27. Bitches be Raging
THE RESPONSE TO our news is a weight off my shoulders. I’m not sure how Tate would have reacted if the girls were upset to find out we’re together. Probably not well. And I’d have thrown a whole-ass fit over it if they upset him.
But no fits had to be thrown and now I’m surrounded by all my coworkers who are already planning a carry-in to celebrate. I’d be excited about it if my stomach wasn’t already rolling at the mention of food.
“Oh, honey.” Nancy gives me a pitying look. “You’ve got the pukes, don’t you?”
I take in a slow breath, carefully blowing it back out. “Little bit.”
“I had them too.” She drapes one arm over my shoulders, turning me toward the front of the shop. “Threw up all damn day long.”
“Not just in the morning?” Part of me was still hoping car sickness was responsible for a little of my suffering, and this misery would be more confined moving forward. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I end up feeling like this all day. I’ll likely end up a raging bitch.
A more raging bitch.
“Nope. All day and all night.” She leads me toward Tate’s office. “Couldn’t keep a thing down for the first twelve weeks.”
Twelve weeks?
I’m swallowing hard as we make our way down the hall, and it’s only partly because of the saliva collecting in my mouth. I won’t survive twelve weeks of this.
No onewill survive twelve weeks of this.
“Oh, shit.” For a second I think Nancy’s realized she’s offering up too much information, but then I notice her eyes are locked on the antsy looking crowd hovering around the front desk. “How many cars can break down at one time?” She sighs loudly, lifting her voice as she says, “I’m coming.” Before going to handle the line, she urges me into Tate’s office. “Go sit down and relax. I’ve got this.”
I’m not going to argue with her. I wish I could, I know what it’s like when the desk gets that crazy, but I would be little to no help right now. I might even make things worse by arfing up the crackers and ginger ale in my stomach all over the work orders.
Dropping into Tate’s chair, I lay my face against the cool surface of his desk. I smile in spite of my clammy skin because sitting here is like coming full circle.
Or maybe more like being back at the scene of a crime.
I’m not an idiot. I know where babies come from. I’ve always been careful not to do anything that might result in one creeping up. But Tate has always scrambled my brain. Made me so wound up, all my common sense left the building.
Common sense is overrated anyway.
If I’d held onto my common sense, I wouldn’t have finally put the fear holding me back to bed. I wouldn’t have even considered letting myself want someone the way I want him. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting here smiling at the thought of Tate with a baby—our baby—in his arms.
But there’s not an ounce of hesitation in me. Not a hint of worry. I’m not afraid or even the smallest bit concerned. That could be because nausea is taking up all the free space in my body, but I don’t think so.
I think it’s because Tate showed me what can happen when two messy people go crazy over each other, and it’s pretty fucking amazing.
It would be even more amazing if I wasn’t feeling like death warmed up in a spaghetti-stained leftovers container. I need some fucking crackers. And I need Tate to rub my back and tell me how much he wishes he could be the one suffering instead of me.
I’ve barely been waiting in his office two minutes and I’m already tired of being without him. And I’m sure he’s feeling the same way. Especially now that he has confirmation I’m carrying a little reminder of our sneaky office sex in my uterus.
Nancy is still swamped when I come out and I consider going to help her for about half a second, then decide I need crackers and Tate more than she needs my half-assed attempt at helping.
Everyone is back at work when I reach the shop, so I make a quick round, expecting to find him. He can’t have gone far. I saw him right before Nancy noticed I was starting to get throw-uppy, so I know he’s here somewhere.
And if I know Tate, and I do, then I think I might have an idea where he went.
When I reach the back door, I pause, listening as a rhythmic sound bleeds through the steel. There’s a car alarm going off somewhere. Tate’s going to be pissed if someone tried to get in one of the cars waiting for service. It happens on occasion. Normally it’s kids trying to clear out the spare change and steal cigarettes.
I step to the closest workstation and grab the biggest wrench I see just in case he’s not out there and I cross paths with a delinquent. I’m not sure I could hit a kid with it, but I’m pretty good at looking crazy, so hopefully I can scare the shit out of them and send them running.
I’ve got the wrench gripped in my hand, swinging at my side as I step out into the warm air. The alarm is closer than I expected, and it throws me off. I peer down the row of vehicles parked in the back lot, trying to identify which one it might be. When I finally see the flashing headlights, my stomach drops.
It’s Tate’s Jeep.
Now I’m not worried about him being pissed because I’m pissed, and Tate’s fury is nothing compared to mine. I’ve left a lot of my baggage behind me, but I’ve kept the crazy close. It’s always served me well, and this moment will be no exception.
Adjusting my grip on the wrench, I slowly make my way toward where his SUV is parked, leaning to peek around the extended-cab pickup blocking most of my view. I suck in a breath when the gouged front panel comes into view.
Motherfuckers.
If one of those punk kids—
“Where is she?” The familiar, slightly whiny voice stalls my steps.
“Your wife’s gone. Long gone.” Tate’s calm tone only makes me more upset. He shouldn’t have to be so calm about this. Shouldn’t have to stand in front of the piece of shit who I’m sure is responsible for the slashes that flattened the tire I can see and the dragging marks marring the black paint.
At least he’s not doing it alone, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
I change my trajectory based on the direction of Rick’s voice. I already had a score to settle with him. The spray starch no longer feels like adequate retribution now that I know how much what he did upset Tate. Plus, he just fucked up my future husband’s Jeep. So now I’m gonna have to hit him twice.
That brings a smile to my face.
Shit like this stresses most people out. Dumps their adrenaline, pushing them into fight or flight. Not me. I had to get used to facing angry, mediocre men at such a young age, it doesn’t faze me anymore. If anything, I get excited about the opportunity to take back just a little of what I’m owed.
What all women are owed.
Tate stole that chance from me once and I’ll be damned if he does it a second time.
I keep my steps silent, grateful for all the times he stuck ice on my ankle over the past few days. No limp is gonna slow me down this time. When I reach the bed of the truck, I crouch lower, peeking beneath the undercarriage so I can see exactly where Rick is standing. His khaki covered shins are situated close to the back wheel well, offering me enough coverage to stay out of his sight until I’m within striking distance.
“I’m not talking about my wife,” Rick sneers. “I’m talking about yours.”
“You won’t fucking touch my wife.” All the calm is gone from Tate’s tone. He sounds exactly like he did when he and Rick crossed paths last time, which means my time to get a shot in is running out. “You’re not gonna get near her, so take your little gun and crawl back into the hole you came out of.”
My whole body goes cold. Did he say gun?
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I start to move faster, finally feeling a little of what normal people would in this situation now that I know Tate’s in actual danger. Up until now, I was worried he’d handle Rick before I could, but the mention of a gun has turned my thoughts from simple maiming to murder. Because I’ll be damned if I let a piece of shit like Rick harm a hair on Tate’s perfect head.
“Fuck you,” Rick wheezes. The closer I get, the more I notice his voice sounds weaker than it did before. Hopefully that’s because he’s sporting a few broken ribs from Tate’s kicks in the laundry room.
He”s about to be sporting a lot more than broken ribs.
I reach the end of the tailgate and round the back bumper, stepping quickly as Rick continues spewing his bullshit.
“All of this is her fault. She tempted me. Tempted my wife.” His hatred for me has him getting louder. “God wants me to punish her and take back what’s mine.”
I continue along the back end, staying crouched down, grip on the wrench so tight my fingers are starting to go numb. I get Rick’s back in my line of sight right when he asks, “So where, the fuck, is she?”
“Right here, asshole.” I brace as he spins my way, knowing I’ve only got a split second to make my move and knowing Tate is never going to let me hear the end of this. He’s going to be pissed as hell at me, but there’s no way I’ll let this asshat take him from me. Not now.
Not ever.
The second the pistol clutched in Rick’s hand is no longer pointing at Tate, I swing, bringing the weight of the wrench up as fast as I can in the direction of his outstretched arm. I’m pretty fucking fast.
But not quite fast enough.
The gun fires right as I make contact and the jolt of the bullet sends me staggering back. Warmth blooms across my skin as Tate lunges, gripping the gun still in Rick’s hand as it levels on me a second time. He wrenches it to one side, twisting it back before it discharges once more.
Rick’s eyes widen, his mouth going slack as he slumps against the side of the Jeep and slowly slides to the asphalt. Tate leaves him to fall, reaching me as I begin to wobble on my legs.
His strong arms hold me steady as my brain begins to catch up with the events of the past few seconds. I tuck my chin, staring down at the blood creeping across the cotton of my T-shirt. “That dick shot me.”
“He won’t do it again.” Tate’s tone is clipped and cold as he switches on the safety of the pistol he took from Rick and shoves it into the back of his waistband. Then he scoops me up and starts running. In seconds we’re inside the shop and he’s screaming.
Fucking screaming for them to call an ambulance.
I’m not sure if I’m in shock or still pissed or maybe just dying, but there’s not an ounce of fear or pain in me as everyone races around, yelling and panicking as they press clean shop towels into my shoulder.
So probably not dying then. That leaves shock and anger. And I’m leaning toward the second one. Because instead of worrying about how much blood I’m losing, I’m wondering if Tate will give me that gun so I can go use it on Rick. “Is he dead?”
Tate pushes my hair back from my face as he cradles me in his lap. “He better hope so.” His eyes shift to where Nancy is putting pressure against a spot just beneath my collarbone that’s starting to throb. “You shouldn’t have come out there, Piper.”
“I should have just let him shoot you?” My voice sounds overly loud as it echoes between my ears. “No fucking way.” I blink, the movement slower than I remember it being. “You aren’t getting out of changing diapers that easss…” I swallow, my lids trying to close as I do my best to finish my thought. “That easilll…”
I squint as Tate’s face starts to get blurry and the pain in my bleeding shoulder starts to amp up exponentially. “I think I’m going to—”
It’s yet another sentence I don’t get to finish, because before I get the next word out, everything goes black.