Chapter 15

Bunny

The tip of the red ink pen stops scrawling across my inner forearm when I look up at Kipp. “Don’t you think it’s a little too soon to be talking about baby names, Kid?”

“No,” he counters without hesitation, dirty mechanic rag being tossed over one shoulder. “I wanted to talk about them on day one.”

It’s impossible not to girlishly grin. “ I remember. ”

Getting unexpectedly knocked up and then having your back blown out in celebration isn’t exactly something you forget.

And neither is trying to sleep while the two men you love most in life are arguing about all things unborn child related.

Such as where should its room be in the new floorplan?

How close could it be to ours?

How far?

Its first word.

Should it go to pre-school?

Where should it go to elementary school?

Do we wear matching Halloween costumes?

Who gets to teach it to drive?

Parallel park?

Which of us should be giving it the “talk”?

The conversation covered the child’s complete pre-adult life cycle in the span of forty-five minutes.

They were all shit eating grins and excitement and eagerness.

I was the opposite.

Grinning, yet grimacing.

Excited, but anxious.

Eager, while overwhelmed.

Am I thrilled to be having a baby with the most incredible people I’ve ever met?

Absolutely.

They’re going to make the type of fathers that every kid dreams of having.

The ones that will literally go to the ends of the earth to love you, protect you, and make your dreams come true.

Am I uncomfortable with the abrupt change to our lives?

Definitely.

One minute I’m on the run for my fucking life and the next I’m bringing life into it.

How can I be expected to take care of the little thing I’m growing inside when I’ve barely been able to take care of me ?

Keep me alive?

Safe.

How can I not be filled with apprehension regarding its protection when I still feel as though I’m working on borrowed time?

I mean is it even a good idea to add another person…a tiny, defenseless, relies solely on us person…into this nightmare, or is it simply selfish?

I swear those are selfish horns I’m hearing, not trumpets.

“Brian is a great name,” The Kid confidently states, demonstrating that even if it is the latter, it’s also heartwarming. “It’s strong.”

“It’s simple.”

“Confident.”

“Common.”

“Easy to spell.”

“And easy to know it was picked from your favorite franchise of all time.”

The Kid less than innocently shrugs in tandem with flashing me a wide mouth grin.

His enthusiasm alone is enough to fill at least an entire page of “pros” for pregnancy.

If I didn’t know any better, I would think being a dad is a bigger dream for him than professionally racing ever was.

Professional racing, which is now apparently a dead subject.

Neither of them wants to move.

They want our child raised right where we are.

Right where we began.

“Can we please put it in the considering column?” Kipp impishly investigates, prompting me to return to the aggressive writing I’ve been doing since I’ve been home from a girls only in town shopping trip. “And don’t tell me there isn’t already a spreadsheet in progress.”

I let my eyes momentarily gravitate back to is.

“You make a spreadsheet for everything, baby.”

“I do not.”

“Your spreadsheets have spreadsheets.”

“They do not!”

“You know when you’re not looking… those spreadsheets get together with other spreadsheets to make more spreadsheets. ”

Mirth dances around my glare and tone alike. “You must’ve just gone over that lesson in sex-ed, huh?”

A deliciously slow lick of his lips precedes a growled, “ Would you like me to show you again how I aced it? ”

You know I thought the guys couldn’t get any fucking hornier than they already were.

I was wrong.

I was so mindbogglingly wrong.

Me being pregnant turns them on so much and so constantly that if I wasn’t pregnant before I would most certainly be now.

“Shouldn’t you be…” the edge of my pen whirls the direction of the vehicle behind him, “making that thing go all…” another wave is executed to assist in finding the right words, “cops can’t catch you fast or something?”

“That’s not quite what an aftermarket fuel injection system does, baby.”

“And I don’t quite understand what it does do, Kid.”

“You want me to explain it again?”

“I’d rather talk about literally anything else.”

“Baby names it is then.”

Ugh.

He shouldn’t be irresistible and clever.

That’s unbalanced.

“How about Jordana if it’s a girl?”

Pulling my lips to one side is done in brief contemplation. “I think that’s pretty.”

“ Soft yet strong ,” he theatrically emphasizes at the same time he drops his screwdriver onto the counter beside me. “Everything her mother will teach her to be.”

An awe sound slips out before it has the proper chance to be swallowed. Unfortunately for him, the adoration is short lived due to recalling the roots of his suggestion. “Wait. Isn’t Jordana the name of the actress that plays Mia who marries Brian?”

Arrogance and amusement fuse in his expression during his confession, “I like the name Mia too.”

“Could you like working?” I chastise between giggles. “Perhaps on that car your afterhours customer is expecting to be ready in the next twenty minutes.”

“I’m practically done,” The Kid reassures while making himself more comfortable in front of where I’m sitting. “I just need to polish off a few knobs.”

His playful eyebrow wiggle attached to his boyish smile results in me shaking my head a second time.

Rolling my eyes.

Resuming the doodling process I honestly don’t even remember starting.

I wonder if he or she will get this condition.

I wonder if it’s genetic.

I don’t recall my parents mentioning that.

I don’t remember putting it on my medical form either.

Maybe I should ask Doctor G – er Val.

Still getting used to calling her that.

Yes, she’s my doctor, but off the clock she’s becoming a bit more.

Someone to randomly text with.

Complain to.

Garcia claims she’s gunning for the role of a godparent – since he’s never gonna have kids – but I think that her doctor senses are just tingling.

Or maybe her “girl” senses.

I’m not too sure.

Friendship’s about as foreign to me as pregnancy is.

I’ll admit it’s been nice to have some female reassurance these past couple of weeks, and I’m totally looking forward to a “family dinner” with us, her, Garcia, and his parents and not just because she keeps promising to make me the best tacos al pastor I’ve ever had.

Which they will be.

They’ll also be the only ones I’ve ever had, but I’m not gonna tell her that.

“Admit it,” he lovingly goads. “You’re having fun thinking about our baby.”

The grin that grows on my face informs him of his rightness rather than my words.

“And that’s why you’re writing song lyrics that have the word baby in them.” I move over the pen over to resume writing another b, unintentionally summoning him closer. “I bet I know ‘em all.”

“I bet you don’t, Go, Diego, Go. ”

He struggles not to cringe at the comment.

“See.” Giggling precedes using my foot to gently nudge him away. “You don’t even get that reference.”

“ Yet. ” A loving catch and wiggle to my foot is delivered. “It sounds like a kid thing, and I am all prepared to learn the kid things.”

That makes one of us.

According to Suzie, I should already be practicing making my own fresh baby food grown in our own garden because based on something she read online or her daughter sent her or a magazine that crossed her vision on a random Monday, the healthiest and smartest babies are the ones who don’t get anything like that from the grocery store.

Posie – who had tagged along to go grocery shopping with me to surprise her newest boyfriend, which is who she broke up with the dishwasher guy for, with a homecooked meal – claims she’s completely full of shit.

And that she’d know since at least a handful of the girls she went to high school with all have kids already and are just fine not having been raised by Martha fucking Stewart.

She then made an impressive Snoop Dog joke that kept us both laughing for longer than I’m sure it should’ve.

I really like hanging out with Posie.

I like it even more when she’s sleeping with someone, and I can easily kick out the intrusive thoughts that she wants to be banging one of my boyfriends.

Or…as Mutt claims…my soon to be husbands.

Yeah.

That’s one more thing on the spreadsheet of “not sure how to deal with yet”.

And it’s a metaphorical spreadsheet!

Not a real one!

Having to respond to his comment isn’t necessary thanks to an unknown vehicle pulling into the driveway, most likely here to drop off the individual whose car he’s finishing up.

This is his first off-the-books job he’s taken in weeks.

It’s also the first poker night Mutt’s been away for.

Part of me knows that’s why he agreed to it – wanting something to distract him from the fact our boyfriend spent the entire day working prior to meeting up with his other best friend to collect possible new information regarding the Brad situation – but the other half of me hopes it’s because he wants something for himself again.

Something to get lost in.

Boost his confidence.

Give him purpose that isn’t around the clock couple care.

Don’t get me wrong.

I love that he’s sweet.

And attentive.

And remembers to put the cap back on the toothpaste – unlike Mutt.

But I also know he needs something that’s about him.

Just like Nolan does.

Just like I do.

The sound of a car door closing is quickly followed by it driving away leaving a tall, long-legged, blonde-haired chick to strut into the garage all on her own. “ You ready for me, Woods? ”

Biting my tongue is easy.

Not glaring isn’t.

“You ready for her ?” he teases back at the same time he rotates himself to face the unfamiliar female. “That’s a whole lot of torque.”

“And I’m a whole lot of racer,” she sasses, palms planted firmly on her jean covered hips. “Or did Butler fail to mention that?”

Kid failed to mention the vehicle he was working on was for Street Racing Barbie.

That would’ve been valuable information to have.

I mean I probably would’ve brushed my hair or put on something hotter than Nolan’s old hoodie.

At least fucking lip gloss.

“Butler didn’t mention much, but the express installation cost talked plenty.”

“It better have considering I had to pay half up front.”

“I don’t like people wasting my time.”

“And I don’t like people trying to bullshit me out of money.”

Kid casually moves closer to his customer while arrogantly smirking. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t.”

She flirtatiously bites her bottom lip, prompting me to pretend to clear something out of my throat. At that, her crystal gaze curiously cuts me. “Oh, hey! I didn’t even notice you there!”

Doubtful.

“Whit, meet my girl, the mother of my own future street racer-”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“-Bunny.” He lets the corners of his lips curl upward. “Bunny meet Whit. She came to me on recommendation. We uh…work in the same circles so to speak.”

“I get paid to get into trouble, and he gets paid to build the type of vehicles that get me out of it.” She nonchalantly crosses over to me. “Or into it a bit faster, depending.”

Politely shaking hands with her is attached to my asking, “How many times have you been here?”

“First time,” she replies, returning her grip to her hip. “But we’ve got mutual acquaintances.”

“Butler.”

“ He’s not the only one ,” the blonde whispers out.

Great.

Did she sleep with Nolan?

Is that what she means?

Is this one of those small towns are too small moments?

Kinda like tracking Posie’s sexual past that overlaps with her mom’s too often?

“Let me grab your fob,” Kid announces as Whit noticeably trails behind him, “and then I’ll get you checked out.”

He means financially.

Not physically.

She knows that, right?

Watching her get closer to my boyfriend tempts me into doing the same.

So, sue me.

I don’t want the supermodel throwing herself at one of my child’s fathers while I have to watch.

“Be careful with what you keep next to it.” He shuts the door once he has it and offers the object to her. “Pepper spray’s great to have, but if that shit leaks onto your fob, you could be fucked.”

Whit transfers the device along with the small purple bottle into her possession. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” The Kid innocently shrugs. “That chemical can do some major damage.”

“Can it?” leaves her splits seconds before she presses down on the button unleashing a steady stream of it directly into his eyes and open mouth.

Blood curdling screams reverberate around the garage as I lunge onto my feet, screwdriver in hand. “ Kippppppp! ”

In one flawless execution, she nails him in the shin – crippling him forward – uses a handful of his hair to smash his head into her car door – knocking him backwards as well as unconscious – and turns towards me, pistol extended directly at my forehead. “ Relax. He’s alive. ” An emotionless expression remains in place. “He’s just gonna have a major headache when he wakes up.”

There’s no stopping my glare from deepening.

“I find it interesting that McAdams didn’t mention you were pregnant.” She keeps the Glock steadily aimed. “I get the feeling that he doesn’t know.” One shoulder bounces in obvious indifference. “Eh, well. He’ll know soon enough. Hope the cocktail I whipped up for you doesn’t hurt the kid…but…then again, if it does?” Another shrug. “Not my problem.”

“What makes you think I’m gonna take anything you give me?”

“I’m pointing a gun in your face.”

The tilting of my head sarcastically to one side distracts from me readjusting my grip on the tool in my hand. “Do you know how many guns I’ve had pointed in my face since I’ve been in Texas?”

“ I’m not afraid to shoot. ”

“ I’m not afraid of being shot. ”

And I’m not.

I’ve survived much more painful things than a bullet.

“Have it your way. McAdams only said alive, not that you couldn’t be a little injured.”

Whit shifts the gun slightly over and down preparing to clip me in the shoulder; however, the instant her finger begins to squeeze the trigger, a swift, sharp, unexpected chop from me is delivered to her forearm, sending the hot piece of metal elsewhere at the same time I stab the screwdriver into what I’m fairly certain is a kidney.

An airy croak precedes her hold going limp and the lack of grasp sends the loaded weapon tumbling to the ground. Rather than give her an opportunity to scramble for it or risk getting into a wrestling match over it, I simply kick the pistol away and repeat the piercing motion into the open wound I’ve created. More gasps of air are taken along with twitches of desperation, prompting me to use my other hand to clamp down on her shoulder.

Squeeze.

Yank her into the plunging motion again and again and again, soaking my palm in blood.

Coating my fingers until they’re stained crimson.

Ready to write her name in her own blood.

“ I’m not going back to Brad alive. ” I sadistically hiss over her gurgling cries as I drive the weapon upward. “ And neither are you. ”