out the big guns? It’s my weakness. Phony or not, doesn’t matter, my traitorous gut’s going haywire, wanting to give in to temptation. Good thing I’m stronger than that. I dunno how he got in this house without Kade carving Jack O’ lanterns out of his testicles. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes his bro’s here and they have it out. While I may not be pissed at Ryker, Kade’s a different story. His anti-Ryker rantings are a daily reminder as to why Dickcheese is my best friend, and I’m blessed to have him in my life. How many women can say they have a platonic male best friend? Not many. Kade hasn’t left the cabin since he moved his shit in. Unless it was to take the girls to school. Aside from that, we’re inseparable. Now if I could get him to give up the remote once in a while, we’d be set.

Going about my laundry business undeterred, Ryker tries again. “You don’t have to believe me. But it’s club business. That’s why I couldn’t and can’t tell you why I was gone.”

Rolling my eyes and smacking my lips together in agitation, I shake my head.

Liar. He was with Vanessa. That’s no secret.

“You need to punch me. It’ll make ya feel better.”

Yes, it would.

Testing that theory, I squeeze my fist together, turning my knuckles to snow. Cupping my opposite palm, I lightly punch it, satisfied by the smack that echoes on impact.

“Katrina. We. Need. To. Talk.”

“No. We. Don’t!” I seethe, powerless to stop myself from putting him in his damn demanding place. Who does he think he is?

The doorknob turns, and Ryker enters the bedroom without permission. So much for not stepping on any toes or pushing my limits. He’s in my domain without consent. Not that that’s stopped him before.

Heavy footfalls clomp across the hardwood, spiking my pulse with each step. Familiar heat saturates my back through my thin t-shirt as Ryker wraps his big arms around my much smaller frame, hands splaying on top of our daughter. Lips nestle into my hair, which I left down today. I don’t dare breathe. Don’t dare move. There’s nothing to say here. He’s not gonna play me again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me the other billion times it’s happened, shame on me.

A sense of dread boils up my throat, forming a knot there that’s difficult to swallow.

“Hi, baby,” he mutters tenderly, delivering an equally tender kiss to my head, as his fingers massage tiny circles along my stretched skin, eliciting unwanted goosebumps.

Briefly closing my eyes, I rewind the clock three hours, when Ryker was a figment of my imagination. Not in the living flesh, overwhelming me with affection. Three hours ago, there was no scent of him lingering in the air. No jagged southern drawl. No tingling breath wafting across my skin. Or the promise of future pain lingering like a putrid stench. I was fine. Mending myself after a small blow to the solar plexus when he disappeared last week. I’ve moved on. Which I’m an expert at. Having him here is ruining all the progress I started to rebuild. This needs to stop.

“Please don’t touch me,” I rasp, afraid that if I touch him, I’ll shatter into a million pieces of nothingness.

Water swims in my eyes.

“Kat. Please don’t do this.” His voice cracks.

Embracing my resolve with grace, I slip my eyes closed. Two tears slide down my cheeks. “It’s done.”

Ryker clears his throat and holds on a little tighter as if I won’t force him to go. That he doesn’t want to. Like he needs me when we all know that’s a fat lie. I should’ve released him from my heart ages ago. Carved the pieces out with a spoon and let them shrivel and die in the cemetery where broken dreams lie. Instead, I pushed them deeper, hiding them away from the world so I could go on and do what I had to do. Stupid me. A raw sob crawls up my throat, and I force it back down. This is enough. I can’t live like this anymore. Here today. Gone tomorrow. Loving me today. Loving her more tomorrow. I hate when my equilibrium’s rocked. That seems to happen a lot lately. And it’s harder to handle when my pregnancy hormones are out of whack.

Ryker’s phone vibrates against my ass from inside his jeans pocket. Heaving a mournful sigh, he forces himself to let go to check it.

“Fuck!” he bellows. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This isn’t over Kat. But Vanessa’s in labor. I gotta take her to the hospital.” As quickly as Ryker arrived, he departs, delivering a chaste kiss to my cheek before dashing from the room. Today, he will be a father again. Today, he and his wife will reconcile.

Life isn’t fair.

Angry with the world, I fling all the clothes off the bed with a wrecked cry that punches its way out of my broken soul. Climbing onto the mussed mattress, I curl into a ball on my side, and let my iron strength disperse into oblivion. Tears fall. Sobs wrack my frame. Snot drips, and I don’t give a hoot. Stuffing my face into the soft pillow, I give myself permission to mourn the shitty happenstances in my life. Liquid anguish falls for my girls. For losing Ryker when I never really had him. What a fool I’ve been. Texas is gonna test my strength much more than when he left the first time. When they say God only gives you what you can handle, well, he must think I can carry mountains on my back. And I’ll be damned if I prove him wrong. I’m Katrina Remington, and I’m a motherfucking survivor.

“Kat, wake up. Kat,” Rosie shakes me urgently awake. My eyes pop wide open, as a douse of adrenaline kicks me in high gear. Wait … what’s going on? Where am I? Oh … right. I was crying and must’ve fallen asleep. What time is it?

Yawning, I roll onto my back, hand lying atop my jackhammering heart. Rosie’s stricken face stares down at me. “You scared the piss outta me. Not literally, but still. What’s up?” I ask.

“You need to get up now. Kade has the girls. This isn’t a drill. Get out of bed.”

I sit up slowly. That’s not good enough for her. Rosie grabs my hand in a death grip and drags me in a half-jog behind her out of the bedroom, and down the hall without giving my brain a chance to catch up. What the hell’s going on?

“Rosie?”

“There’s a dozen or more bodies in the woods. My motion detectors just went off. It’s about to get bloody. And you and the girls need to get to the safe room before Kade and I handle these bastards.”

Rosie forces me into the kitchen, headed straight for the pantry where the floor panel has been lifted, exposing a set of wooden stairs. Whoa. That’s fancy. The kind of James Bond shit you see in movies. Knowing I’d be a fool not to listen, I diligently follow my bodyguard down the steps. There’s a single bulb dangling from the ceiling in the basement. Whoever built this space was ready for the apocalypse. The walls are smooth concrete. The floors and ceiling the same. In the center of the near barren room is a thick, steel door pried wide open. Inside are my kids and Kade.

“Mom!” Scarlett bolts off the bed she’s seated on and darts for me. Kade puts an arm out stopping her before she can make it two steps.

“Sit down. She’s coming in here with you,” Kade instructs in a brisk, no-nonsense tone.

Scarlett’s tiny nose scrunches at being reprimanded by her favorite person as she immediately complies. Roxie, trying to mollify her sister, throws an arm over her shoulder for support. Good big sis.

Rosie tugs me into the cramped metal room that’s not much larger than a prison cell. There’s a metal toilet and sink like those in jail. A bunk bed. The inlayed shelves are stocked with water and nonperishable foods. On the wall, there’s a fancy number pad that Rosie points at, and a small surveillance screen that displays the spot outside the door in black and white.

“This is your only way out of the safe room.” She plugs a code in on the keypad.

“Is this like Jodi Foster in that movie?” I ask, struck … I dunno. I can’t believe this is happening. When did Ryker install this room? It had to have been when he built the cabin. Did he have the foresight to see this coming? Or is he one of those always prepared men? My money’s on the latter.

“Never saw whatever movie you’re talking about,” Rosie says at the same time Kade blurts, “Yes,” standing right outside the metal box where I can see him on the screen.

“I just activated the room. No one can get in without you opening the door first. The code to unlock it is your birthday. Ryker made it so you couldn’t forget. Now we must go.”

Kade pushes past bossy Rosie and wraps me in a quick but effective bear hug. Drawing back, he cups my face, meeting my worried eyes with his steadfast ones. He’s not even shaken up. “You’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”

There’s a loud crash upstairs.

“Shit,” Rosie hisses. Dressed in all black, she extracts a set of shiny throwing stars from her jacket. “They’re inside. We gotta go, Kade. There’s no time.”

Buying a few more precious seconds, Kade knocks our foreheads together. “I love you. Love you so much. You know that? No matter what happens. Know that I love you.”

Our damp fingers intertwine between us, holding on for dear life. I dunno what I’ll do if something happens to him. “I know. And I love you more.”

“Not possible. Now keep my girls safe. This place is bulletproof. Fireproof. You have a separate air system. Electrical. Water. All of it. You’re gonna be just fine. Take care of our family.”

“I will.”

Releasing him is one of the hardest moments of my entire life. There’s a kiss to the forehead. Ruffling of the girls’ hair. A parting wave and tight smile from Rosie. Then they’re gone. The metal door seals shut, and the mounting noise of enemy infiltration ceases to exist.

Kneeling in front of my daughters, which is no easy feat, I place a steady hand on each of their knees. This is going to be the scariest day of their lives, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do my best to siphon every ounce of their fear away. “There’s some bad stuff going to happen. We are going to be okay.”

“Are Kade and Rosie?” Tears shimmer in Scarlett’s eyes. It’s difficult to watch. Nobody wants to see their child cry.

This is the time in your life you can choose to lie to your kids or give it to them straight. I aim for a little something in the middle. “I hope so. But they love you. We love you. Now how about we get a snack since we didn’t get to have dinner?”

“Kade fed us grilled cheese and told us to let you sleep.” Combing her fingers nervously through her hair, Roxie then lays her hand on top of mine. It’s almost the same size. My babies are growing up too fast.

“That was nice of Kade.” I crack a sad smile. “He’s a great uncle.”

Scarlett nods, frowny-faced as Roxie agrees, “He is,” not fairing much better in the expression department. I hate they have to experience any of this. But I’m grateful they’re safe, and that trumps everything else in the entire galaxy. Scars can be mended if you live to fight another day.

Tucked beside Scarlett’s butt is a small stack of paperbacks they must’ve brought with them. I point to their mental outlet. “Why don’t you two read for a while?”

My girls exchange questioning looks, then nod at my request. Scarlett hands Roxie her book and takes her own. Scooting backward on the bed together, they rest their backs against the metal wall, pajama-clad knees drawn up. Hauling myself to my feet, I pull the blanket off the top bunk and drape it across their legs to keep them warm. It’s a bit nippy in here.

Not knowing what to do with myself, I grab a box of granola bars off the shelf and a bottle of water. Then I sit on the floor. This space wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for safety— to be used in case of an emergency. And since there’s no chairs to speak of, the floor is the next best thing, because there’s no way I’m climbing on the top bunk. Nor am I going to ask my daughters to do the same. I’m fine down here where I can watch the small black and white screen and feed my face. I’ve gotta do something to keep busy while I worry myself to death. They better not die out there, or I’m going to blame myself. None of this should’ve happened in the first place.

Clasping my hands in front of me, eyes closed, chin on chest, I pray. It doesn’t happen often, and I’m a bit rusty, but something’s better than nothing.

Please don’t let my favorite people die protecting me.