“Happy birthday to you!” Makenna sings, jumping up and down on my bed. “It’s going to be a lovely day filled with birthday surprises. Not to mention the fact that we have to go hunt down a liquor store, so you can buy something. It’s a rite of passage into adulthood.”
I throw my pillow at her, nearly knocking her off balance. “For my first birthday surprise, I’d like to sleep, thankyouverymuch.”
“No way. Not happening. Besides, it’s after ten.” She bounds off the bed and flings the double doors to the balcony open. “Do you see this? You’re going to sleep the entire day when you could be out there?”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .”
“I’m always right. You know that.”
We both look at each other before bursting into laughter. Never right would be more like it, and she knows that.
“So what are these big birthday surprises you have in store for me? It may be a determining factor of whether or not I choose to get out of bed.”
“Be right back.” She races from the room and downstairs before racing right back up and pouncing back on the bed. “Surprise number one.” She shoves a wrapped gift at me. Although I’m not entirely sure that “wrapped” is what you’d call it. It’s more like there’s some paper wadded up around it and some tape stuck on there haphazardly. The girl can’t wrap a gift to save her life, but it’s the thought that counts.
I tear at the first opening I can find to shed the box of the layered mass of paper surrounding it, and I lift the lid from the top. Inside is a brand new Breaking Benjamin t-shirt. “You know me too well. I love it, Mak.”
A sly grin curls up the corners of her mouth. “Look underneath it.”
I lift the shirt carefully to find two concert tickets nestled in the tissue paper. They’re for one of their upcoming concerts in Atlanta this summer. I have no words. So I just squeal.
Finally, after a few minutes of hugging her and bouncing up and down, I shower and get ready for the day. She tells me there’s more in store for me, so if the other surprises are anything like those tickets, it’s going to be a damn good day. Makenna knows me better than I know myself most of the time, so she knows exactly what I want or need, even when I don’t know sometimes. That’s one of the many reasons she’s my best friend.
My hair is dry and styled into the perfect beach waves, I’m wearing my favorite denim shorts and new t-shirt, and I just polished all of my nails in the perfect shade of ocean blue. I feel fantastic for a change, and today is going to be a great day. I have no doubt about that.
Descending the stairs, I look back and forth at the shoes I’m holding in each hand. “Makenna, which shoes look best? These black flip flops or the sandals?” I’m nothing if not a shoe whore. Like I’d totally sell myself to buy shoes. Okay, maybe not, but I’d come awful close to it.
“Sandals,” a voice calls back from the living room. But it’s the fact that it’s a male voice has me flinging shoes across the room and screaming.
Wes throws his arms up to keep from being pelted in the face by a wayward flip flop. “Take it easy. It’s just me.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I pound a fist into his chest when he approaches me. My heart is hammering in my chest so hard that I feel somewhat dizzy. I’m not sure, though, if it’s the fact that I thought a man broke into the house or if it’s the fact that it’s Wes. So much for my troubles not following me here.
Wes grabs my swinging arms and steadies me. “I think we’ve been set up.”
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“Pete, you think I need a sports rehab specialist?” I ask.
“No, Rem.”
“Why not?”
“You’re an asshole, dude. You hardly let the masseuses massage you for more than twenty minutes.”
“I need one now.” Pushing my iPad over to him, I tap the screen and signal to the name below her image. “I need that one.”
Pete lifts an interested eyebrow. “You do. Do you?”
“I need a sports rehab specialist on my payroll. I want her to tend to me every day. In whatever ways they do.”
He smirks. “They don’t do blow jobs, I’ll tell you that.”
“If I wanted a blow job, I could have had three just now. What I want . . .” Once again, my finger taps over her name. “Is this sports rehab specialist.”
Pete’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline, and he leans back and crosses his arms. “What exactly do you want her for?”
I chomp down the rest of my food, then take a long gulp of water so I can speak. “I want her for me.”
“Rem . . .” he says in warning.
“Offer her a salary she can’t decline.”
Pete answers me with a puzzled silence. He seems taken aback and is trying to make sense of me. He’s looking into my eyes, and I can tell he’s observing whether they are black or blue.
I’m not black. So I wait quietly. He sighs, slowly jots down her name, and speaks cautiously. “All right, Remington, but let me say, this has Bad Idea written all over it.”
Shoving my plate aside, I lean back and cross my arms.
My head betrays me half the time. One day, it tells me I am god. The other, it tells me that I not only rule hell, but I invented it. Does Pete think I give one fuck about what his own head thinks about my idea? I don’t listen to my head anymore. I listen only to my gut.
“I want her watching me fight Saturday,” I remind him as I get up and shove my chair back under the table. And I want her watching from the bet seats in the house.”
“Remington . . .”
“Just do it, Pete,” I say as I cross the living room back to the master.
“I already have the tickets ready to go, dude, but it’s hard enough keeping Diane from knowing of your . . . er, issues . . . It’s going to be even harder to keep it from someone like this sports rehab specialist.”
I prop my shoulder at the threshold of my bedroom and think about that. I lower my voice. “Make her sign a contract, so I have guaranteed time with her. And stabilize me the instant I start losing my shit.”
“Remington, just let me get some other girls—”
“No, Pete. No other girls.”
I shut myself in my room and grab my headphones, then just lie there with my iPod in my hand, staring at it.
What will it be like if I make her mine?
I don’t delude myself into thinking that she will accept me, but what if she does? What if she can understand me? The way I am? The two parts of me? No. Not two parts. Every. Single. Fucking. Part. Of me.
My gut tightens as I remember the way her eyes shone when she looked at me. The way they softened after I kissed her and she looked into my eyes, wanting more of me.
I have never seen a look quite like that before. I have been wanted by thousands of women. Nobody has ever looked at me with such open, frightened longing as her.
She was not frightened of me. She was frightened of “it.” This same thing clenching my gut that has me all tangled up. Every cell in my body is buzzing with awareness. Every inch of my skin is awake. My muscles feel primed like they do when I’m ready to fight. Except I’m not ready to fight now. I’m ready to go get my mate.
God help her.
Ronnie McGuire is my target.Ronnie McGuire:
“You got a light?” a voice asks from the shadows to my left. The accent sounds familiar, but when I turn to look, I know sure as shit that the face is not. I'd remember a face like that.
The girl in question raises both her brows at me and holds out a cigarette. It hangs limply between us.
“Have we met before?” I ask, because unless she's a rogue fan who's managed to escape the horde of bodyguards Milo's hired, then I am plum dumb fuck out of luck when it comes to placing her. And I know everybody, and I mean everybody on this damn tour. I've slept with half of them, and fought with the rest. I chit chat with the best, and I know who's who – from the lowliest roadie to the most infamous tattooed self-proclaimed badass. I slip my lighter out of my jeans and fire her up.
The girl snorts and raises her bug-eyed sunglasses up with her other hand, teasing me with a hint of bright blue eyes and a little crinkle between her eyebrows.
“I sure as shit hope so, Mr. McGuire,” she says and drops her shades. “I gave you a blow job in a utility closet once upon a time.” She kisses the words out, letting them slip and slide over her lips, so that I can feel each and every one of them caressing over my cock. My body responds, much to the mystery's girl amusement. She laughs at the erection I don't bother to hide and takes a drag from her cigarette. “I was told that if I wanted information, I ought to come to you.” She smiles at me and blows a fresh cloud of smoke into the hazy air.
The crowd is tearing up the venue on the other side of the cement wall behind me. It sounds like they're getting ready to start a riot or something, shouting Turner's name, Naomi's, screaming for that backstabbing bitch, Hayden. When I was growing up, I always wanted to be a rockstar. One, because I liked music, and two, because I was lazy as hell and thought it would be an easy job. Could not have been any more wrong about that. If I knew back then that I'd make it this far, I'd have probably gone for a nine to five and not because I'd like it, but because it would take less gusto, less courage. Those two things have been in short supply for me for a long, long while. It's only recently that I've been able to grab onto them again, and already, they're being drained from me like pus from a septic fucking wound.
The shouting of the audience is giving me a headache, and the lack of drugs in my system is actually making the words less clear. Detox is a bitch. I rub at my temple with my fingers and blink at the girl, hoping to hell she'll give me her damn name before these people surge up and rip us all to pieces, eat our flesh and sacrifice us on some homemade alters in their parents' basement.
“Yeah,” I tell her, sniffling and running my hand across my face. “I'm pretty much the gossip guru of the camp. What's up?” I look the girl up and down, examining her small round face, her waif like body and her plump lips. I'd like to get more than a blow job from her, preferably in a state of mind where I can remember it. How do I not know this chick? I wonder, tilting my head to the side.
Her hip is cocked out and her mouth is twisted in a wicked smile. She might be a foot or more shorter than I am, but she looks miles tall. She's got a confident air around her that commands attention, especially from somebody as lazy as me.
I smoke my cigarette and wait for her to respond.
“Come on, ya wanker, you seriously have no clue who I am?” She drops her cigarette to the cement floor and crushes it out with her purple velvet heels. Fancy. I lean forward and put my hand on the wall next to her head.
“No, but I'd like to find out.”
Source: http://www.cdc.gov/reproductivehealth/maternalinfanthealth/pretermbirth.htmEach year, preterm birth affects nearly 500,000 babies—that's 1 of every 8 infants born in the United States. Preterm birth is the birth of an infant prior to 37 weeks of pregnancy. Preterm-related causes of death together accounted for 35% of all infant deaths in 2009, more than any other single cause. Preterm birth is also a leading cause of long-term neurological disabilities in children. Preterm birth cost the U.S. health care system more than $26 billion in 2005.
A developing baby goes through important growth during the final weeks and months of pregnancy. Many organ systems, including the brain, lungs, and liver need the final weeks of pregnancy to develop fully. There is a higher risk of serious disability or death the earlier the baby is born. Some problems that a baby born too early may face include—
- Breathing problems
- Feeding difficulties
- Cerebral palsy
- Developmental delay
- Vision problems
Preterm births also may cause heavy emotional and economic burdens for families.
- Hearing impairment
Ronnie McGuire is my target.
But I wish he wasn't.
I didn't sign up for this destruction, this pain.
In his music, I hear his soul crying out for me.
If I could, I'd run away from here and never look back because to tell you the truth, I'm terrified. There are forces weighing in on me that even I don't understand. I'm scared. Things are dangerous. This could get real ugly, real fast.
& & &
Lola Saints is a godsend.
But I wish she wasn't.
I don't know sh*t about her, but already, I'm hooked.
When she plays, I can almost imagine the ghosts of the dead are calling out to me.
If I could, I'd shed my soul and leave the pain of the past behind me. But I can't. I have to figure out if there's a way to fall in love anew and respect the old. But something else is going on, something weird. Something that tells me my tough luck might just run out real fast.
*This is NOT the last book in the series. There will be later books featuring Turner and Naomi again, and they also appear in this volume quite a bit. ;)
When I get back upstairs, I find that the commotion has only gotten worse. The cops all eye me like they're pretty sure I'm the killer, even if it defies all logic. Their questions were pretty pointed, too. They'd love to pin this crap on me. Thank the friggin' stars that I was onstage at Chelsea's estimated time of death. Stupid fuckers. I pause in front of Turner's room and take a deep breath, wishing I didn't have a massive, throbbing fucking erection. That's nice. Great way to reintroduce myself to my daughter. I have no idea what I was thinking following Lola downstairs, but … strangely enough, even though we barely made it out the damn doors, I feel better. A lot better. I raise my hand to knock, but the door flies open in front of me and leaves me face to face with Naomi Knox. “You better get your ass in here before he kills your kid on accident. Never in my life have I been so happy to be sure he's not a father,” she tells me, stepping aside and sweeping some of her blonde hair over her shoulder. Turner's sitting on the floor with Lydia, turning the pages of a tattoo magazine and pointing at half-naked girls with his finger. “See the rose?” he asks, gesturing at a bright, red flower on the back of some skinny chick's butt. Nice. Real nice. He looks up at me when I step into the room and narrows his eyes. “Star,” Lydia says, leaning forward and pointing at the tattoos that line the edge of Turner's hairline. “Daddy has stars.” He groans and leans back, letting his head fall so that he's staring up at the ceiling. When he looks back up at me, he's frowning hard. “Where the fuck have you been?” he growls as Naomi rolls her eyes and plops into a chair near the small table by the kitchen. Fucking Turner got a Goddamn suite all to himself. How special. “Answering questions from the cops,” I say, and before he can protest and call me out on that, I move forward and squat down next to Lydia. She's not covered in blood anymore. Her red ringlets are damp and she's dressed in a T-shirt that's way too big for her. It's got our logo on the front, the one with the stupid goat with X's for eyes. She doesn't turn to look at me, just keeps staring at Turner and pointing at his tattoos. “Kitty paw,” she says and he sighs, raising his brows and giving me a look. “You are in deep shit, man,” he says. “Deep, deep shit.” Turner gets to his feet and Lydia reaches forward, grasping with her fingers for his pants. “Daddy, no!” she calls out, tears filling her green eyes and dripping down her face. God, I'd love to be able to cry like children do. They don't hold anything back. Their emotions are all out on the table, laid flat and unforgiving. They never apologize for feeling the way they do. They just let it out and move on. I'm envious as fuck. “Lydia, that's Uncle Turner,” I tell her, reaching out and touching her arm with my fingers. My hands are shaking like crazy. I try to blame it on the drugs, but when I look up at Turner, his face is full of sympathy. I swallow hard and look back at my daughter who's sobbing a bit more quietly now, rubbing at her face with her hands. I lick my lips and try to find my voice, but it isn't there. I'm suddenly speechless, and my heart starts to pound. The way you look at me, I know there's love there. You don't even have to say it. I can see it. Just look at me, Ronnie. Look at me. Pain hits me like a truck and I double over, dropping my head to my knees. Asuka's voice ricochets around in my head, blocking out any logical thoughts, blinding me. I need you, I think at her. I need you for this. I don't know what to do. God, help me, but I'm lost. I lift my chin up and stare at Lydia, doing my best to bring up an image of her mother in my head. The only thing I can come up with are the photos the cops showed me. I have no real life memories of her. None. And now she's dead because of me. How sad is that? My self-esteem takes another plummet, threatening to pull me down along with it and wrap me up in the threads of my own demise. I can almost see the image of my own death floating before me, beckoning me with cruel hands and a wicked smile. “Man, are you alright?” Turner asks, bending down next to me. I can't even see his face, all I can see are ghosts and lost promises, broken hearts and bloody fates. “If you don't love yourself, you're pretty much fucked. Chin up and you'll get through it.” Lola's words slip through the cracks in my consciousness breaking my melancholia like a sheet of glass. It's the first time in a long time I've actually heard the voice of a live person in my head. The weirdest part about it is, I don't even know the girl. I don't know her, and her advice is mediocre at best anyway. It's not an epic quote pulled from the depths of an ancient anthology. It's just … some words. Meaningless words. But they help. They help, and I don't know why.
C.M. Stunich was raised under a cover of fog in the area known simply as Eureka, CA. A mysterious place, this strange, arboreal land nursed Caitlin's (yes, that's her name!) desire to write strange fiction novels about wicked monsters, magical trains, and Nemean Lions (Google it!). She currently enjoys drag queens, having too many cats, and tribal bellydance.
Always a fan of the indie scene and 'sticking it to the man,' Ms. Stunich decided to take the road less traveled and forgo the traditional publishing route. You can be assured though that she received several rejections as to ensure her proper place in the world of writers before taking up a friend's offer to start a publishing company. Sarian Royal was born, and Ms. Stunich's books slowly transformed from mere baking chocolate to full blown tortes with hand sculpted fondant flowers.
C.M. is a writer obsessed with delivering the very best and scours her mind on a regular basis to select the most unusual stories for the outside world.
Ms. Stunich can be reached via e-mail or by post and loves to hear from her readers. Ms. Stunich also wrote this biography and has no idea why she decided to refer to herself in the third person.
After a while of sitting in the room surrounded by everyone at the baby shower, I start to feel overwhelmed, but I’m ready to tone this get-together down and soak in a long, hot bath.
Two more hours drag by and everyone has left except for Natalie, who finds me soaking in that much-needed bath, surrounded by frothy bubbles.
“Cam?” I hear Natalie’s voice on the other side of the bathroom door. She knocks softly a few times.
“Come on in,” I say.
The door creeps open and Natalie peeks around the side. Wouldn’t be the first time she saw me naked.
She sits on the closed toilet lid.
“Well, it’s official,” she says, grinning down at me, “pregnancy does make the boobs bigger.”
As always, she’s exaggerating.
I raise my hand from the water and flick droplets at her.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asks, toning down the jokes. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m pregnant,” I say flatly.
“True, but Cam, you look like shit.”
“Thanks.” I reach back, readjust the clip I put in my hair to keep it from getting wet, then relax my arm along the side of the tub.
“Well, aren’t you supposed to be glowing? That’s what they say pregnant women do.”
I shrug and shake my head against the back of the tub.
I get out of the tub and wrap a towel around my body before hugging Natalie good-bye.
Then I lie across my bed, remembering how comfortable it was. But I don’t miss this room so much, or feel any sense of longing to get back into my old life. No. The “old life” I still want to avoid, and this is the number one reason I’ve been so divided about whether to come home or not. I’ve missed my mom and Natalie, and I admit that I’ve just missed North Carolina. But I don’t miss it in the way that makes me want to end right back up here doing the same things I was doing before. I ran away from that lifestyle for a reason, and I’m not about to run right back to it.
I decide to stay here and go to bed early. I feel overly exhausted, as if my body is being drained of energy faster than normal.
Andrew crawls into the bed with me and lies on his side, his head propped on his knuckles. “I feel like I’m doing something I shouldn’t, being up here in your childhood room with you like this.” He grins.
I smile slimly and bury my body deeper underneath the blanket. It’s only a little chilly outside, but I’m freezing. I pull the blanket up to my chin, curling my fingers tight around the fuzzy fabric.
“If my dad was here,” I say, chuckling, “you’d be in Cole’s room.”
He moves closer to me and drapes his arm over my waist…
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