Chapter 4
ALESSANDRA
The absolute dead silence coming from the phone pressed against my ear instead of a dial tone adds to my rising panic, and I shiver in my soaked clothes, willing myself not to fall apart completely.
My cell was in the bag I threw in the parking lot of my building to get away…and that tree falling on the power line outside must have taken out all power to the area.
Hence, the stupid, useless phone in my hand.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
This storm has really fucked things up—almost as badly as I have.
Well, maybe not that much.
But close.
I slam the phone back into the cradle on the wall, scanning the main bar area of The Hawkeye Club, looking for any other options, any possible way to reach someone and let them know where I am—but short of Byron having an old-school CB radio stashed somewhere I don’t know about, it appears I’m fucked.
The place looks so strange like this, with the power out, only the emergency floodlights and exit signs lit by their battery backups. Normally filled with thumping bass, bright lights, and women shaking their asses for the clientele, it’s more like a ghost town now.
The tables all empty.
The stage and pole dark.
And I’m stuck here until power gets restored or until someone finds me.
But who the hell would be coming?
Everybody’s already out at Nana’s house. And the way the storm is building, no one’s getting here anytime soon, even if they thought to look for me here.
Another contraction hits me, the pain radiating across my lower back and around my stomach. Harder than the ones earlier today, this pain almost blinds me. I double over, pressing my hand against my belly and gritting my teeth.
Fuck!
The baby kicks, and I rub over the spot. “If you could just chill out for a while”—I gasp through the pain—“that would be great.”
Thunder booms, shaking the entire building, making the glasses in the bar rattle and the bottles of alcohol lining the back wall threaten to topple.
I look up at the ceiling. “If you could chill, too, I would appreciate it.”
The front door I entered through only a few minutes ago bangs open, slamming against the wall, and the blustery wind swirls into the club, bringing rain, leaves, and other small debris across the normally immaculate, shiny black tile.
Shit.
It’s getting even worse.
I waddle out from behind the bar and toward it to lock it back into place. Which I should have done when I first got in here. But I was so happy to be inside, out of the storm, where I might find a damn phone, that I didn’t even think to fully secure the door behind me.
All I could see was that phone on the wall—which is utterly useless now.
Damn storm.
Wrapping my hand around the solid wood, I start to push it closed against the battling wind that doesn’t seem to want me to do it. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls again, even louder through the open jamb, reverberating through the empty club and making me jump slightly at its intensity.
Something moves out in the whirlwind—a figure struggling through the driving rain and gusts strong enough to knock someone over.
My heart catches in my throat.
Did he follow me?
Panic surges through me, and I shove at the door harder, trying to get it closed before he reaches it.
But the person gets closer.
No. No. No.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating Pope for a millisecond before he nudges the door open wide enough to push me back slightly and slip inside the club.
He urges me to retreat all the way, then slams the door closed and throws the lock.
Water drips off him, like it has been me since I got in, leaving little puddles all over the tile, and he turns to face me. “Jesus, Al.” His gaze sweeps over me, checking me closely as he tries to catch his breath after fighting the storm. “Are you okay?”
It takes a moment to process that he’s really here, standing in front of me, waiting for me to answer.
Finally, I nod, even though I am far from okay with this entire situation and the confrontation earlier this morning. “Um, yeah. I guess.” I wave absently toward the road. “The tree fell in the road, and my car skidded into it. I couldn’t back up. My tires must have been stuck on a branch.”
His eyes widen. “Did your airbags deploy?”
I shake my head. “No, I think I slowed down enough…what are you doing here?”
He runs a hand over his face, wiping away some of the water. “My dad told me you didn’t make it to Nana’s. I was trying to get to your place and saw your car on the road.”
“How did you get past the tree?”
It was lying across the entire road, blocking his route to the club from that direction.
“The alley that runs along the building next to this…I parked in their lot and hopped the fence to get over here. I was on my way to your car to see if you were inside when I saw the door to the club bang open in the wind and figured you must have come inside.”
I release a heavy sigh of relief.
No matter how hard I’ve been avoiding Pope—and don’t want a repeat of the other night—at least I’m not riding out this stupid storm alone until help comes.
He gives me another concerned look. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I open my mouth to assure him I’m fine when another contraction hits and doubles me over. “Fuck!”
Pope steps forward, and strong arms wrap around me. “Shit, what’s wrong, Al?”
Fucking EVERYTHING!
And I can’t even scream that at him because the pain is stealing my ability to speak. “I’ve…been…having…contractions…”
“What?” His brow furrows, the instant shift into doctor mode visible in his intense examination of my face. “When did they start?”
“They’ve been happening for months, Braxton-Hicks. Dr. Brennan said I was only a centimeter dilated at my appointment last week, so it’s probably nothing to worry about, just a little intense.”
Keep telling yourself that.
Pope doesn’t seem convinced, either. His penetrating gaze travels over my soaked clothes and hands clutched across my stomach. “Everything in your records suggested you weren’t going to deliver early, but stress can induce early labor—”
I narrow my eyes on him, righting myself now that the pain has passed. “You looked at my records?”
He tenses, darting his eyes around the club instead of keeping them on me.
“I’m pretty sure that’s a fucking crime, Pope. A HIPAA violation…”
His head snaps back toward me, eyes blazing. “How the hell else was I supposed to know you were doing okay when you wouldn’t talk to me?”
“I talk to you.” My reply comes out a little too fast and a little too defensive.
He snorts incredulously and shakes his head, water dripping down the sides of his face. “Glaring at me from across the room and grunting ‘hi’ when we’re around other people doesn’t count as talking to me, Allie. Now”—he scans the club again—“let’s get you somewhere I can examine you.”
I tense and try to pull out of his hold. “What? No.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “Allie, I have to examine you to see if you’re in active labor or not.”
Shaking my head, I take a step back, freeing myself from his arms. “No, I’m fine. It’s just Braxton-Hicks. I’m sure.”
For a split second, I almost believe it.
Wantto believe it.
Because the other option is unfathomable at this point.
Pope holds out his hand, palm up. A request to trust him, to let him do what he’s trained to do, no matter how fucking awkward it will be for both of us. “Then let me be sure. Please.”
Years of fighting him, of keeping up this wall between us that I need in order to be able to spend time around him, have created the natural instinct to move away from rather than toward Pope Clarke.
But I also know he’s right—that we need to know what’s happening with the baby, especially given our current predicament.
I reach a shaky hand out to his, sliding our palms together. He tightens his grip and turns us to face the club.
He scans everything visible in the dim emergency lighting. “I assume there’s no power?”
“None. I don’t have my cell. That’s why I came in here, but the landline isn’t working…”
“Shit. My phone doesn’t have service, either. That power line must have fed the local cell tower.” His eyes dart to the elevator and door that leads to the stairs to the second floor. “And no power means the elevator is out of the question.”
He releases my hand and drops his shoulder, sliding his arms around me and lifting me up before I can protest.
“Hey”—I flail slightly in his hold—“what are you doing?”
His cognac eyes dip down to me as he stalks across the club floor, avoiding the debris the wind brought in. “I’m taking you upstairs to Savage’s office. It’ll be the most comfortable place for us to ride this out for however long we have to.”
“I can walk.”
He shoulders his way through the emergency exit door into the stairwell. “If you’re in labor, I don’t want you climbing two flights of stairs.”
The baby seems to agree with him.
Another contraction hits me, and I wince and cling to Pope, tightening my fingers into his soaked scrub top. Twisting in his arms, I suck in a sharp breath and release a sound that is wholly inhuman, fighting the agony.
His ascent falters, and he pauses, staring down at me with concern darkening his gaze. “Fuck, another one that quick?”
I nod, gritting my teeth, and he mutters something under his breath I can’t quite catch. Then he resumes his climb, picking up the pace.
We reach the top of the second flight of steps, and he pushes that door open and stalks down the hallway with determination toward Uncle Savage’s office.
The storm continues to rage on, windows rattling despite being boarded up from the outside, wind howling and blowing things against the building.
Pope makes it to the door of Savage’s office as the pain finally releases me from its grip. He shifts his hold on me so he can grab the knob and turn it, pushing into the familiar space that always smells like bourbon and my favorite uncle.
He walks over to the leather couch and slowly lowers me onto it, dropping to his knees next to me. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay right now…”
Big. Fucking. Lie.
I am so not okay.
“I can’t be in labor, Pope.” Tears well in my eyes, and I swallow the sob threatening to slip out. “It’s too early…”
He eyes me sympathetically. “You’ve been under tremendous stress for most of your pregnancy. Between the fire at The Grind, the shooting, and the threats from Satriano…not to mention whatever’s happening with the baby’s father. All that stress releases adrenalin and cortisol into your system, and it can induce early labor, Al.” He rests his hand over mine. “But you’re thirty-seven weeks. That’s not technically full term, but a lot of babies are born at this gestation, and going into labor now isn’t all that unusual.”
That sob I’ve been fighting falls from my lips, and I suck in a shuddering breath. “But I’m not ready.”
He squeezes my hand tightly. “You might have to be.”
* * *
POPE
I hustledown the stairs I climbed a moment ago, checking my phone again to find that damn SOS symbol signaling no service.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
My curses echo through the stairwell, only heightening my awareness of how of how truly precarious this situation we are in really is.
If that power line fed the local cell tower and the club, we’re not making any calls out of here.
Which is not fucking ideal.
Even without examining Allie, I can already tell I’m not going to like what I find. She seems to understand it, too, no matter how much she wishes it weren’t true. The fear in her eyes has nothing to do with the storm outside and everything to do with that baby coming early.
I hit the door at the bottom of the stairwell and step out into the club, only lit by the single floodlight in the corner near the exit sign, and beeline for the bar to get what I’m going to need.
Compared to the fully stocked ER I just left, scrounging for anything I can find here at the club feels more like dumpster diving, despite how nicely Savage and Gabe keep the place.
I snag four bottles of water, the pump of hand soap next to the sink, a bottle of moonshine, and a stack of clean towels from under the counter before I make my return to Savage’s office.
Each step I take closer to Allie ratchets up the anxiety I typically never feel in these circumstances. I’m trained to handle emergencies—the more dire, life-threatening injuries imaginable, and I’ve done it without even breaking a sweat. I’ve delivered dozens of babies, many with complications that required quick thinking and some serious medical intervention, but the vast majority of births go smoothly.
Then why does it feel like that tree outside is crushing my chest?
As much as I don’t want to admit it, I know the answer to that.
Because it’s Alessandra McCabe.
Because I haven’t stopped worrying about her from the day I found out she was pregnant.
Hell, I haven’t stopped worrying since the day I broke her heart and let her walk away from me.
But I can’t let her see my nerves. Not when she’s barely keeping it together. I need to be Dr. Clarke right now, not Pope.
This is merely a routine exam that might lead to a completely routine delivery…that just happens to be in a strip club.
I step back into the office to find Allie still lying on the couch in her wet clothes, tears streaming down her temples, jaw locked through another contraction. “Don’t hold your breath. Breathe through it.”
Her head whips toward me, and she glares but does as I say, sucking in a long, deep breath and letting it out slowly. Over and over again, while I count how long this one goes on.
Sixty seconds…
Ninety…
Allie finally relaxes, slumping back against the pillow on the couch. “That one was…intense.”
And long.
Even without knowing when it actually started, it’s enough to confirm my fears.
I drop to my knees next to her and set down my supplies, contemplating how to approach what I’m going to have to do. She tenses at my closeness, eyeing me the same way she did when I cornered her in the bedroom at Nana’s house on Sunday.
Trepidation.
Distrust.
The heat of lingering hatred over our shared past.
God knows Allie doesn’t want me to examine her, and I’d be the last person she would pick to deliver her baby—but she doesn’t have any choice. It’s not like I’m in any position to give her another option.
Still, I can’t force her to accept my help.
I need her to want it.
To trust me again—even if it’s just to get through what’s likely coming in the next few hours if someone doesn’t rescue us—fast.
Which means laying the truth out for her as calmly and directly as I can.
I twist the cap off a bottle of water, setting it down next to me. “I know you’re pissed at me, Al, but you have to think about that baby and what’s best for him or her, not about how much you hate me right now, okay?”
She opens her mouth to say something, but if I let her start an argument, it’s going to eat into the time I have before her next contraction.
I hold up a hand to stop her from interrupting me. “I’m a doctor, Al. I’ve done an OB rotation. I’ve delivered dozens of babies both there and in the ER when they came in too late to get them moved. You have to let me check you out because, by the looks of the storm and the way it sounds out there, we might be stuck here for a while. And given my experience, I don’t think you have a while before we’re going to meet your baby.”
“Oh, God…” The panic rises in her voice as she shifts restlessly on the couch. “I can’t—”
“Please, Teeny, trust me.”
It’s hard for her to do after everything we’ve been through, all the resentment she’s held the past decade, and I fully expect her to tell me to fuck off and that she’ll do it herself.
That would be a very “Allie” thing to do.
The woman loves to push people away when they try to help her, but she finally inhales sharply, turns her head toward me, and opens her eyes, offering a tight nod of approval.
A tear slides down her cheek, and I have to look away, not only because seeing her distress shreds me from the inside out but because I have to get ready.
I spread out one of the towels, pour water on my hands, then pump some soap onto them, scrubbing them until my skin feels raw.
“What are you doing?”
“Sterilizing the best I can. This isn’t exactly the ideal environment to be doing this.”
She releases a laugh, the sound stilted and filled with her unease. “Uncle Savage keeps this place about as clean as a hospital.”
That draws a smirk to my lips. “You are right about that, but still…” I glance up at her, my humor draining with what I’m going to have to ask of her. “I’m going to need you to take off your pants and underwear.”
Her jaw hardens again, and I turn away, giving her my back, as I pour the moonshine over my hands, too.
God knows I’d rather be downing it than sanitizing with it right now…
I hear her struggle behind me and almost turn around to help, but I force myself to keep facing Savage’s desk, staring at all the family pictures on it and on the shelf behind.
Him and Gabe the day they opened this place.
Him with Dani and Kennedy when she was a baby, sitting on his lap, staring up at him while her mother kisses him.
Him with Star—which makes my chest ache for the woman I never got to meet.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
She sure as hell doesn’t sound ready.
I’m not so sure I am, either, but I turn back around to face her and lower myself to my knees, keeping my hands up. “I’ll do this as quickly as I can, all right?”
She squeezes her eyes closed and nods, and I spread her knees to begin my examination.
Fuck.
What I find makes me clench my jaw. “You are definitely in active labor.”
“What?” She jerks up and looks at me, still between her legs. “No…” She shakes her head. “No, no, no. No, I can’t be.”
“You’re seven, maybe eight centimeters dilated already.” I reach up and palpate her belly. “And the baby has dropped.”
“No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”
The more she chants, the harder and faster her chest heaves, and I can see the panic starting to well up inside her. How hard it’s becoming for her to contain her fear.
I climb to my feet and rinse my hands again, then settle on the edge of the couch next to her the best I can while I dry them on one of the towels.
Her sobs fill the room, and another contraction makes her wince, gripping her stomach and twisting, the leather creaking under her.
Fuck, I hate this for her.
No way to help her manage the pain she must be in—emotionally or physically.
But I still have to try.
I take her face between my palms and hold her steady, forcing her to look at me. “You need to breathe, Al. Calm down. I’m right here.”
If she hyperventilates and passes out, that will make an already complicated situation downright dangerous.
She attempts to breathe through the contraction, then sags slightly when it releases her from its grip. “I’m not ready.” Her bottom lip quivers, and she shakes her head in my hold. “I thought I had a few more weeks. I thought…”
“It’s going to be okay, Al. You and the baby are going to be fine. And we’ll get you out of here, okay? But unless help gets here in the next hour or so, maybe two, I don’t think you’re going to make it to the hospital before this baby makes an appearance.”
She swallows thickly. “I fucked up everything.”
Her words stab directly into the part of me that feels the same way every time I look at her.
I wipe the tears from the corners of her eyes. “It’ll be all right. I’ll take care of you.”
“You said that once before…”
Wincing, I squeeze my eyes closed at the memory that’s haunted me endlessly.
What started out so good became so painful in only a matter of minutes. When I realized what I had to do. The decision I was going to have to make. The words I was going to have to say to her. How I was going to have to destroy her…
It all comes rushing back, hitting me so hard I almost say something to her that would only further complicate the situation and our lives.
Don’t, Pope.
This isn’t the time or the place.
Opening my eyes, I meet her blue ones filled with so much fear and uncertainty. “I’m going to go gather some more things that I need for the delivery and try to find us some dry clothes to change into, all right? You need to breathe through the contractions. Don’t hold your breath again.”
She sucks in an unsteady one and nods. “Okay. All right.”
I climb to my feet and head toward the door but pause to look back at her.
What would she have done if I didn’t show up? If I didn’t find her?
The thought makes acid fill my throat, and I swallow it and hustle downstairs and straight for the dancers’ changing rooms behind the stage.
These girls are prepared for any scenario, and Savage, Gabe, and Byron make sure they are fully stocked with anything they might need while here at work.
They take care of their girls…and I need to do the same for Allie.
I dig through the cabinets and the bags in their lockers, grabbing larger towels, blankets, clothes—anything I can find that might be useful.
Scanning the dressing tables, a white and gray chevron bag tucked under it catches my eye. I snag it and throw it over my shoulder, hoping it’s what I think it is, before I head back to the bar to grab a knife they normally use to cut citrus for the drinks.
God, I hope I only have to use this to cut the umbilical cord.
If there’s a complication, if the baby gets stuck or Allie starts crashing and I need to do a C-section, she will bleed out before anyone ever gets here.
Even though I know the Hawke posse left Nana’s house the moment they realized Allie should have been there, the storm is going to prevent them from getting here quickly.
Which means Al and I are on our own.