Page 4 of Aced (Driven 4)
“We’re gonna have a baby,” she whispers. And although I already know it, hearing her say it causes my breath to catch and my heart to summersault. “June ninth.”
Six. Nine.
Fuckin’ A.
We finally crossed the finish line we thought we’d never reach.
Six months later
“I WAS A LITTLE WORRIED when you told me to come over today that you’d lost control of your balls, but this?” Becks asks, as he takes a measured look at the empty beach around us. “This is just what the doctor ordered.”
“Where’s the faith, brother?” I slide a glance over to him behind my sunglasses. “Can you see me at a baby shower?” I ask. He snorts in response. “I assure you my balls are firmly attached. There is no way in hell I’m setting foot anywhere near the house right now.” I mock-shiver at the thought of all those women who’d gladly leave lipstick on my cheek.
“A whole new definition for the estrogen vortex.”
“Damn straight.” I reach over and tap the neck of my beer against his. “And not in a good way.”
“And for that reason alone, I think the baby’s a girl,” he says with a laugh, causing me to grunt at his logic. “Dude, you’ve played women for so damn long, it’d be funny as fuck and serve you right to watch one play you for the rest of your life.” He holds up his pinkie telling me if we had a little girl, I’ll be wrapped around her finger. Fucker’s probably right, but I’m not telling him
that. Besides, the smarmy grin on his face is wide enough to earn the bottle top I throw at him.
“No one is playing me. That you can be sure of.” I tip my bottle to my lips, as Becks laughs long and hard at the words he knows are a lie.
“I don’t think you have any idea what’s about to hit you, brother.”
He’s right. I have no fucking clue. Zip. Zero. Zilch. All I know is the closer the due date gets the more I feel like I haven’t had enough time to get ready for it. It? More like a complete overhaul of our life. Scary fucking shit.
“So, how are you doing with all of this?”
“Shit’s getting real,” I muse with a slow nod of my head.
“Considering there’s a baby shower up at the house right now with women dressing themselves in toilet paper—in some ritual I pray I never understand—and talking about crowning that has nothing to do with the kind a king wears . . . and diapers . . . yeah, it’s definitely real. But uh, nice try, Wood. You never answered my question.”
“I’m good.” Back off, Daniels.
“We’ve known each other how long?” he asks, and I know he’s going in for the kill here. I just wish I knew what the fuck he’s hunting for, so instead of giving him the answer he already knows, I just concentrate on peeling the label on my beer bottle.
“Pussy,” he mutters under his breath. Baiting me. Fueling a fire I’d rather not light.
“What’s your bag, Becks? You want to know that this whole baby thing scares the shit out of me? That it’s fucking with my head?” I pick up a shell and huck it at a pile of seaweed to the right of me. “Feel better, now?”
I want to shove up and walk down to the water, get the hell away from him, and yet he knows me well enough that if I do, then he’s gotten under my skin. Pressed the buttons he’s been waiting to push.
How the fuck do I explain that everything already feels the same and so goddamn different, and yet I wouldn’t want to change it even if I could? He’d be bringing out the damn straight jacket.
“Me feel better? No.” He chuckles, grating on every nerve. “But I think you do.” I glare at him from behind my lenses. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No,” I snap. Leave the shit I don’t want to talk about alone. But the silence eats at me, taunts me to speak. I can trust Becks; I know I can. Yet as the words form, I choke on them. Man the fuck up, Donavan. “Yes. Fuck. I don’t know.”
“Well, that simplifies things,” he teases, trying to draw a laugh out of me.
I take my hat off, scrub a hand through my hair, and put it back on to buy some time. “I’m having a kid, Becks. And all of it’s scary as shit. Diapers and futures and expectations and . . . I don’t know what else, but I’m sure I’m missing a million other things. What the fuck qualifies me to be a dad? Not just any dad, but a good one? I mean, look at my fucked-up childhood. It’s all I know. How in the hell do I know when I’m stressed and tired that I’m not going to revert to the only thing I’ve ever known?” I end the question, my voice almost a shout, and realize everything I just said.
Have another beer, Donavan. You sound like a sap.
Becks laughs. And not just any kind of laugh but a chiding chuckle that scrapes on my nerves like 60-grit sandpaper.
“Thank God! It’s about damn time you start acting like you’re freaking out because sure as shit I’d be too. Look, no one qualifies to be a good parent. You just kind of learn as you go, mistakes and all.” He shrugs. “And as for the last one . . . dude, look how you are with the boys at The House. You’d never hurt them. It’s not in your makeup regardless of the fucked-up shit you grew up with.”
