Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DRIFTER
Igrab the loaded breakfast tray. I want Hell doing absolutely nothing today. I’ve seen how much she’s been struggling lately, and it’s starting to worry me. She needs to rest.
I head upstairs and knock gently on her bedroom door. If she’s asleep, I don’t want to wake her.
Balancing the tray in one hand, I carefully press the handle down and ease the door open with my shoulder. It squeaks loudly, and I grimace. I need to fix that. She needs all the rest she can get.
She stirs, stretching out and yawning.
“What time is it?” she croaks, her voice full of sleep.
“Ten-thirty. I’ve brought you some breakfast to keep your energy up.”
She pushes herself to sit, immediately grimacing like she’s in pain.
“We really need to get you checked over. This can’t be normal.”
She waves her hand as if I’m overreacting. “I’ve done some research. Braxton Hicks are normal at this stage.”
I rest the tray on the bed. “I brought your favourite—pancakes with fresh fruit.”
She inhales, closing her eyes. “Oh my god.” She hums in approval. “Since when does this club ever stock fresh fruit?” she asks, laughing.
I sit on the bed beside her. “I popped out to the shop early this morning to get it.”
She arches a brow whilst digging her fork into a fresh strawberry. After a beat, she asks, “Can I help you?”
I hesitate. “I was listening to you with Marissa last night.”
She reaches for the orange juice and takes a swig. “And?”
“Well, it got me thinking. You were so good with her. In fact, you’re great with all the women that turn up here. And, well, maybe after you’ve had the baby, you can do something for yourself?”
Her brows knit together thoughtfully as she forks another strawberry into her mouth. And suddenly, my idea feels stupid.
“Your entire life has been about the club and me. When people are in crisis, you really shine, so maybe you could get a career in counselling or just helping others?”
She looks down at her stomach, shrugging. “I think I’ll be a little busy for the next eighteen years.” She laughs.
“Just because we have a baby doesn’t mean you can’t have a life outside of being a mum. I’ll step up, I swear. I’ll be the father you both need.”
Her eyes soften, and she smiles. “Maybe, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. When she’s here, I might want to spend every moment with her. Who knows?”
I nod, getting to my feet. “Enjoy your breakfast. I’ve got some errands to run, but I’ll be back to check on you later.”
Red marches around the store in delight, throwing things into the trolley. Things I didn’t even know we needed for a baby. When I’d mentioned I might need her help to get everything, she jumped at the chance.
I decided to stock up on equipment and also to decorate the baby’s bedroom. That way, Hell can take it easy and stop stressing. Quite honestly, it’s the least I can do.
“Do we really need all this?” I ask again, taking a box from her and scanning it.
Breast pump. I wince, cos clearly that’s needed. Red takes it from me and drops it in the trolley.
“Do you want my expert advice or not?” she asks indignantly.
“Clearly, I need it,” I mutter.
Red picks up a striped blanket, and I feel it. It’s soft, and I smile as I imagine it wrapped around my little girl.
“This was the exact one she wanted too,” she says, more to herself than me, then she looks across at the next shelf. “Ooooh.” She squeals in delight, darting towards it.
I watch in amusement as she runs her hand along the edge of the Moses basket. She rubs the silk between her fingers, glancing back at me. “She will love this.”
“Then that’s what we get, Red. There’s no limit. Anything she needs or you think she’ll love, get it.”
I push the trolley along a little further to where there is a selection of baby toys, when my eyes land up on a perfect cot mobile to place above her crib. It’s got a selection of bees and daisies dangling, all handmade. I press the button, and a lullaby plays gently.
I’m overcome with emotion as I place it in the trolley and scan my eyes over everything. It’s hard to believe we’ll soon have a little baby who’ll fit in the tiny clothes we’ve picked. Everything has changed so much in the last few months.
Red places a hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my inner thoughts. “I’ve arranged for some larger items to be delivered to the clubhouse,” she tells me.
She points at the rocking chair across the shop.
It’s padded with grey cushions, and I smile, picturing Hell in it whilst she nurses our baby girl.
“I ordered the rocking chair because she’s been looking at them in magazines recently.
I’ve also ordered a crib, some drawers, and a changing table.
” She turns to look at me. “She’s going to fucking love it all. ”
“Thanks, Red. I owe you. I wouldn’t have even known where to start with all this. Who’d have thought a tiny baby would need so much stuff?”
I start working on the nursery, knowing that soon enough she’ll be here and my entire world will shift again. Hopefully, in the right direction, providing I don’t fuck it up.
The bigger pieces are being delivered tomorrow, so I need to make some progress today. It’s been a long time since I’ve done any decorating myself. Usually, I’d just hire someone and let them handle it.
But this feels different.
This isn’t just another room.
I want this to be from me, something personal. Something my daughter will grow up in, knowing her dad built it for her. A safe space, not just for her, but for Hell too. Somewhere she can sit, breathe, and maybe feel at peace.
I focus on the mural in front of me. I’ve always been good at art, even designing my own tattoos over the years.
I take a step back, a brush in one hand and the paint in the other.
I stare at my handiwork. In the centre of the wall, the words ‘Dream Big, Little One’ stretch out in soft, sweeping letters, bold but gentle all at once.
Daisies bloom from the skirting board, their delicate white petals and golden centres climbing upward in twisting vines.
The stems curl and weave around the lettering as if they’ve grown there naturally, framing each word in a wild, effortless embrace.
Between the flowers, tiny bees hover mid-flight, their wings caught in motion. One larger bee drifts lower than the rest, leaving behind a faint dotted trail that loops playfully before settling just above the last letter, as if it’s claimed it as its own.
ROCHELLE
Drifter’s popped his head into the room on and off over the last couple days, but I’m starting to go stir-crazy just sitting here, twiddling my thumbs. The pains haven’t really changed, so I might as well get up and move around.
And besides . . . we need to talk.
Drifter and I can’t keep dancing around this. We have to figure out how this is going to work.
I hear banging in the room next to me. Intrigued, I head that way to investigate.
I push the door open, and I frown. There, in the centre of the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, is Drifter.
He’s got one hand in his hair, looking ready to rip it out at the roots.
And in the other is an instruction manual. Over his knees are two pieces of wood.
I smirk as a frustrated growl escapes him. DIY has never been his thing.
I clear my throat, and his head snaps up. “What are you doing?” he asks, pushing everything from his knees and getting to his feet.
I bat his hands away before he can guide me back to bed and step further into the room. “I’m fine,” I say, my hand resting against my bump as I do a slow three-sixty. My eyes settle on the painted mural, and I inhale sharply. It’s stunning.
I step closer, trailing my fingers over the letters, and I suddenly feel overcome with emotion.
“Do you like it?” he asks, hesitation lacing his tone.
I quickly swipe away my happy tears and turn to him, nodding. “I love it,” I whisper.
I head over to the rocking chair in the corner, admiring the fluffy blanket draped over it. The bees and daisies on it match the mural. I can’t believe how much effort he’s gone to.
He closes the gap between us, slipping a hand in mine. “Try it,” he says, “It’s so comfortable.”
I lower into the rocking chair, and he pulls the footrest out. He gently takes my left foot and lifts it, placing it carefully on the rest. He repeats the move with my right foot, and my heart melts a little more.
“You did all this by yourself?” I ask, looking at everything in the room from the change table to the stuffed toys on the drawers.
He smiles proudly. “I wanted to have everything set up before I showed you,” he says, staring where screws and wood are scattered on the floor.
“But, yeah, she needed somewhere unique just for her.” He gives a bashful smile.
“But flat pack furniture isn’t my strong point,” he admits, running his hand over the back of his neck.
I smile then take a breath before saying, “We need to talk.”
His smile fades, and his eyes go to the floor. I feel like a bitch for breaking the happy vibes. “Yeah, of course.”
“We need to figure out what our relationship will look like when the baby comes.”
His eyes find mine. “Maybe we could at least––” I’m already shaking my head and he sighs. “Let’s at least try . . . for the baby.”
I scoff. “Drifter, you destroyed me.”
“I know that, Hell, but I’m trying here.” He lifts my legs and lowers onto the footstool, placing them on his lap. “I just want to be a part of your life again, and I need to be in hers.” He gently rubs my foot. “I’ll do anything.”
I pull my legs away, planting them back on the ground and sitting up.
“You should’ve thought about that before you did what you did.
” I feel my blood begin to boil again. I’m angry at him, at myself, at this situation.
He’s doing all this nice stuff, and he’s making me question everything, making me doubt my decisions.
“Do you really expect me to think you can keep your dirty hands off those fucking whores when they’re flaunting their shit for the entire club day in and day out.” I stand abruptly. “Which, by the way, isn’t going to work when my daughter is here seeing it all.”
He twists in the seat, watching as I pace. “I’ll get rid of them all.”.
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “That doesn’t change the fact that you fucked a club whore behind my back. You’re just removing the temptation.”
He reaches for my hand, but I step back, and he sighs. “You need to calm down, Hell.”
“Fucking calm down?” I repeat, my eyes widening in annoyance.
I bend down, pushing my face to his. “Fucking calm down? You promised there was nothing in it, and I believed you, and now, I feel like a fucking idiot.” I narrow my eyes.
“How long was it going on behind my back?” A sudden pain shoots through my stomach and wraps around my lower back.
I wince, inhaling sharply and pressing my hand to my bump.
Drifter is by my side in seconds. I feel his hand on my shoulder and shrug him away. “Get the fuck off me.”
“It was just the once,” he cries. “A mistake I’ll live with for the rest of my fucking life. But look at what this stress is doing to you.”
“You must think I’m fucking stupid,” I mutter.
“Please, Hell, sit down,” he begs, his brows pinching together with concern. I grimace again as another pain ripples across my lower abdomen. “Hell, you can search my phone. You can do whatever you need to do. But first, you need to calm down.”
Wetness spreads between my legs and I frown, glancing down. Water trickles onto the floor, and I snap my eyes to Drifter, panic rushing through me. Another pain rips through me, this time more intense.
Drifter senses my panic, and his hand finds mine. This time, I grip onto him like a lifeline.
“It’s too early,” I whisper, bracing as the next pain comes.
His other hand goes to my lower back, rubbing gentle circles. “We’re not gonna panic just yet,” he says carefully, but his face is the palest I’ve ever seen. “We just need to get you to the hospital,” he adds. His eyes betray him, revealing he’s just as scared as I am.
“Drifter, I can’t.” I lean into his shoulder, my tears rolling down my cheeks and soaking into his T-shirt. “What if—”
“Nope,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “We aren’t thinking like that,” he adds, leading me to the door. “Where’s your bag?”
“In the bedroom by the door,” I sob.
He makes his way across the landing, pushing the door open and grabbing the bag.
“Do we need to inform the hospital?” he asks, throwing it over his shoulder.
I nod, sniffling as the gravity of what’s happening unsettles every fibre of my body.
We tried so hard to get to this point, and now, at thirty weeks, my waters have broken.
What the hell are we going to do if she doesn’t make it?
I shudder at that thought. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.
I think of all the things that might have caused this .
. . I should have calmed down. I should have taken it easy like Drifter said. I shouldn’t have pushed it.
And I haven’t been taking care of myself, not properly. I’m the only one to blame for this, for letting the stress of our relationship get to me. I’m responsible for taking care of this baby whilst it’s growing inside me, and I know deep down, I haven’t done everything I could have to prevent this.
We carefully descend the stairs. “Stop,” Drifter says, giving me a side glance. “I can hear those cogs in your head turning,” he adds. “Remember, I know you well, and this isn’t your fault.”
A small sob escapes me, and he stops at the bottom of the stairs, lifting my chin to look me in the eyes. I close them tightly, and his warm hand cups my face, his thumb stroking my cheek.
“Open those eyes,” he whispers, and I slowly open them, swallowing hard. “This isn’t your fault, okay?” I don’t reply, just stare at him blankly. “Hell?” When I still don’t answer, he continues, “If anything, this is my fault. I’ve caused all this stress. Fuck, I am so sorry.”
He rests his hand on my stomach, and his own eyes fill with tears. He swallows hard, composing himself. “This isn’t on you, okay?” I nod before he leads me off to the car.