Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
LoneStar
The doctor had an opening this morning, so I helped Britton get dressed since her sense of gravity seems to be off, brush out her hair because she’s feeling weak after her bout in the bathroom, and walk her to my truck.
It doesn’t get much use since I prefer my bike when the weather permits, but with Britton carrying my kid, she won’t be riding on it again until after the baby is born.
I’m adamant about that and there’ll be no changing my mind.
“Why is your truck so big?” Britton complains as I boost her into the seat.
“I’m a big guy,” I reply. “I need the extra room to stretch my legs. I can’t stand feeling cramped. If I had anything smaller, my knees would be up in my chest.”
“You’re going to need to invest in a step stool and keep it handy for me as I get bigger,” she warns. “Once I really start showing, I’m gonna blow up and you won’t be able to lift me, and I’ll be too top-heavy to help.”
“I bench two-fifty, babe. I don’t think getting you up and into the truck is going to be an issue,” I enlighten her.
“Then I’ll do everything I can not to get bigger than that so you don’t go outside of your weight class,” she groans. “If things keep going the way they are, I may be losing weight anyway.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I adamantly say. “Even if we have to hook you up to a drip twenty-four-seven, I’m going to make sure you get the nutrients you need to keep both of you healthy and thriving.”
“Hopefully it won’t come down to that,” she responds. “Having a needle in my arm each and every day doesn’t sit well with me.”
“It’s better than you hauling ass to the bathroom every ten to fifteen minutes when your belly recoils,” I remark.
“I suppose, but I don’t like that as a treatment plan,” she conveys.
“Then I guess we’ll wait and see what the doc suggests,” I comment.
“Have I mentioned I hate doctors and hospitals?”
“You did, but you still haven’t explained why,” I rebut.
“When I was younger, I passed out at school from malnutrition,” she confesses.
“My parents were able to convince the emergency room doctor I had an eating disorder no matter how much I protested that I didn’t.
I told him that they were withholding food as a form of punishment for one infraction or another, but he didn’t believe me and sent me home with an appointment to see a therapist.” I stop, chuckling.
“I thought, yes, that’s my shining light, surely an educated counselor would believe me.
They’re taught to see the signs of neglect. ”
“Let me guess,” I say, interrupting her. “That’s not what happened.”
“Not at all,” she answers, shaking her head. “That fucker thought I was starving myself for attention and tried to get my parents to commit me.”
“And they couldn’t do that because it could’ve exposed their negligent secrets,” I add, comprehending her parents’ warped way of thinking.
“Got it in one guess,” she replies, snorting. “Some people shouldn’t be parents, and that is my biggest fear. Failing our kid because I don’t have the best example of how a mother should act.”
“You’re going to be a great mom, Britt. I see the way you are with Jersey, you already have those mothering intuitions.”
“That’s different, I didn’t have to raise her,” she argues.
“Flip the coin, darlin’, I bet you’ll see there’s not that much of a difference between heads and tails,” I state as we pull into the parking lot.
“That makes no sense to me,” she harrumphs.
“Dig deep, Britt, and see the bigger picture. One day, you’ll get what I’m trying to say.
” Without giving her a chance to rebut, I shut off the motor, hop out, pocket my keys, and round the truck until I’m at the passenger side where I open the door just as she unlatches the seatbelt, helping her down.
“That’s a long drop,” she sputters, embedding her fingernails into my biceps, holding on for dear life as she slides down my body.
“It’s all in your head, baby. Don’t let your fear rule you. Do you honestly think I’d let you fall?”
“I know you wouldn’t,” she insists, as if she believes that with her whole heart.
“Then keep that in mind when you’re in my arms.”
“I’ll try,” she whispers. “But old wounds don’t always get the memo.”
“Then let’s work on stitching those together so they don’t fester.”
Doctor Dennison, who insists we call her Monica, is a hoot and a half. Britton and I both felt comfortable with her from the moment she came into the exam room. She entered with a pregnancy joke that had both of us laughing and putting us at ease.
After she measures Britton’s belly and takes some samples to send off to the lab for analysis, she has her get dressed and asks us to meet her in her office. That part seemed to make Britton nervous and she mutters about never having appointments continue after the examination in a different space.
As we’re escorted down the hallway by a nurse, Britton whispers, “Do you think she’s going to tell us something bad which is why she has us going to a less sterile room?”
The corner of my lip lifts in a quirky smile, finding her rambling question amusing. “No. I think that she wants to go over things with us in a more comfortable setting.”
“Have you ever gone over your diagnosis with a doctor in their personal office, Tanner?”
“Can’t say that I have, but I’ve never been pregnant either,” I respond.
“You think I’m getting special treatment because I’m preggers?”
“Preggers,” I repeat like a parrot, shaking my head. “I thought only teenage girls used that word.”
“Hey, I resent that. I’m young, younger than you, cowboy.”
“Not too young,” I say loud enough for the nurse to hear, which has Britton releasing a giggle. “This is not one of those age gap romances you like to read.”
“Are you scared she’s going to report you for robbing the cradle?” she asks me, continuing our banter because it’s helping her forget about her earlier apprehension.
“I’m not robbing the cradle,” I deny, sounding aghast as my eyes widen in the nurse’s direction, hoping Britton will catch on that this isn’t something we should be joking about in front of her. “You’re five damn years younger than me, Britton.”
The nurse laughs before saying, “I can tell you two are going to be fun to have around.”
“We’re part of the comic relief,” I joke.
“We could use more of that around here. Some of our patients are more intense and don’t mind voicing it,” the nurse tells us.
“I bet you have some stories to tell,” Britton replies, giddiness blazing in her eyes.
“You can’t ask her questions, Britton. Even if you want to use them as storylines,” I warn her. “HIPAA laws prevent her from giving you details into a patient’s treatment.”
“I don’t want names, Tanner,” she hisses, reaching over and pinching me. “I wouldn’t ever ask anyone to violate such sensitive information so I could use it as inspiration for one of my books.”
“You’re an author? I’m an avid reader. What genre do you write?” Britton answers her but I tune them out. Not because I’m not interested in her work and all that jazz, but because the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
As we continue to walk, which feels like we’ve been doing forever as we make it through the back hallway and around to the other side of the building, I stealthily scan our surroundings. Something’s off, but I can’t pinpoint what that is. And that doesn’t settle well with me.
My gut says we’re being watched. But where from and by who?
“See, told you it wasn’t going to be bad news,” I remark after we wrapped up making our next appointment and enter the elevator.
“I hope the meds work that she called into the pharmacy for me,” Britton says, a hopeful look in her eyes. “I’m over it already and we’re just getting started.”
“Time will fly by,” I remind her. “Especially since we have a lot to do while waiting for our little one to get here.”
“Like what?” she asks as the doors slide shut and she hits the button that’ll take us down to the lobby.
“Many things. We need to pick out our plot of land for the cabin to be built on. Decorate it, buy furniture to fill it, pick out baby shit, and pick out our birthing plan.”
“I really wish I didn’t have to have the baby at a hospital,” she bemoans.
“But you are, right? Even if you don’t like it.”
“Um, yeah. That’s where they keep all of the good drugs,” she says, giving me a duh look.
We walk out of the glass doors and head into the parking lot. When we reach my truck my jaw drops as anger swamps me. I release Britton’s hand as I walk around the entirety of my truck. On one side is spray painted with bold red, Property of Jerome, and on the other, is Property of Patrick.
No. They. Did. Not.
“Those motherfuckers,” I hiss. Hitting the unlock button on the keypad, I quickly make my way to Britton and walk her to the passenger side.
My front two tires have been slashed and the rims are touching the ground.
I’m gonna need a tow and we’ll need a lift back to the clubhouse.
“I need to call Riptide but I want you in the truck where you’re safe in the meantime. ”
She doesn’t say a word, only nods her head as I lift her up and help her in.
Remembering that it’s hot outside, I run back around the hood of the car and jump inside so I can push the button that’ll turn the truck on.
Once the air conditioning is flowing, I lock it up and jump out, slamming the door.
I place my cell to my ear and call for backup.
“Sonofabitch!” I holler once I hang up after giving Riptide a play-by-play of what those assholes did to my tuck. “I’m gonna kill them,” I swear, kicking one of my flat tires. “They better pray I’m not the one to see them first.”