Beauty From Love (18 page)

I wash up following my vomiting episode and I think it’s possible that I feel better. Yes, I believe I do.

As I come out of the bathroom, Jack Henry is finishing his call. “My man, Jim, has discovered a lot of dirty little secrets about one Jenna Rosenthal. Most are insignificant for our needs but one transgression will be of use. I say we invite Miss Rosenthal to dinner. I don’t believe a phone call will do.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something not befitting a gentleman—and I want to see her face when I do it.”

We wait in the restaurant at the hotel where all of this shit began—the one where I came to Jack Henry as someone else. Worst idea ever.

I can’t believe Jenna agreed to meet us here. It’s really sort of stupid on her part since it’s her place of employment, at least the hotel is, but the restaurant is inside. I wonder what she does here—and what she did three years ago that drew Jack Henry to her.

He hasn’t told me what Jim found on her. Frankly, I don’t care as long as it gets her out of our lives. I shudder when I think of how differently this could have gone. What if Jack Henry had been her son’s father? What a nightmare that would’ve been.

“She’s late.” That irritates him even further.

“Don’t worry, that money-hungry bitch is coming. She didn’t do all this to not carry through on it.”

She arrives ten minutes later. “You’re late.”

“I couldn’t get here sooner because Ashton is sick. He probably caught whatever it is at that medical clinic you made us go to.”

Jack Henry is quick to reply. “Maybe you should’ve tried knowing who fathered your child and we wouldn’t have been there in the first place.” I think I’m most glad her son wasn’t his because I don’t think I could have taken the bickering between them.

Our server comes by and Jenna orders a glass of wine. “I’m only staying long enough to discuss what I want from you.” She looks at me. “I must say I’m surprised to see you here, so that can only mean one thing: you once agreed to be his whore just like the rest of us.”

I don’t respond because I can’t deny what she’s saying.

“She was never my whore.”

“Right.” A glass of wine is placed in front of her and I watch as she goes through the process of using her senses to judge it. “Logan Ross, that’s who he was to me, taught me a lot of things but appreciating a great glass of Shiraz is something I’ve kept with me. Which wine has he taught you to enjoy?” She looks down at my water. “What … no wine for the vineyard princess?” Neither of us replies and she begins smiling. “Ah-hah … you’re pregnant. I guess congratulations are in order for the perfect couple.” Her voice is saturated with venom. “Is that why you stood firmly by his side? Or is it because he’s filthy rich?”

Jack Henry is fuming. “Not what we’re here to discuss.”

She’s grinning. “Then let’s get down to why we’re here. I’ve done a little research on you since we spoke and I’m glad I did because it turns out you’re even wealthier than I first thought.”

“Say what you want,” he tells her.

“I was going to ask for a million but then I decided I was lowballing myself. I want two million dollars and all of this goes away. I won’t go to the press about your nasty little practices and you’ll never see me again.”

“Two million dollars for your silence seems reasonable until I consider that I can have it for free.”

She’s clearly confused. “It’s not free.”

He passes a manila envelope to her. “But I think it is … Aurora Dawn.”

She doesn’t even open the envelope. “Do you seriously think you’re going to convince me to keep my mouth shut over some stupid porn video I starred in for a lousy hundred bucks when I was eighteen?”

“No. I just brought that to humiliate you. The thing that’ll keep your mouth shut is the proof I have of you embezzling a shitload of money from this hotel, the very one we’re sitting in. So while it might be uncomfortable to know your coworkers can watch you take it up the ass on film, jail is a hell of a lot more uncomfortable. And I’m sure you’d miss your son terribly. Maybe he wouldn’t be completely grown by the time you got out.”

She appears indignant. “Well, you have me over a barrel and you’ve fucked me again.” She throws back the last of her wine before taking her purse and the manila envelope from the table. “I’d be careful with this one if I were you, Mrs. McLachlan. He always gets his way.”

She’s right. Jack Henry generally gets his way—whether the means are reasonable or not.

Our friends and family have known about the baby for weeks but there’s something grand about hitting that twelve-week mark. We’re finally able to breathe a sigh of relief since that typically means the pregnancy has made it to safety and the miscarriage risk is behind us.

We hear twelve to fourteen weeks is when the morning sickness gets better so we’re hoping for sooner rather than later. These past several weeks have been miserable for L, but she never complains. She does what she needs to in the mornings, while listening to the beating and banging of the construction work going on in her studio, and then works writing music as soon as she’s able to get up and around. It’s not ideal but she somehow manages.

I’m ready for work but I’m sitting next to L on the bed while she trudges through another morning of nausea. Damn, it’s been relentless but at least it doesn’t usually last beyond the morning hours. I hear some women have it all day. “Do you have anything planned for today?”

“I’m hoping to put the final touches on a song I wrote for Southern Ophelia and then go see Addison for a little while.”

“How’s she handling the whole bed-rest thing?”

“Not good, I’m afraid. She feels like a caged animal but I keep telling her to be compliant so she doesn’t end up back in the hospital. Her doctor warned her that if she had problems at home, he’d admit her for the rest of the pregnancy.”

I don’t care who you are, that would be a shit-ton-load to handle. “I’m sure she’s bored and needs something to do. Maybe a project would take her mind off everything. Why don’t you hire an interior designer to decorate the nursery? It can be our gift to her.”

“You are amazing. She hasn’t been able to get out and buy anything since they found out it was a boy, so she’s going to be so excited.” She sits up to hug me. “I would kiss you if it wouldn’t make me throw up.”

“Nice, L. Thanks a lot.”

She shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

Another reason the morning sickness needs to go away. My wife won’t kiss me—or anything else—in the mornings, and I really miss our first-thing romp before I shower for work. Evan warned me a baby would be a cock-blocker—and it is—but only in the mornings so far. L’s pregnancy hormones have her primed and ready to go at it all the other times of day. Really. “So I don’t get a midday naughty at lunch?”

“Not unless you can talk Mrs. Porcelli into it?”

I could’ve gone my whole life without her saying that. “Damn, L. You could’ve just said no.”

“But that wouldn’t have been near as funny.”

The alarm goes off, waking me from one of my more erotic dreams, so I’m hard. Damn.

I lie in bed thinking about anything except the only thing that’ll relieve my raging hard-on, but it’s no use. This isn’t going away without some kind of action and I know the kind I prefer.

We’re at the fourteen-week milestone and L has felt much better this week, so I decide to test the waters. She’s lying on her side, her back to me, and I creep my hand around her waist. I rub her lower belly where our baby is growing and recognize the firmness now present. It doesn’t seem like that was there last week.

I slide my hand lower and kiss the back of her neck before I cup my hand between her legs, rubbing up and down. “Babe, I’m getting up to shower.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

I press my hard-on against her bum. “I’m sorry. I was having a really good dream when the alarm went off and I’m still wound up by it.” Wound up is putting it mildly. I want inside L bad. I kiss the back of her neck and down her shoulder. “But it’s fine if you don’t feel up to it. My palm can become better acquainted with my cock in the shower.”

She places her hand around my wrist and pulls it away from her body, deflating my hopes for an early morning fuck, but then shocks me when she slides it down the front of her knickers and begins moving her groin back and forth. “Fuck me from behind.”

She doesn’t have to ask twice.

I shove my hand further into her knickers and hear threads popping. I’ve never ripped her undies off but the sound is hot, I give the crotch a hard yank, tearing them to give me access to get inside her. “Oh, fuck.” I want to slam my cock into her hard but I can’t. I have this phobia about hurting her or the baby, so I use every ounce of self-restraint to ease inside gently.

I’m only a few strokes in when L starts talking. “I know you want it harder than that.”

This isn’t the way we fuck hard but it’s still good. “I do but you know why I hold back.” I’ve told her my fears.

She pulls away from me. “Get on your back.” This is how we do it most of the time now, with L on top, and I don’t mind a bit. She’s in control and I’m able to enjoy sex without the fear of being too rough with her. We both get what we need.

I move my hand to her clit and stroke it as she slides up and down on my cock. I want her to come too. If she doesn’t, I feel like a selfish, inadequate lover. “Does that feel good?”

“Yeah, don’t stop.”

And just like two, perfectly synced bombs, we explode together.

Eighteen weeks—almost halfway through the pregnancy. I can’t believe how much L’s belly has changed in the last month. It’s a small bump you can barely detect beneath her clothes but I’m amazed by the way it feels when she lies flat, like a firm grapefruit protruding from her lower abdomen.

L has a visit with her OB today. I had to skip her last appointment because of work but I wouldn’t miss today for anything in the world. She’s getting her first four-dimensional ultrasound. I’ve been looking online at some of the pictures and we should be able to see our baby’s face for the first time today.

Dr. Sommersby comes into the room and does all the routine stuff first. I get to hear the heartbeat for the first time and I swear it triggers something in my chest, a sensation I’ve never felt before, and I have this crazy picture pop into my head of my heart growing like The Grinch’s.

“Are you okay?”

“That’s my first time to hear the heartbeat. I didn’t know it would make me feel like this.”

Dr. Sommersby laughs. “Well, Mr. McLachlan, you’re going to be feeling a lot of different things when you see your baby on this ultrasound. He or she is going to look a lot different than when we looked at six weeks.”

L pushes the waistband of her bottoms down and the good doctor begins the scan. It takes a minute for me to get my bearings but then it becomes clear. “Look, L.” I laugh—maybe even sort of giggling. “It’s a hand—and I can see all of the fingers.” I watch the screen, mesmerized by what I’m looking at because it’s so much better when it’s your own child you’re seeing.

I’m not sure I blink for fear of missing something. It’s moving so much—she hasn’t mentioned feeling anything. “Do you feel those somersaults?”

“Maybe little flutters here and there—nothing I registered as the baby moving. I thought it was gas bubbles or something.” She giggles.

Dr. Sommersby moves the probe and we get a perfect shot of the face so she still-frames it. “This is a nice one.”

“Look at that. It has to be a girl because that little face looks just like you.”

Laurelyn doesn’t take her eyes from the screen for a moment. “I don’t think so. That’s definitely your nose and chin so I think it’s a boy.”

“Do you want to find out who’s right?”

Neither of us answers because we’ve been having this discussion for weeks. She’s dying to know and wants to have everything purchased gender-specific and ready to go when the baby arrives. It’s killing her that Addison already knows she’s having a boy. But I want to be surprised. I think nothing would be more special than seeing your baby for the first time and hearing it’s a boy or it’s a girl.

“I’ve seen that look before. Can’t agree, huh?”

L shakes her head. “Nope, and no one is budging.”

“I can always write it down and seal it in an envelope for the one wanting to know.”

I’d rather be told now rather than her know and let it slip in casual conversation or me find out when I see a nursery painted pink or blue. So I give in, pushing aside what I want just as I always do with L, because I love her so much and want her to be happy. “It’s fine. You can tell us.”

“Let’s see if this little booger will cooperate and shows us.” She moves the probe across L’s belly. “I make it a habit to not look until I’ve been given the go-ahead so I don’t let it slip.” I hold my breath, waiting to hear the verdict. Do I have a son or a daughter?

“No, don’t tell us.” L looks at me and squeezes my hand. “I’ll know what the baby is when it gets here and I can buy all the clothes I want then. You deserve to have this surprise.”

I don’t want her to give in—that’s my job. “But you’re dying to know.”

“It’s okay. I have the rest of my life to know if it’s a boy or girl, so let’s enjoy the angst of not knowing.”

I lean up to kiss her. “Thank you, love.”

“All right, then, we’ll move on to measurements.” Our fun is over as the diagnostic part of the ultrasound begins—no more cute shots of the baby’s features. “Laurelyn, have you been having any contractions?”

“Not that I know of.” She laughs but then sees the concerned look on Dr. Sommersby’s face. “I’m assuming that’s something I would recognize, wouldn’t I?”

“You’re a first-time mom, so you might not. Any cramping at all?”

“No, nothing. Is something wrong?” I hear the panic in her voice and it sends my heart to racing.

“Your cervix length is shortened and you appear dilated. The membranes are hourglassing through the cervix.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Dr. Sommersby stops the exam. “When a mother goes into labor, her uterus contracts and over time, this is what causes her cervix to shorten, or thin, and dilate. The contractions start out mild and gradually become more intense, but that’s not the case for about one percent of pregnant women. They have weakened cervical tissue, for one reason or another, and the weight of the fetus causes dilation without any contractions at all. It usually isn’t diagnosed until the mother has had at least one second-trimester miscarriage. I’m afraid that’s what is happening here.”

I hear the word miscarriage and I’m confused. I thought we were beyond that risk. “How serious is this?”

“Critical, I’m afraid. You’re at least two centimeters.”

She’s too early. I already know it but I ask anyway. “What about the baby?”

“Viability is considered twenty-four weeks but even then, survival rate at that gestation is around fifty percent and the lifelong deficits can be devastating.”

“That’s at least five weeks away.” Laurelyn looks at me, her face pained. She doesn’t have to say the words—I doubt she could if she tried—because we both comprehend what the outcome will be. Our baby won’t survive being born now.

“We have two options: let nature take its course and allow the pregnancy to terminate on its own, or do everything possible to maintain it.”

We look at one another but don’t need time to talk it over. “We want everything possible to be done.”

“You should know this will be a very long road. We’ll make decisions about your plan of care on a daily basis since your condition can change rapidly.” Dr. Sommersby picks up the phone to make a call. “I want you transported to the hospital by ambulance. There will be no going back if those hourglassing membranes rupture.”