Quinn II (Undaunted Men #2) (27 page)

She shakes her head and sniffs. “I’m fine,” she rasps. “I’ve called for help already.” Silent tears of anguish slide over her cheeks and drop down to her lap. She’s trying to suppress her tears, wanting to play tough guy, but she’s not doing a very good job of it.

I fist my hands against the roof of her car to keep from touching her, because I want to console her so fucking bad. By not wanting my help, she’s playing the martyr, so I try to be the voice of reason. “It’s freezing out here, and when you combine the nasty weather and me living outside of the city, it might be hours before you wind up getting help.” I jerk my chin toward my truck as I explain, “I’ve got chains in the back of my truck. I can get you out of this ditch.”

I watch her swallow hard, her gaze focusing on the speedometer, and then she wraps her hands around the steering wheel in a death grip. She whimpers at first, and then her distress escalates into a painful squall.
What the fuck?
Confused, I don’t know what the hell to do or say. I squat down, getting on her level, and tentatively reach out to touch her back. “Are you okay?” I ask, concerned.

She turns her head and looks at me as if she wants to slice my head off, and then screams at me like a crazy woman off her meds. My eyes go wide with shock as she shirks away, evading the touch of my hand. She damn near foams at the mouth with fury, hissing, “Get your fucking hands off me!” Not missing a beat, she immediately reverts back to focusing on the steering wheel, her knuckles bone-white while she breathes in a funny pattern.
 

Something is wrong, really wrong. I look down on her lap and narrow my eyes. Her dark pants look a little darker around the crotch, and then it hits me. Her water broke. She’s in fucking labor.

I try to yank open her car door, but it’s locked. I reach inside and unlock her door, my heart pounding hard in my chest. I grab her by the elbow and she flashes me a canine snarl, baring her teeth, making me falter. Her watery eyes narrow, and she screams bloody murder about how much she hates me. That’s fine; she can hate me all she wants, but she needs help first. She struggles to get out of my hold, but my grip is too firm.

“I said to get your fucking hands off me!” she screams.

“Uh-uh,” I shake my head at her with determination, using a voice of steel, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.” She tries to shove me away and almost succeeds, because quite frankly, I didn’t think she would. “All right, just remember this was your decision.”

I bend down and scoop her up in my arms, and she kicks, scratches, and throws a few punches at me, but it doesn’t deter me in the least. As much adrenaline as there is coursing through my veins, I can barely feel her struggling in protest. Her bottom is soaked, and I’m trying not to freak out. This is Stryker’s territory, not mine. I carry her to the passenger side of my truck and somehow manage to open the door with her flailing around in my arms as she continues to scream at me to let her go. I ignore the slurring of multiple curse words and her striking blows with the palms of her hands as I set her in my front seat.
 

Damned if she doesn’t try to escape the second I let her go too. I jump up on the running boards, grab her by the shoulders, and roughly shake her. I’m careful not to overdo it, but she needs some sense shaken into her. She’s a tenacious little shit. My eyes turn heated as I bark in her face, “Calm the fuck down. If I have to tie you up with my goddamned chains, I will. Do. Not. Push. Me.”
   

She gasps for air, her emotions all over the fucking place, but the look in my eyes and my harsh voice tell her she’s going to lose. “My purse,” she manages to say between labored breaths.

“Fine,” I grit out angrily, “I’ll get your damn purse, but you keep your ass in this seat.” I don’t wait for a response from her. I let her go, and then shut her door with a loud slam. I head back to her car and grab her purse from the front seat, roll up her window, take the keys out of the ignition, and then lock the doors.

When I slide into the driver's side of my truck, she’s bent over again, hanging onto my dashboard in a white-knuckled grip. I don’t waste a single second. I put the truck in drive, and take off toward Rex Hospital like a bat out of Hell. I’ve never been more thankful for my four-wheel drive as I cut through all the elements on the road with ease.
 

Neither one of us speak to each other on the drive, but every five minutes or so, she cries out in pain. My face stings in a few places where she slapped and scratched at me. I glance over at her as her jaw muscles flex. She’s gritting her teeth something fierce, and seeing her this way has my nerves inside out.
 

“When’s your due date?”

“Three weeks from now,” she roughly states between clenched teeth as she tries to breathe through the pain.

Very pissed off, I pound the steering wheel with a loud slap, startling her. “Son of a bitch,” I hiss under my breath. Right now, I want to read her the riot act and ask her just what the fuck she was thinking by traveling like this so close to her due date. I stay quiet, though, because I know it won’t do any good to yell at her, plus I have to drive. There will be no way to defend myself if she decides to go off on me again.

The truck is deathly silent, and I jump out of my skin when she cries out in distress again, catching me off guard. I swipe the palm of my hand over my mouth, and hold it there, exhaling some of the pent up stress as I'm living in my own corner of Hell. The noises she is making cuts right through my heart and soul. My anxiety has gone through the roof, and I can’t seem to drive fast enough.
 

By the time I pull up to the emergency entrance of the hospital, she’s white as a ghost. I put the truck in park, grab her purse, and then rush to the passenger side door.

I slip my hands underneath her, and she swats me away. “I can walk,” she says heatedly.

As much as I want to argue with her, I bite my tongue and step to the side, rolling my hand outward in the direction of the ER doors like a bellman would. I watch closely as she steps down onto the running board, making sure she doesn’t fall. No sooner do both her feet touch the ground, she begins to collapse to the ground in labor pains. I catch her just in time, scooping her into my arms.
 

“Mother-effer,” she gasps, holding her rounded belly in pain. I carry her inside the ER, and knowing there are bonafide doctors here to be able to handle this situation, relief floods me the second I step inside the building. I don’t need to say anything when I walk up to the check-in counter. The look on the clerk’s face says it all.

“Let me get her a wheelchair, and we’ll take care of her, stat.” She picks up her phone and with the push of a button, she talks to someone, explaining our predicament. Not thirty-seconds later, Lexi is taken from my hands and wheeled away. I shakily run my fingers through my hair, both frustrated and somewhat scared for her. I go back to the clerk and ask, “Where are they taking her?”
 

“She’s going to labor and delivery.”
 

I roll my hand in a small circle impatiently and ask her in a sarcastic tone, “And that would happen to be…where?”

She blushes then draws me a little map of where I can go to wait. I run outside to park my truck, and then take off through the halls of the hospital, feeling stupid as fuck for carrying around a brightly-colored paisley purse, and it’s not a small, dainty one either. It’s almost the size of a mini suitcase and weighs a ton.
How the hell do women carry this shit around all day?

Reaching the labor and delivery area, I stop a nurse in the hallway and ask her if she’s seen Alexis roll through. She knows nothing, of course, but directs me to the nurse's station down the hall.
 

I approach one of the nurses, who’s busily typing away, sitting behind her computer. I clear my throat to get her attention, and she looks annoyed until she glances up at me. Slowly, her lips form into a devious smirk as she blatantly eyes me up and down, and I’m about to come unglued.
 

“I’m here to see Alexis Moretti, my wife,” I lie, just to put her back in line.

As if I knocked the wind out of her sails, she frowns, and then looks at her computer screen. “She’s being prepped for delivery right now, but the notes say she doesn’t want anyone in the delivery room.”

“Well, where can I wait then?” The nurse points to a quiet cove with sofas and chairs across the hall. “Thanks. You’ll let me know afterwards…when she’s settled into a room, right?”

“Sure thing, but my shift is about to end, so I’ll fill in the next nurse.”

“Thanks.” I turn around and head toward the waiting room. It doesn’t take long before all four walls quickly close in on me. I’m going to go insane waiting for news. I don’t know what it means to have a baby three weeks early, but all I can do is pray that everything will turn out fine.

I’m a wreck on the inside and can’t sit still. There’s a TV mounted to the wall, so I turn it on. I start flipping through the channels, but nothing can hold my interest, except what’s happening to Lexi. I lean my head against the wall, close my eyes, and let out a huge sigh, expelling some of the stress from my body.
Why the fuck did she really come here?
Because I don’t believe for a second that baby is mine.
 

God, what a shock to the heart to open my front door and see her standing right before my very eyes. I had a thousand emotions rolling through me all at once, but the one emotion that trumped them all was anger. I had worked so damn hard to forget all the bad shit that happened between us, and the very second I laid eyes on her, all the memories of betrayal came flooding back in. Seeing her reopened every deep wound, gash, slash, and tear in my heart, and I reacted…badly.

I scrub my hand down over my face, my bristly whiskers reminding me I haven’t shaved for two days. I leave my hand cupped over my mouth, thinking deeply, trying to wrap my head around this entire scenario. Her blue and pink paisley purse catches my eye.
What the fuck is that all about?
Can’t say I’ve ever seen something so hideous looking, but nonetheless, it’s sitting there looking all innocent. I know I’m going to go to Hell for what I’m about to do, but if there’s something in there to clue me in as to what she’s up to, then by all means I’m going through it.

I grab her heavy bag and place it in the empty seat next to mine to open it. I shake my head at all the girly crap I’m digging through. I take pause when a small blue notebook catches my eye. I pull it out and am surprised to see it’s a diary. I didn’t know they even made those anymore. It has a mini lock on it and everything.

I pilfer back through her purse, looking for a key, but come up empty-handed. Then it dawns on me it might be on her keychain. I pull her car keys out and voila, there’s the miniature key. I open the lock and turn to her first entry.

September 14th

Dear Diary,
 

I never thought I’d see myself writing in one of these, but at the encouragement and insistence of my therapist, here I am. She thinks by writing out my emotions and thoughts on paper, it will help me acknowledge my feelings, process previous events with more clarity, and come to a deeper understanding of myself. I hope journaling will open some of the pathways that hold healing, because at some point, I’d like be able to reflect back and see where I’ve been and how far I’ve moved forward emotionally. But the way I feel right now, I don’t ever see myself moving forward, not without him.
 

It’s been months, and the pain in my heart is still sometimes too much to bear. I’m sick to my stomach almost every day and can’t eat. I know that’s not fair to his child, our baby, so I force myself to eat something nutritious every day. At least I’m taking my prenatal vitamins.

There are dried splotches on the paper that look as if she had shed tears while writing in her diary. I scan through another few entries until I read something that will forever change my life.