All recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich, I'm just playing.
Chapter 5
RPOV
"Hola pequeno." I place a kiss on the bump before leaning back and watching to see if it wakes Steph up again; she briefly got up to use the bathroom while I changed into workout gear but crawled straight back into bed. She's still out cold, so I move back to her stomach. It surprises me, the connection I feel to this one-and-a-half-pound human being that's about the size of an ear of corn.
I like to start mornings here after my shower, talking to the baby that Steph insists on calling Jiffy Pop. Most mornings I tell them inconsequential things, like brush your teeth after every meal. Sometimes I try and impart knowledge they'll need to know, like never trust Lester when he says, "I have a plan." And on mornings like today, when the ghosts of my past have chased me through my dreams, I tell them the important stuff, like always verify your intel and never leave your back exposed when you're not sure of the loyalty of the man tasked with protecting it.
It's information that I hope they'll never need, but it pays to be prepared for anything. The other day, I caught Steph verbally running through the steps to applying make-up while rubbing her stomach. And it's not just Steph. Once she posited her theory that babies can hear what's around them and soak up energy and information, my men have gone overboard imparting wisdom in the direction of the bump. It's entirely possible that this baby is going to come out a fully formed badass, knowing how to field-strip a Barret .50 cal sniper rifle while reciting the 1998 Yankees line-up, the best way to cook catfish and the steps for the perfect eyeliner wing.
Steph has started to feel the baby kick, but I'm still waiting. I think most of the men are, and I'm going to have to start calling them to the mats if they think they can just randomly walk up and touch her stomach. She's already had to swat away the hands of a few busybodies that have descended on her during her infrequent trips to the Burg. Since the incident with her ending up in jail, she's mostly avoided the area or any location that might result in crossing paths with the cop. The guys have taken to calling her Rocky half the time and more than a few are willing to do Tasty Pasty or Pino's runs during their breaks. They understand loyalty, and the loyalty she showed to me and Julie with that right hook solidified her place here even more than the wedding band. Santos printed out a photo of the cop trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose, and it's still tacked up in the breakroom next to the picture of a bear with a cub. Some smartass drew curls onto the bear; Steph rolled her eyes and commented that she was jealous that Mama Bear's hair was better behaved.
My thumb rubs across the bottom of the bump, feeling the three stretchmarks hidden there. Steph's been slathering herself down with lotions and oils, but the marks still appeared, causing her to spend two hours crying. They're barely noticeable, but to Steph they might as well have been illuminated with spotlights and trumpeters proclaiming their presence. To her, they're flaws. To me, they're proof of her nurturing our child.
"Ok, little one. This is today's important lesson. Always have a weapon on you, or near you. Things change in an instant and one minute you're meeting with a contact for a check-in and the next, you're taking fire because a local sold you out and you're stuck in a bar with a bunch of hostiles. You're going to have to scramble, so I'll work with you to show you how to turn anything into a weapon. Closer to home, you can use the knowledge to fight off bullies or overeager boyfriends in high school."
My eyes close and my head drops forward enough to rest on the bump. Memories of that shitty op rush through me. No matter how many times I relive it, it's like I'm still in that crappy little hole-in-the-wall bar; the team fighting their way through the room until we're hunkered down behind the bar and running low on ammo. Murphy's bleeding heavily from the shot he took to the thigh during the running dive for cover and Lopez is using rags to plug the hole in Bowie's side. Remi and Sweet Pea are looking at me, waiting to hear the plan to get out...the plan I don't have.
Ten years, and memories of that night always leave me gasping for air. The smells of tequila and whiskey mingled together can still bring me to my knees. We all made it to the emergency exfil site, but only Bowie, Remi and I got to go home to our families. It wasn't long after that op that I agreed to sign the papers giving up my legal rights to Julie.
I run my finger up and down each of the stretch marks. Lopez. Murphy. Sweet Pea. Three fallen men, three marks covering the life growing inside, three guardian angels watching over me and mine. It's a grace I don't deserve but will gladly take.
Running my hands back over the bump, I impart a few more nuggets, like never sit with your back to the room, always pack your own go-bag (because you never know when some smartass cousin might decide that you need to be wearing a day-glow orange Macho Man t-shirt and confetti print Hammer pants), always have a back-up plan for the back-up plan, and never leave things unsaid.
My hand's been moving at a steady rhythm as I talk. When I pause for a minute to think if there's anything else I want to tell them today, I feel it. It's gentle, but there's a flutter under my hand like a soft thump-thump that repeats when I rub the spot. No one's here to see me, so I don't bother holding back the smile. Kicks from the baby. My child. Another checkmark on the 'this is real' meter marked off, another thing I missed out on with Julie.
The thumping stops every time I stop talking and rubbing, so I continue with both. I'm pulling random things out of my head, like don't mix tequila with guava juice and don't let bullies see that they're getting to you. Eventually the thumping stops even after I offer up sage advice like never be afraid of rejection. That's when I realize that Steph's hand is tangled in my hair, rubbing my head like I'm rubbing her bump.
Hazarding a look up, she's awake and rubbing away the tears on her cheek. "Do you talk to Jiffy Pop every morning?"
"Babe."
"Is that Babe for Jiffy Pop or the question?"
Bowing my head, I blow out a sigh. "Both, I guess. How long have you been awake?"
"Stuck in the bar. Do you want to talk about it?"
Knowing my voice will betray me, I just shake my head. We stay like that for a minute, me hiding and her rubbing my head in comfort. There's nothing I can say about that fucked up day, nothing I want to put in her head. Eventually I climb back up the bed and rest my head on her pillow, inches from her concerned face. She runs her fingers around my jaw before leaning forward and fusing our lips together.
The longer we're together, the better she's able to read me. It's a development that should terrify me, but instead I take comfort in it, just as I take the comfort she offers when she can tell I'm teetering on the edge of the memories I want to forget. One of her hands tugs at my towel while the other starts shoving at her underwear and in seconds, I have her naked and under me. The coupling is fast and satisfying for both of us, but the second round is slower and focused on her. Maybe it's an apology for accepting the use of her body, maybe it's an apology for bringing the ghosts to our bed. By the time she's buried back in the crook of my shoulder, breathing hard, my mind is fully back in the present, memories of that day locked back in the box where they belong.
One of my hands is running up and down her hip, the other is clasped in her hands. My body is wrapped around her, shielding two of the three most important people in my world. My nose is buried in her curls, enjoying the smell of my shampoo in her hair. I half expect her to go back to sleep but she doesn't.
"Don't tell me what went wrong. Tell me about the men that came home. Tell me about the men that didn't."
It's a simple request, but one I don't know if I can honor. After a few starts and stops, I tell her about Lopez's fascination with sharks and Bowie getting his name from his knife throwing skills. I make her snort during the story of Murphy and Remi trying to outdo each other with pranks and Murphy inadvertently feeding a two-star general Ex-Lax laced brownies. The sun is peeking in the window while I tell her about Lopez hitting on Remi's mother when she came to visit and Remi stabbing him in the ass with a steak knife. I'm shaking my head and she's shaking with laughter the entire time I'm telling her the story of how we set Bowie up by telling the woman he was crushing on that he was a world-renowned flamenco dancer. And in the end, we both pretend my voice isn't breaking as I tell her how Gabriel Hernandez, tagged with the unfortunate nickname of Sweet Pea, took the bullet meant for me as we were approaching the helicopter that was our ride to safety.
I have no more words after that and she doesn't ask for any more stories; instead, she squeezes my hand and pulls my arms around her tighter. The sun is up and shining through the slit in the curtains when she finally says, "Gabriel Manoso and Gabrielle Manoso are both good names. I like them."
My fingers find the longest of the three stretch marks, giving it another rub. She's right; they're good names.
With another hand squeeze, she starts scooting toward the side of the bed. When she's finally free, she turns and offers her outstretched hand. "Come on. I need a shower. Also, I really need to hear about those confetti print Hammer pants."