Razing Grace [Part 2]

  “What makes you think,” he whispers, “I can do this?” His breath brushes over my hot, suddenly needy flesh. I close my eyes, trying to calm my erratic heart as it pounds against my chest, begging, pleading for Raze’s touch. He presses his erection into me, ever so slightly. “What makes you think I can care enough to have a kid?” he continues in the same tone. His hips circle into me slowly, and my breath hitches.

  “Because…,” I whisper, breathing out an unstable gush of breath. “Because you love me.”

  He halts his grinding and he pauses over my skin, almost like he’s holding his breath. Maybe that was too far. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Oh God, why the fuck did I say that?

  He inches back until he’s looking down at me, searching my eyes. His drop to my mouth before coming back up again, his expression morphing from anger, to confusion, back to anger, and then he blows out a long, deep breath, his thumb gliding gently over my bottom lip. “I do,” he confesses lazily.

  My heart slams against my chest. “What?” I ask in disbelief. Maybe I misunderstood. There’s no way, right? I was winging this conversation.

  “I fucking do,” he answers, before his lips smash down onto mine.

  He loves me. Raze the executioner loves me, Millie Hart. My heart thuds against my chest, expanding, stretching, so his chest can morph into mine and we can finally become one.

  “I fucking do.” Scooping me up from behind my thighs, I wrap my legs around him as he presses my back against the stairs and pulls away from me breathlessly. “I hadn’t actually finished my story.” He smiles a genuine smile, flashing his pearly whites.

  I giggle. “Go on.”

  Setting me back down on my feet, his fingers lace with mine, and the rough cushions of his thumbs graze over my knuckles. “It was my first kill,” he says easily. Too easily. “But it was also the very first time I met Miles.”

  Wait. What?

  “Good boy, son,” Kurr said, patting Raze on his shoulder. “You did good.”

  Raze let the blade slip from his hands and swiped the blood off that was on his face.

  “Dad?” Raze asked, looking up at Kurr. “Was he a bad man?”

  Kurr laughed, dropping down to his level. Raze noticed the corners of Kurr’s eyes crinkling. “No, son. He just owed money that didn’t belong to him.”

  Raze thought over what his father said, but came up with nothing. One of Kurr’s bodyguards took Raze’s hand and began to lead him out of the shed, when he heard sobbing in the corner, someone crouched under the splitting wooden stairs. Raze yanked his hand out of the bodyguard’s grip and ran over to the young boy, who had tears coming down his cheeks. His wore rags as clothes and looked at Raze with horror.

  “A-are you going to kill me?” the young boy had asked, swiping his tears off his cheeks angrily.

  “I don’t know,” Raze answered, tilting his head to study him. He had to be younger than Raze by at least a couple of years. Raze quickly put his hand into his pocket and fished out a one hundred dollar bill and shoved it into the boy’s chest. “Here,” he said. The boy looked down to the money and looked back to him.

  “It has a cross on it.” It did. Raze had drawn bones in a cross with a skull sitting on top. He wasn’t a very good drawer, so it looked terrible, but it was Raze’s “Lucky Hundred.” He named it that after his mom survived the first beating Kurr inflicted on her. He called it “Lucky Hundred,” because he counted his mom’s breaths that day, and from when he dropped to the ground, until people came to find them, he counted one hundred breaths. When they took his mom away and into one of the medic rooms, he had found the hundred-dollar bill inched between the two desks. Since then, he knew it was lucky. He just hoped it could help the sad boy now.

  “Son?” Kurr said, walking toward Raze slowly. He felt a strong, overprotective current take him as he spun around on his feet and ran toward Kurr. “What is it?” Kurr asked, taking his son’s hand.

  “Nothing,” Raze said. “It was a mouse or somethin’.”

  Kurr watched him closely, his eyes narrowing. “All right then, son, come on.” He scooped Raze up and flung him over his shoulder in a playful way. The only time Kurr had ever been playful with him, so it made him smile. Maybe he would always be like this, as long as Raze kept doing what his dad said?

  He inched his head up and locked eyes onto the dirty little boy who was now peeking through one of the steps to watch as Raze was walked out the door. He felt a pull toward the boy from that day. He just didn’t realize it then.

  I stand there speechless, unable to muster any sort of words. “But, did he know that kid was you?” I ask, as he pulls me under his arm and leads me back out to the car.

  He shakes his head, beeping the SUV. “No, he didn’t.”

  I glance back to the large shed that holds so many firsts for Raze, before opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat. “How did you know it was Miles?”

  He pauses, pressing the start button and clicking his belt on.

  “I followed him his whole life,” he replies calmly, pulling down the narrow path that leads back to the road. Raze’s jaw clenches a couple of times. “He had ‘Lucky Hundred’ tattooed across his collarbone in big letters, too.”

  I gasp, the memory of Miles’ tattoo coming back to me.

  “You sure he didn’t know that kid was you?”

  “Yes,” Raze answers, taking our exit. “He didn’t have a clue, because Kurr always used ‘son’ when he would speak to me.”

  “Raze,” I say softly, placing my hand over his. “You are not Kurr.”

  He laughs. “True, because I’m much worst.” He looks at me sideways, his face serious. “I’m serious, Millie. I’m just not cut out for this shit. A dad? A fucking kid?”

  “You’re actually going to make a great father, Raze.”

  That earns me another laugh. “How do you figure?”

  “Because you know exactly how to not be a dad.”

  He seems to mull over my words for a second, and then looks back to me. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  That’s progress. Yesterday, I didn’t have “we’ll see.”

  When we finally pull into the driveway, I grasp the handle of the door and push it open. “I need to call Bella.”

  “Bella?” Raze asks, rounding my side of the car. “Why?”

  I pause, shutting the door and thinking over what I should say next. What should I confess? Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention Bella has been my doctor for the past three months while I was on the run. Raze would fly off the handle, that’s for sure.

  “Uh, because I need a doctor, Raze.”

  He takes my hand in his, pulling me into him. “That’s true.” We’re walking up to the front door, when Raze’s phone starts blaring in his pocket. Pulling it out, he swipes to answer, and I push open the door.

  Walking into the foyer, he grabs my hand, halting me. I turn to face him and he points down to his phone. “What? Is it for me?”

  He shrugs and then walks down into the sitting room, where I can hear a roar of loud, testosterone-filled laughter.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Millie?” It’s Amy. She sounds frantic.

  “Yeah, hey, Amy? Are you okay?” I place my handbag on the table and walk into the kitchen. She still hasn’t replied, so I look down at the phone briefly and then place it back to my ear. “Amy?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Um, I think I’m in labor, and I don’t want to call an ambulance, because I don’t think it’s an emergency. But my car is broken and I’m having a pretty bad day.”

  I walk back to the foyer, picking up my handbag from the table again. “What’s your address?” I pull open a drawer and take out a piece of paper and pen, scribbling down her location before hanging up. If I tell Raze I’m going to take her to the hospital, there’s a chance he will make me take one of his merry men, or worse, he’d want to come. I’m sure if Amy wanted him to be there, she would have told Raze herself that she was in labor. I punch Amy’
s number into my own phone and then walk into the sitting room, going up to Raze, who is sitting on the sofa beside Soulless. I pause briefly at the look Soulless is giving me—as usual—then hand Raze his phone back. “Here. I’m just going to go buy oils from the store.”

  “Oils?” Raze asks, pushing his phone into his pocket. I can see a couple people shuffle around in my peripheral.

  “Yeah.” I brush him off casually. “You know, so I don’t get stretch marks.”

  “What, you need to get that shit right now?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. “And what did Amy want?” I keep my eyes on his.

  “She just wanted to know if I had any recommendations on doctors.” Yeah, my excuses suck big, hairy monkey balls.

  He watches me closely, his eyes boring into mine. “Yeah, all right.”

  “See you soon.” I turn and walk out the door, quickly beeping the truck, and just as I slide into the driver’s seat, the passenger door swings open. I screech, my hand flying up to my chest.

  “Chill, pumpkin. Like the boss would let you leave unprotected.”

  “Get out!” I say to Joker, as he slips into the passenger seat.

  “Um…” He pretends to mull over my outburst. “No?”

  Sarcastic ass.

  “Joker, you cannot come.”

  “I have to come, Millie. What’s the big deal?” he asks, clicking his belt on. “I can do oils.”

  I rub my forehead and start the Range Rover. “You can come on one condition. Give me your phone.”

  “Honey, I’m coming anyway.”

  “Really?” I grumble under my breath. Reaching under my seat, I grasp onto the cold metal and swing it up at Joker.

  “Whoa!” He throws his arms up. “Pumpkin, you ain’t gonna shoot me.”

  I cock the pistol and smirk. “Sure about that? Dead serious, I will pop you in the leg if you do not give me your fucking phone right now.”

  He narrows his eyes, tilting his head at the gun. “Why would Raze give you access to a fucking Desert Eagle?”

  I keep my eyes on him. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Give me your phone, or get out, or I will shoot you.”

  “Fuck.” He reaches into his pocket and tosses his phone onto my lap. I hold the heavy weapon with one hand, keeping my eyes on his, and quickly shove his phone in my back pocket.

  “Can you drop the gat now?” he asks, his eyes wide.

  I grin, lowering the gun and placing it into my handbag before sliding it under my chair.

  “Jesus,” he whispers, shuffling in his seat.

  I drive forward, turning the stereo on to ignore the awkward silence that falls between us. Once we hit the highway, he turns to me. “Guess we ain’t going to get oil.”

  “Nope,” I answer, popping the P. “We’re going to take Amy to the hospital.”

  Pulling up to what looks like an old, rusted motel, I bring the car to a stop and reach down for my phone.

  “THIS THE RIGHT PLACE?” JOKER asks.

  I look around, seeing the poverty spoiled area. The apartment block Amy is living in looks like it used to be an old motel. The M is missing on the word “motel” and the first thing I hear once I’ve killed the radio is the crying of babies, the arguing of couples, and the screeches of scrapping cats.

  “Yeah,” I say, reaching for the door and picking up my handbag. The group of young thugs sitting on the stairwell on the other side of the units watches me carefully. Probably wasn’t smart pulling up in a Range Rover. They watch me closely, until Joker rounds my side, and then they quickly look away. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing that Joker came, saving me from shooting someone.

  “Millie,” Joker breathes. “You are going to get me killed.”

  “What?” I chuckle, looking down at the unit number on my phone. “By these little thugs?”

  He snorts, taking my hand and helping me walk. I swat his hand away. I’m pregnant, not crippled. “You and I both know who I mean.”

  Reaching room 114, I knock on the peeling wood door, and it swings open with Amy hunched over. Her hair is plastered to her sweaty face and her eyes are slammed shut.

  “Ohh, this doesn’t look good,” Joker mutters carefully.

  “Amy.” I walk inside and Joker follows, closing the door behind us.

  The room is a single studio room, with an old box TV sitting on a table opposite the bed. There’s a crib set up next to the bed, and even though the room and environment is obviously so terribly run down, you can see the effort Amy has put into making the best out of her situation. She has a diaper stacker beside the crib, with little boy clothes carefully folded beside it, and there’s a plum shaggy rug that covers the stained carpet underneath.

  Amy folds over again, and I slip her arm behind my neck carefully. “Amy? Is that another contraction?”

  “Fuck, fuck,” Joker cusses in the background, pacing up and down the small area beside the bed.

  Coming out of it, she nods her head and stretches her back. “Yeah, they’re only a couple of minutes apart and it burns. Everything burns. I think it’s too late.” I palm her cheek, my eyes softening. “It’s okay. We can get you set up on the bed and we’ll call the paramedics.”

  Nodding her head, she takes a step toward the bed just as another contraction hits and she screams, drowning out the TV show that’s blaring in the background.

  “Joker! Call 911 and get some towels, warm water, and”—I look around—“lots and lots of pillows.”

  He rubs his forehead. “Give me my damn phone, pumpkin!” I take his phone out of my back pocket and toss it toward him. He hits the numbers and gets someone right away. While Joker talks on the phone, I hurry around and collect all the towels and pillows I can find, as well as a warm bowl of water. Running everything back to her, Joker is still on the phone when she hunches over the bed.

  “Millie!” she yells. “I need to push!”

  “Oh fuck!” Joker grunts into the phone. “Yeah, she needs to push.”

  I run toward her. “Amy? You’re going to need to lay down, honey.” She pulls her underwear off and hitches up her sundress, shaking her head. “I don’t want to. I need to sit up.”

  I can hear Joker recalling everything to the paramedics, and he runs into the bathroom, coming back out with hand sanitizer. “Wash your hands!” he says urgently, tossing the bottle at me. Amy continues to hyperventilate in the background.

  “It’s okay,” I say to her. “Everything’s going to be fine.” Pumping some of the clear liquid into my palms, I rub it between my fingers.

  “Millie!” she screams, and then her face turns purple and her eyes scrunch.

  “Shit.” I kneel directly in front of her, and Joker puts the phone on speaker.

  “Okay,” the woman on the other end of the call says. “Usually, it takes more than one push.” Amy huffs, her panting coming in shallow. “Now, on the next contraction, Amy, I want you to push again. Millie, could you please check if you can see the head?”

  “Okay.” I look to Amy for approval and she nods her head. Peeking under, I gasp. “Holy shit, the head is right there.” All color leaves my face. That looks more painful than I ever imagined. Not something I particularly wanted to see when I myself was a few months away from being in the same position.

  “Another one!” Amy spurts, just before she starts pushing again, her face blowing up like a balloon as she bears down, attempting to do one of the most natural things in the world.

  Suddenly, I’m feeling a little emotional. This is Miles’ baby that’s about to be born, and I can almost feel his presence filling the room. A warm mist shimmies over my skin, something filling me with confidence. I smile. “Okay, we got this, Amy.”

  “Paramedics aren’t far. Some women push for hours.”

  Amy huffs, leaning over the bed as she brings herself down from her pushing. Her shoulders start jolting, as she wails, “I can’t do it. I can’t. It’s too sore. I can’t do this. I have no one. I can’t do this. Screw you, Miles fucking Cavendes
h!” She lays onto her back, propping herself onto her elbows.

  I touch her arm. “Amy? It’s going to be okay. You have me—”

  I’m cut off by her screaming out as she pushes again with tears streaming down her face.

  “Millie, I need you to insert your finger inside and check to see if the cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck,” the woman on speaker instructs.

  “Amy,” I say. “Honey, lay down so I can check to make sure your baby is okay.” She looks at me, sweat trickling over her face and tears strewn over her skin. Nodding, she lays back slowly. I look over my shoulder and point to the other side of the room. “Get over there, Joke, and turn around.”

  He throws his hands up and runs to the other side of the room. “Ain’t gotta tell me twice.”

  What? Someone who can peel a man’s flesh off his bones with his very hands but can’t stand the sight of childbirth? Pussy. I’ll give him shit about this later.

  I smile at Amy and quickly slip my index finger inside of her, feeling around the slippery little neck of the baby.

  “There’s something around his neck!” I yell, panic rippling through me.

  “What!” Amy screeches.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay, keep calm. Millie, all you need to do is gently slip it over the back of his head. Quickly, before she hits her next contraction.” Swiftly, I slip the rubbery tube over the baby’s head successfully.

  “Okay, it’s done!”

  “Okay, Amy, next contraction, I want you to push really hard, okay?” the woman prompts.

  She nods, and I grab a clean towel and pat her knee with my other hand, some sort of survival instinct kicking in. “It’s going to be okay. Look at me, Amy.” She looks at me, and her panting becomes more panicked. I look at her, really look at her. “You are going to be okay.” Her shoulders slacken lightly and she nods, right before a hell-raising scream that could wake the dead rips out from her.

  “That’s it! Keep pushing, Amy. He’s coming. He’s almost there!”