Ghost Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 3) (41 page)

OVER THE LAST
couple of weeks, London and I had been spending more and more time together. We’d started seeing a counselor. It helped that I was with London, since the focus wasn’t fully on me, but now the counselor, Steven, wanted to start seeing us separately sometimes, while we continued to come to the joint visits.

I didn’t hate the man, exactly. Steven had a very different counseling style than London did, not constantly getting in my face and pushing all my buttons until I exploded. He just asked questions and let me take the time I needed to answer them. Sometimes, I could answer in a minute. Other times, I needed to spend a week or more thinking about what Steven had asked before I could settle on a response that seemed as honest as I could be.

London, too, seemed to be opening up more than before. She told us how sometimes she still woke up in the mornings and forgot that her legs wouldn’t work right, and she’d get mad at herself when she would try to get out of bed and end up falling. Or how every now and then, she’d feel a sharp, prickling sensation in one of her legs, and she’d start to hope that maybe the doctors were wrong. Maybe she would be able to walk again someday if she just kept trying hard enough. That little bit of hope seemed like a cruel trick that the universe was playing on her.

Going to couples counseling wasn’t as awful as I’d imagined it would be, all told. I wasn’t sure I was any closer to letting go of all the guilt I felt over the car wreck, but London and I were definitely getting to know each other better, and not just sexually. We were talking about the future, too—for us, and for the baby.

She’d agreed that she would keep the baby, regardless of what happened between us or what came from our counseling sessions. We’d also agreed that I would have a part in our baby’s life no matter what came of our personal relationship. That put my Svetka’s mind at ease. Now she was at home in Russia, busy making baby blankets and lamenting the fact that she couldn’t find any American garage sales in Siberia.

Outside of our counseling sessions, I’d started taking London on dates. Real dates where we went out in public together, not just nights when I would go over to her house and do whatever it took to convince her to let me in her bed.

One night, I took her to watch a ballet recital that some of Viktoriya’s students were putting on. Another night, we went to dinner with Hunter and Tallie at some upscale restaurant downtown while they left Harper with a babysitter. Yet another time, I suggested that Hunter and Tallie should go out alone and leave the baby with me and London. It was great for all of us, but maybe not as a date for me and London. Admittedly, I’d spent an awful lot of time that night doting on Harper, who loved touching my new shorter beard and giggling uncontrollably. So of course, I’d spent hours rubbing my face against her hands, her feet, her belly, her cheeks…anything to make her laugh. At least London had laughed, too. She didn’t seem to mind that I’d focused more on the little girl than I had on her that night. She’d said it was good practice for our baby.

A couple of times, she came with me to watch the Thunderbirds home games. I made sure to set her up with Tallie and Viktoriya—two people she’d at least met before, and whom I felt could be trusted to look after her. Some of the guys’ wives and girlfriends could be more than just bitchy any time a new girl came into the fold, and I didn’t want London to have to face that alone. Tallie could be counted on to put them in their place if they said a fucking thing they shouldn’t around my girl.

I liked having her there, even if we still lost more than we won. That was how it went for an expansion team that had only existed for a couple of seasons. We’d known essentially since November that we had no shot at getting into the playoffs, so now we were just trying to avoid finishing last in the league. Then after the games she came to, I took her back to her place and charmed my way into her bed.

My favorite of all the dates I’d taken her on was wasn’t really a date at all. We went to her first ultrasound together in late February.

“This is earlier than I usually do an ultrasound for my patients,” the doctor said, taking a seat across from the two of us. London was already in a hospital gown and ready for the test, but apparently we were going to talk about things first. “The fact is that your spinal cord injury puts you in a higher-risk category, so we’re going to be watching you closely every step of the way.”

“What higher risk?” I asked. I was so excited and nervous and ready to puke up my guts about the whole process that I couldn’t sit still. Instead, I was up and pacing around the room, wishing the doctor could magically answer all of the questions—even the ones I didn’t yet know I had—via telepathy.

That didn’t even come close to happening.

“As with all SCI patients, there’s a risk of infection to the urinary tract, which is increased during pregnancy. We’ll be doing routine screenings quite a bit more often than you’re used to,” the doctor said, smiling at London, who nodded like she’d been expecting that. “You’ll need to be more diligent than ever about making sure you empty your bladder as fully as possible and doing it on a schedule.”

“How often?” I asked. The nurse had offered me a note pad and pen earlier, so I picked them up and started scribbling notes. They came out in an odd combination of Cyrillic and English that no one but me would be able to understand.

“For now, every two to three hours. But the later you get into the pregnancy, the more often it will be necessary. The weight of the baby will push on the bladder, so you might find that you need to empty it every hour. But there are other possible complications we need to keep in mind, as well.”

Other complications
, I wrote, then paused with my pen poised, waiting for the doctor to go on.

“As you gain weight, you’re going to be at an increased risk of decubitis ulcers—”

“What’s that?” I interrupted. I didn’t have the first clue how to spell it, even.

London rolled her eyes. “I’m sure she was about to explain it, if you’d just be patient.”

“Bed sores,” the doctor said, winking in London’s direction. “They’re fairly common in anyone who’s already bedridden or who spends much of their time in a wheelchair, but the increased weight adds to the risk and likelihood of them forming.” Then she looked at me. “This is something you can help with. You can check the places London can’t see to look for the sores. We’ll give you some pictures you can compare, so you know what you’re looking for. And I’m sure London is already well aware of the need for eating a proper diet and drinking plenty of fluids in order to prevent them. Moving around as much as possible will also help in terms of prevention.”

Water and nutrition
, I noted on my list.

“So getting out of my chair to have sex every once in a while is a good thing, then,” London said, and my head popped up from my notetaking.

The doctor grinned. “Sex is good for you. Sure.”

I wrote
SEX
and underlined it four or five times, not that I’d need the reminder. Sex was always on my mind these days.

“It’s helpful that you’ve been active playing sled hockey,” the doctor said. “You’ve got good upper body strength?”

“Better than any woman I know,” London said, and I had to agree. The way she moved herself around with nothing but her arms continued to astound me.

“You’re going to need it as you gain weight. There may come a point in your pregnancy that you weigh too much to transfer yourself easily from your chair to the car or the bed…so she might need your help,” the doctor said, turning her attention to me.

“I can carry.”

“I don’t want you to carry her. Not if you can avoid it. Picking her up and moving her from her chair to the bed or from the car to her wheelchair is the limit of how much you should do, if at all possible. We don’t want to risk you falling on top of her while you’re carrying her.”

Good point. I jotted it down in my notes.

“But you’ll likely need to get some modifications made to your equipment to accommodate your weight and greater size,” the doctor said to London. “You’ll need additional padding in your chair. You might even need a chair that is a bit wider than this one is. I’d recommend renting it so you don’t have to spend too much money on it up front, especially since you’re not likely to need it after you’ve lost your baby weight.”

London nodded, like none of this was news to her. It probably wasn’t. She was much more up to speed about the kinds of problems expected with paraplegia, in general, than I was, since she’d been living with it for several years already. I knew quite a bit about the problems an amputee faced, as I’d been by Sergei’s side through his recovery, but paralysis was a different beast entirely.

The doctor inched forward on her wheeled stool, resting her arms on her knees. “At a later appointment, we’ll talk a lot about the ways you can tell if you’re experiencing contractions, as most women with spinal cord injuries aren’t able to feel them in the way a non-injured woman would. And there’s a strong chance that we might have you go ahead and check in at the hospital about two to three weeks before your due date, just so we can be sure you’ve got other safeguards in place.”

“Two to three
weeks
?” London said, shaking her head. “Nope, not gonna happen. I can’t handle that. I can’t—”

“You can if you need to,” I interrupted. “For baby. Not just about you.”

She glared at me, giving me a look that clearly said we’d be having a discussion about this later. I was fine with that. If she wanted to argue, no problem. But there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d budge on something that was meant not only for
her
protection but our baby’s, as well.

“What about labor and delivery?” London asked, turning her attention back to the doctor. “I read something about the possibility of forceps?”

“What’s forceps?” I asked.

“It’s a tool used to reach inside and pull the baby out if the mother is unable to push enough on her own,” the doctor explained. “And it’s a possibility, depending on how things progress. There are other methods we can use, as well, and we can discuss the possibility of caesarian. No matter what we do, we’ll be keeping a focus on both the mother’s safety and the baby’s.”

“And what about his?” London asked, winking in my direction. “What are we going to do to protect his delicate sensibilities?”

I grumbled something unkind in Russian, but the doctor laughed and picked up an instrument that looked nothing like what I’d been expecting and a blanket to drape over London’s lap. “I’m sure we can arrange for something.” She wheeled over closer and urged London to lie down on her back. “In the meantime, why don’t we show him what his baby looks like? Come on over here, Dad, and take a seat.”

“Papa,” I corrected her. “I’m Papa.”

I didn’t realize until right at that moment how much I wanted to be like my own papa. I doubted I could live up to the example he’d made for me, but I would damned well try.

LONDON DIDN’T GO
to see Wade for almost two weeks after leaving him at the hospital that night he’d wrecked his truck. When she decided to go after her ultrasound, I offered to accompany her. She shook her head and reached for the gun that had remained on her TV cabinet that whole time. She slipped it into her purse after carefully checking to be sure the safety was on. “This is something I have to do on my own.”

I didn’t like it, but I didn’t force the issue.

When she was done, she came over to my house, let me carry her up to my bed, and asked me to take charge again. It was in those nights when she gave herself over to me completely that we experienced the most intense connection of all. Somehow, when she was able to give up all power over what might happen, myriad emotions flowed freely between us. There was plenty of lust, to be sure, but also fear and anger and sadness, joy and utter exhilaration.

And love.

That night, when I had her wrists handcuffed to the bed frame and an angled pillow under her hips, giving me free access to lick her pussy to my heart’s content, she cried out all sorts of things. “Let me touch you, you son of a bitch.” Then, “I can’t. I’m too sensitive. I can’t come again.” But the best moment of all was when she cried out, “Damn you for making me fall in love with you,” and her pussy clenched around my fingers with countless spasms.

I nearly came right at that moment from hearing her say the words, even though she wasn’t touching me in any way. Because if she loved
me
, then I had a much better shot at convincing her to marry me than I would if she only loved
fighting
with me.