Mine

Kendra and Chantelle are my other two bodyguards, purposely female because Remy would not have a male around me, but they’re always doing rounds outside my building or around the elevators. Remington left in an extremely restless state because of Scorpion and Nora—damn them.

Pete assured him, “They got her sister now. They don’t need Brooke to fuck you anymore—they’ll do it through Nora again.”

“No. No, I won’t let it!” I promised. But I have heard nothing, nothing, from Nora—nothing but this stupid note.

“The anger I feel is beyond words, Melanie, beyond description,” I tell her as I tuck the note into my pocket again.

“Chicken, I’d be fucking fuming. She does not. Deserve. A hero. Like Remy to save her. PERIOD! She wants Scorpion? Scorpion is what she deserves!”

“Mel, just thinking about what he did last year because of us makes me sick. I won’t let him hurt himself for me or for anything of mine. Anything. Not even for this baby!”

Melanie hugs me. “I know, just don’t work yourself up for the baby.”

“Mister Tate is a very lucky man,” Josephine blurts out from her chair, nodding.

“Oh, Josephine, there should be a new word for love between these two,” Melanie says, pushing her blond hair back and tapping a manicured nail to her lips as she narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “Josephine, we should give them a name like Bennifer and all those famous couples. Help me think of one now that you’re into all those gossip magazines. How about ‘Bremy’?”

“Why don’t I invent ‘Miley’? For you and Riley?” I shoot back.

Melanie grins and plops down closer to me. “I do like his friendly little visits. He came over every night, and we had a blast. But he’s got a good thing going, Brooke. He’s loyal to Remy in an incredible way. He’d never leave what he has for me, and I’d never leave my life for him.” She sighs and drops her head back to stare at the ceiling. “So I guess we’re friends.”

“With benefits.”

She smirks cheekily. “Yeah.” Then she grabs my hand. “But I want what you have. I’ve fallen in love a hundred times in my life! But never like you. So I wonder if I really fell or just tripped, you know?”

Smiling, I cup the tiny bulge in my stomach and grab her hand with the other. “Here. Feel this. This is the little bubble I told you about . . .” And even Josephine comes over.

“Is that the baby moving?” Josephine asks.

I nod and take her hand and put it next to Melanie’s. “I think he’s already starting to learn how to hook. But don’t tell Mister Tate yet.” I tease her with the Mr. part. “I want him to feel it when I know it’s the baby for sure.”

* * *

THE EIGHTEENTH DAY arrives tomorrow.

The eighteenth day arrives tomorrow.

I have not died. No tragedy occurred. Nora did not try to make contact and put me in an awful position. Remy did not go black. My penance has been lifted and I. Am. Going. HOME. To Remy. TOMORROW!

With my beautiful baby safe in my womb, exactly twelve weeks old today.

I feel a thousand and one tingles inside me as I pack my stuff. And there’s quite a lot of stuff to pack. So, yes, ultimately, I was given a platinum credit card and was feeling a little sad missing my man. And with the devil called Melanie perched on my shoulder as we goofed around on the Internet, I caved in and bought a lot of baby things and a couple of pregnancy things for myself too. It seemed that the more I bought, the more I was telling the energies around me—this baby is happening.

So I have tiny, tiny red Converse tennis shoes, some tiny baby outfits, just in case, and a onesie outfit that says MY DADDY PACKS A GOOD PUNCH. I also pack my What to Expect When You’re Expecting book. Which is not a book, as I told Melanie—it’s the damn pregnancy bible. So all that is tucked in the baby’s suitcase.

I’m getting all my exercise stuff back in a separate one, because I will finally be able to resume light running again and I swear right now, running equates in my mind to flying. I cannot wait! And along with my sports attire, I add some jeans with the ridiculous pregnancy waistband—it’s even more ridiculous how anxious I am to need to wear those instead of my normal jeans—and I’ve also got some loose pregnancy tank tops.

My phone rings as I continue packing and I answer to hear Pete’s voice. “He’s excited to come get you,” Pete tells me.

“Oh, Pete, I’m so ready,” I say as I glance around my room, happy I won’t be seeing it again for a while, then tuck my running shoes into the zippered shoe compartment on the side.

“But I mean really excited,” Pete says, clearing his throat meaningfully.

I hear a yell in the background, and a toe-curlingly familiar voice saying, “’Cause I’m the motherfucking king!!”

I stop packing and straighten, my eyes widening. “Is that him?”

“Yeah! He’s getting speedy.”

“Get over here already! I’m dying to see him!”

“The fight ends late tonight. But before the sun comes up, we’ll be flying your way.”

“Those motherfuckers want a piece of Riptide, they’re going to get fucking drowned!” I hear in the background.

Laughing in sheer joy, I instinctively wrap my arm around my tiny stomach. “Is he black then?”

“Not yet, but he’s getting there. I think it’s accumulated. We’re surprised he lasted this long. Fair warning, though. See you soon.”

“Pete, you watch out for him! No women, Pete.”

“You’re joking, right? They could tear their panties off right now and he wouldn’t be looking anywhere but toward Seattle.”

“Can I talk to him?” I ask, and my chest feels all this weird, excited tightness.

A moment passes, then his deep, guttural voice spills out through the receiver and flies straight to my heart. “Baby, I’m so pumped up, I’m ready to kick ass and come get you.”

“I know you are!” I say laughingly.

“I’m gonna KO everything they bring out, just for you.”

“And I’ll be waiting for you early morning too!”

“All right, sit tight—I’m coming to get you. Wear a dress for me. No. Wear something nice and tight. Wear your hair down. Or pulled up, shit, that drives me crazy too.”

“I’ll pull it up so you can take it down yourself,” I offer.

He drags in an audible breath, and then there’s a long silence, as if he’s imagining doing just that.

“Yeah,” he finally murmurs, and I can hear the growing terseness in his voice.

“Yeah?” I don’t sound any better, clutching the phone.

I can hear his breath calming down, and he sounds like he’s getting all rough and tender, like he does with me. “Yeah, do that.”

He melts me, and the flutters in me get newly recharged. I pack all day and then shower, soap up, try on a thousand things to wear, even a couple of dresses. I try my hair up and down and twisted, and then settle on a nice loose white linen dress and nude ballet flats with my hair up in the loose ponytail I frequently wear.

The next day, I don’t think I’ve ever prettied up so much in my life, and I can hardly sit still in Melanie’s convertible. Mel is one of those few who’ve decided that even if it rains more than two hundred days a year in Seattle, the other 165 are worth driving with the top down—and here we are, with the top down, on one of those pretty and sunny 165 days, waiting for the jet to land.

“I think I see it,” I say, pointing at the blue sky.

“Brookey, you’re so sweet like this. It’s like all your walls have come down and you’re a fifteen-year-old completely in over her head.” Melanie is thoroughly amused, her green eyes twinkling, her sunglasses perched atop her head.

I can’t even respond, because the jet’s two back wheels are touching ground, and the plane is so white and beautiful, streaked with a blue and silver line across its center that goes all the way to its elegant tail, I can only