Better (Stark Ink Book 2) (19 page)

By March the Christmas tree had come down. Dalton sat in the living room watching Duke coming from behind in the semi-finals, but he was only half interested. Just because there was a ball involved didn’t make it a serious sport. He nearly dozed off when heard a crash behind him and turned to see Zoey in the kitchen. He sprang up and darted around the counter. The remains of a teacup was spread across the linoleum. “Don’t move. I’ll clean it up.”

“Leave it,” she said.

Dalton shook his head. “Zoey, you’re not getting on your hands and knees to clean the floor. Just stay still and let me get a broom.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she insisted.

“Zoey—”

She held up a hand. “We have to go.”

He frowned at her. “Go.” Then his eyes flicked to her belly. “Oh! We have to go. Oh, God we have to go.”

“Breathe,” she told him.

“I am breathing. You’re supposed to breathe.”

The drive to the hospital was slightly harrowing but not nearly as maddening as the wait once they got there.

“She’s having a
baby
,” Dalton reminded the check-in nurse for the tenth time.

The nurse merely smiled.

Dalton felt patronized. Or was it matronized? He glanced at Zoey again and rubbed the back of his neck.

Shuffled into a birthing suite, Dalton felt like a caged animal. In between contractions was fine, quiet, manageable even. But when one hit, he fervently wished he could do this for her.

“Oh, God,” he groaned as she gripped his hand tightly.

Zoey glared at him. “Are you praying or helping?”

Dalton glanced back at her, altogether unsure. He felt scattered, unfocused. How could something he’d waited for for so long happen this fast?

He stood up and let go of Zoey’s hand. “I have to go.”

“What?” Zoey asked between breaths.

Dalton looked over his shoulder to the closed door in the corner. “The bathroom,” he told her. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

She sighed loudly as he beat a hasty retreat across the room.

“Hurry back!” she demanded.

He didn’t respond.

He closed and locked the door and then glanced around the small room. Unsure of what to do next, he went with his instincts. He tugged up his jeans and knelt on the pristine, white tile, close to the toilet but in need of an altogether different God. Butterflies banged around his stomach, though, and for a moment he thought he might need both.

He’d felt ready, right up until this moment, and then all his confidence had shattered right along with Zoey’s teacup. He wished Mom were here. She’d know how he was feeling. She’d know what to do. Pop would know, too, but there wasn’t time to ask. That only left The Man Upstairs.

Dalton folded his shaky, work-battered hands and closed his eyes. Overhead the fluorescent lights hummed loudly. “I’ll never hit them,” he whispered. “I’ll never hurt them. I’ll always be there.”

It seemed like a simple enough oath. Dalton was sure there was more to being a good husband and father, but he figured it was as good a place to start as any. The lights flickered over his head. He’d been an electrician too long to read too much into it, but still…

“Thank you,” he whispered, in case anyone was listening.

He heard the door to the birthing suite open and close. Muffled voices were distorted by the heavy bathroom door. Time was up.

Dalton stood, washed his hands for good measure, and went to fulfill his promise. He’d be there from the minute his son came into the world and every day after. He opened the door and found one of the nurses and the doctor lifting the sheet that covered Zoey. She looked so small in that bed, thought Dalton, but not fragile. Not anymore. Sweat beaded her forehead and her hair plastered to her skin and in that moment she never looked fiercer, or more beautiful. In the midst of another contraction, she grabbed the rail of the bed until Dalton could cross the room to get to her.

“We’re in for a long night,” the doctor declared.

Zoey groaned and fell back against the pillows.

Dalton squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her.

True to the doctor’s words, the little man didn’t make an appearance until well after Midnight. In one final, brutal push, Dalton felt his own breath heave as he watched, astonished, as the little kicker emerged. He was so big, thought Dalton, and so small. The baby screamed. Red cheeks puffed out in defiance, ready to take on the entire world and everyone in it. Until that moment, Dalton thought he loved Zoey, just as he thought he loved the boy growing inside her. He was wrong. He hadn’t loved them. Never did. Not once. Because whatever he’d felt before this moment, no longer felt real. It paled in comparison to the
ache
, the fierce
tearing
in his chest and belly that threatened to overwhelm him as he watched the nurse handling the wild, wailing creature.

Dalton shook his head at the futility of it all. The weighing, the measuring, none of it mattered. Whatever the numbers were, they would never be enough. They would never tell the whole story. Inches, ounces, they could never
explain
this boy. They could never calculate his
worth
.

Dalton had never actually believed in miracles until the day he saw one for himself.

“Is he okay?” Zoey asked, pushing herself up off the pillows and craning her neck to see.

Dalton squeezed her hand and finally tore his eyes away and looked at her. “He’s perfect.”

The nurse handed the baby to Zoey and after several minutes of standing guard, Dalton’s legs finally gave out. He flopped into the chair in the corner, but didn’t take his eyes off them. Slowly, though, exhaustion finally set in and after the baby, fed and warm, closed
his
eyes, Dalton finally felt his own lids slide down.

“Dalton?” Zoey’s voice called. She sounded faint and far away.

“Nap,” Dalton mumbled, or thought he did. “Just a nap.”

“In the chair?”

“Not leaving without you,” he grunted.

Dalton’s eyes slowly opened and he realized he was staring at the ceiling. He craned his neck and saw Zoey sitting up in her bed.

She raised her eyebrows when she saw him looking at her. “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he replied.

As he unfurled his cramped legs, she chided him. “You shouldn’t have stayed. You could have gone home.”

Dalton ignored her and sat up. The crick in his neck would need some serious attention.

“How can you sleep there, anyway? It can’t be comfortable.”

Dalton stretched and pulled aside the thin blanket. He grinned at Zoey. “I’m like a kitty cat, baby. I can curl up anywhere. I’m very agile. Once we get home, I’ll show you—”

“Dalton!” she hissed, jerking her chin.

He followed her gaze to find a woman sitting in a chair on the other side of the room. “Oh. I’m sorry,” he told the two of them. He wrestled with the blanket to avoid their eyes. “I didn’t see you over there.”

“That’s alright,” the woman replied as she shuffled the papers that were on her lap. “I’m all finished.”

Zoey nodded and looked at Dalton. “She’s from the hospital records department. Paperwork.”

He frowned. It didn’t seem like anyone could get a moment’s peace in this place. The paperwork could wait, in his opinion. At least until after they were home.

The woman stood up and smiled at the baby who was sleeping in Zoey’s arms. She laid an envelope down on the table. “Here’s your copy,” she told Zoey. “And the official version will come in the mail.”

Zoey thanked the woman before she left the room.

After the door closed, Dalton rose and picked up the envelope. “So, what’s the damage?”

Zoey learned back against her stack of pillows and yawned. “The what?”

“The total. How much is it?”

She laughed. “It’s not the bill, Dalton. It’s for the birth certificate.”

Dalton frowned as he turned the envelope over in his hands. “But we didn’t really get a chance to talk about it.”

“Yes, we did.”

“But—”

“Forget it,” Zoey hissed. “We’re not naming him Lee.”

Dalton grunted. “Lee Roy Jordan. He’s the best linebacker the Cowboys ever had, baby. He’s a legend!”

She shook her head vehemently. “Nope.”

His brow furrowed as he pulled out the folded paper. “I can’t believe you didn’t wake me for something as important as this. What’d you pick? I mean, I like your Dad, baby, but ‘Lyle’s’ not doing it for me. I know your mom likes it, but nobody wants to be named after a country singer.”

She scoffed. “I didn’t name him Lyle. As a matter of fact, I
did
name him after a linebacker, thank you very much.”

Dalton dragged his eyes from her and down to the paper in his hands.

Dalton James Stark, Jr.

He blinked at it for several moments before looking at Zoey.

She grinned back at him. “I thought we could call him DJ”

As if he heard her, the baby’s legs jerked in his sleep. Dalton moved over to Zoey and reached for him. After Zoey handed him over, Dalton cradled the boy to his chest. The baby’s eyes opened just for a second before quickly closing again as he settled into another long nap.

“Well,” Dalton said quietly. “It’s nice to finally be able to hold you whenever I want… DJ”

When they were finally released, Dalton drove them home. It seemed like ages since he’d seen his own bed. He carried the car seat in for Zoey and headed straight to the baby’s room. He unstrapped DJ and laid him gently in the crib, stepping back to get a good look. “Not bad,” he said to himself, then he looked down at the baby. “Not you. The crib. You’re perfect.”

Zoey came in, having managed to change into her bathrobe already, and collapsed into the padded rocking chair.

“You should go get some sleep,” Dalton said.

She waved her hand at him, but didn’t open her eyes. “I don’t want to leave him.”

Dalton couldn’t argue. He felt the same way. “Alright. I’ll go make you some tea.” He closed the door softly behind him and headed to the kitchen. Someone had cleaned up the broken teacup and finished the rest of the dishes. As exhaustion set in, Dalton was intensely grateful for all the help they had received.

He boiled the water and steeped the bag. As he waited, he glanced around. There was an extra box of diapers in the corner and a stack of pristine bibs on the counter. They were ready.
He
was ready, he supposed. As much as he would ever be. His watch beeped and he tossed the teabag. By the time he returned to the bedroom, Zoey was asleep in the chair and snoring softly. He put the cup on the table next to her in case she woke.

DJ was out like a light, as well.

Dalton watched him take in slow, steady breaths. Satisfied there was nothing left to do, the large man flopped into a small, upholstered chair in the corner. He propped his feet up on the ottoman and cracked the spine on a new book. Apparently the first year would be equally perplexing and he almost made it through the first chapter before his eyelids became too heavy to remain open.

It was a strange thing for a beast of a man to be done in by two little people.

In the early morning hours, the bell jingled over Dalton’s head as he opened the front door to Stark Ink. As he made his way into the lobby, he frowned. The door had been broken once, not by him, but it had been his fault all the same and Dalton had been in no shape to help Adam fix it at the time. The men Adam had hired had done a passable job, in Dalton’s opinion, but it wasn’t perfect and he made a mental note to come back later with some tools.

The receptionist, Jeannie, greeted him with a smile as Adam sauntered out of the workroom holding a cup of coffee in his hand. “Rough night?”

Dalton shrugged as he followed his older brother into a smaller room. “Nah. Not terrible. I only had to get up twice. What can I say? The kid loves my stories.” He grinned at Adam. “Last night I told him the one about fat, little Prince Aaron who ate all the ice cream.”

Adam’s jaw dropped. “I was not fat! I hadn’t hit my growth spurt yet!”

“You had those little pudgy cheeks and-”

Adam slammed his cup down on the counter and glared. “I am going to fuck you up. I’m going to put a dolphin on you. A big fucking dolphin with a gaping blow hole.”

Dalton stopped laughing and suddenly became serious. “Hey,” he said sharply. “That’s not a joke. And this is my
son’s
tattoo we’re doing. You don’t get to fuck that up.”

Adam raised his hands. “Kidding. I’m kidding. I won’t blow this. I swear. I know how important it is.” He cleared his throat. “Congratulations, D. I mean it.”

Dalton blew out a harsh breath and nodded his thanks. “I’m nervous.” He didn’t need to tell Adam that he wasn’t talking about the tattoo.

Adam shook his head. “No. You got this. You can do this.”

Dalton grimaced. “You think? I don’t have the best track record and there’s so much I don’t know.”

“If you get into trouble, just think WWPD.”

Dalton cocked his head to the side. “WWPD?”

“What Would Pop Do? He got it right, man, every time, with
four
of us. And we were not the easiest kids to raise.”

Dalton frowned as he nodded. “I’m not looking forward to that one,” he said, glancing in the mirror again.

“Not today,” Adam assured him. “And not tomorrow, at least. Pop’s still got some more time.”

“Thank God,” Dalton replied quietly. “What about yours?”

“Don’t worry. There’s no way my first nephew is gonna be overlooked. I’ve already got it drawn up and ready to go.”

“You gonna call the little blonde who did Mom’s date for you? What’s her name? Delia?”

Adam nodded. “Daisy. Yeah, she’s free next week and she needs some time on the needle. She’s going to have to write small, though, because I expect you to get started on another one just as soon as Zoey’s healed up,” he said with a grin.

Dalton laughed. “What about you and Calla?”

“Are you kidding? Mom would roll over if I knocked her up before I put a ring on her finger.”

“Maybe what goes around comes around,” Dalton mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing. So?”

Adam glared at him. “So, I’m working on it Nosy Parker! Mind your own business!”

“You should have asked her on Valentine’s Day.”

Adam shot him a dubious look. “What kind of cheesy asshole does that? No, her birthday’s a few months away. We’ll see what we see, okay?”

Dalton shut his mouth and nodded. He knew not to ask for more details. The fact that Calla had been around this long meant she was already as good as part of the family and Adam was right, the hammering out of the details was nobody’s business but theirs.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Dalton said, heading for the chair.

He straddled it, laying his arms on the padded rests. Adam sat down and dipped the gun into a fresh pot before pressing the needle into Dalton’s skin. Anything that was worth doing was painful. Dalton had figured this out years ago and continued to do so— football, carpentry, sobriety. Now he included having a baby on that list. Zoey had gone through a lot just bringing the boy into this world and it was the very least Dalton could do to commemorate his son’s birthday in ink.