Chapter Nine #2
But the mattress stayed stubbornly stuck, not shifting by even an inch. So she pushed harder, really driving her shoulder and her hip into it, Nash grunting above her as he put his back into it, and for one glorious second she felt the give that meant it was moving.
Then it was gone, tumbling drunkenly the rest of the way down the stairs to land half on the floor and half against the wall. And suddenly pushing on air, Bailey went diving after it.
She let out a shocked squeak, arms flailing so that one hand knocked painfully against the railing and the other grabbed fruitlessly at air, and for a few glorious seconds she was flying, weightless and euphoric, a bird in the sky.
Then something hard and heavy slammed against her back, and she went face down hard into memory foam.
For a second she lay there, stunned and breathless, the world still oddly suspended. Then Nash said, “Fuck me,” the words vibrating against her back, and she realized the reason she had a mouthful of sheet was because he was pinning her down.
“Geph off meph,” she mumbled.
“You okay?” he panted, bathing the back of her neck in hot, wet breath. He moved, and though she thought he was trying to get off her, he was shoving her deeper into the mattress.
“Geph off meph,” she repeated, and jerked an elbow back.
“Ow. I’m trying,” he said, grunting and groaning, and a second later the weight was gone.
She rolled to her back, gratefully sucking in air. “Okay, that sucked.”
Nash loomed over her, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes sharp with concern. “You okay?”
“I think so.” Her ribs didn’t hurt when she breathed, and that was a relief. She wiggled her fingers and toes, grateful everything moved on command. “I’m not paralyzed, anyway.”
“Good.” He collapsed beside her. “Let’s not do that again.”
She lifted her head, noted they were lying half on, half off the mattress. Which was half on the floor, with the other half against the wall and drooping over them.
“Did I break your fall?” she wondered, looking up at the mattress.
“Pretty much. I tried to catch myself, but it didn’t work. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I think. She let out a slow, careful breath. “If you don’t mind, I’m just going to lie here for a minute.”
“Sure, sure. Take your time.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, and made the effort to turn her head.
He was on his back, shoulders scrunched up against the part of the mattress that curved against the wall. His eyes were closed, his face damp with sweat.
“Uh-huh,” he said without opening his eyes. “Kind of wish I had my beer, though.”
Now that he mentioned it. She turned her head the other way to look into the living room, where she could just see the bottles, dripping condensation onto the floor. “Me, too.”
“Who’s going to get them?”
She turned back to see he’d opened one eye. “I broke your fall,” she reminded him.
“Shit.” He heaved himself up, wincing. “Damn. I think I pulled something.”
“I think I pulled everything,” she countered, and closed her eyes, listening to his bare feet slap against the floor as he walked away. There was a pause, then more slapping, and she held out her hand.
He put something in it, but it didn’t feel like a beer. She opened her eyes to frown at her purse. “What’s this?”
“Your phone was buzzing,” he told her and, holding both beers, lowered himself to sit on the mattress again. “I think I might have cracked a rib.”
She dug into her purse for the phone. “Can you breathe without pain?”
He sucked in an experimental breath, then let it out. “Yeah.”
“Then you’re fine.” She found the phone, noted the missed call from Gwen, and hit the button to call her back before holding out her hand. “Gimme my beer.”
He passed it over. “You’re very unsympathetic.”
“I broke your fall,” she reminded him, putting the phone to her ear. “Hey, Gwen. What’s up?”
“I’m not sure.” Gwen’s voice was breathless and bouncy, as though she was walking fast or running. “You didn’t get Chloe’s text?”
“I didn’t have my phone on me. Hang on.” Bailey tipped the phone and swiped to her texts. Her stomach clutched when she saw the one from Chloe in the group chat—three fire emojis.
“Shit.” She put the phone back to her ear. “Where are you?”
“I just left work. I had to have one of the waitresses cover for me.”
“Is she home?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m on my way.”
She clicked off, passed the beer back to Nash, and got painfully to her feet. “Fuck, that’s going to hurt later.”
“What does three fire emojis mean?”
She looked down at him, sitting on her mattress, holding her beer, with concern sharp in his eyes. “It means something’s really fucking wrong, and I have to go.”
She shoved her phone back into her purse, slung it over her shoulder, then looked around for her shoes before she remembered she’d taken them upstairs.
“Fuck it, I’ll go barefoot,” she decided and headed for the front door.
“Bay?”
Distracted, she turned back, her hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“I’ll let you know,” she said and was out the door.
The drive didn’t take long, but parking was a nightmare.
The pub’s expansion was bringing in a lot of new business, and she had to squeeze into a street spot a block and a half away.
By the time she was letting herself into Chloe’s apartment over the pub, she was deeply regretting not going back upstairs for her shoes.
“I’m here,” she called out and hurried down the hallway on aching feet.
Gwen, coming out of the kitchen with two coffee mugs, looked down at her feet. “Where are your shoes?”
“Long story.” Bailey slung her purse onto the counter. “Where is she?”
“Bathroom,” Gwen said, and Bailey could hear the water running through the closed door.
“She tell you what’s up?”
Gwen shook her head and set the mugs on the counter. “She said she only wanted to tell it once. But she looks like hell.”
“Heartbroken hell, or sick hell?”
“She’s not heartbroken.” Gwen went back into the kitchen, pulled down another mug, and filled it from the coffee pot. “She was on the phone with Knox when I got here, lots of I love yous. Whatever’s wrong, it’s not about them.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Chloe said from behind them, and Bailey turned.
Looks like hell was an understatement. Chloe was pale, her face red and blotchy from crying. She had circles under her eyes like bruises, and she looked like a strong wind would push her over.
“Jesus, Chloe. You look like shit.”
“Helpful,” Gwen said drily, brushing past Bailey. She put one of the mugs she carried in Chloe’s hands, then pointed to the sofa. “Sit.”
“I’m okay,” Chloe said, but she sat, her hands wrapped around the mug so tightly her knuckles were white. “I’ve just been crying, and I can’t seem to eat anything.”
Bailey exchanged looks with Gwen as they sat down, Bailey next to Chloe on the sofa and Gwen in the chair opposite. “Are you sick?”
Chloe shook her head, her eyes on the mug in her hands.
“Do we have to bury a dead body?” Gwen asked calmly. “Because if we do, we need to get Bailey some shoes first.”
Chloe let out a watery laugh, and Bailey sent Gwen a look of fierce approval.
Chloe swiped at her cheeks, damp with fresh tears. “No, nothing like that.”
“You’re starting to scare me, Chlo.” Bailey set her mug down on the coffee table, then plucked Chloe’s gently from her grip. She set it next to hers, then laid a gentle hand over Chloe’s. “Tell us what’s wrong, and we’ll figure out how deal with it.”
Chloe turned her hand under Bailey’s to cling, then lifted drenched, devastated eyes. “I’m pregnant.”