Page 17 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

CHRIS

I don’t begrudge Franky and Fox their ability to fall asleep, curled in each other’s arms and draped across the couch in an odd pretzel shape that would leave me damn near broken by morning.

But I don’t understand it, either.

I can’t fathom how easily they rest, knowing Alana is at the hospital right now, her body stretching and tearing. Her life, in the hands of someone else while her baby claws its way into existence.

Everyone says that childbirth is beautiful and special. Magical. Whatever . But all I can focus on are the maternal mortality statistics my stupid fucking brain latched onto somewhere around Alana’s fifth month.

Because that’s what it does. It searches for facts and data. Statistics. When the world is upside down, and my normal, sensical routine is shoved off-kilter, I reach for literature, digesting the details as eagerly as a starving man feasts on his next meal.

Sometimes it helps.

In fact, most of the time, it does.

But not this time. Because instead of remembering the nearly six hundred babies born safely across the world every two minutes, I think about the one that dies.

Mother. Baby. Or both.

Instead of reminding myself of the advances in modern medicine and acknowledging how safe Alana and the baby truly are tonight, I think of the things I can’t control .

Which, of course, is my fucking curse.

Why was I born like this?

Why, when Tommy and I shared a womb, did he come out with a normal brain. And I’m… fucked up?

It’s my punishment, I guess.

The sky outside is pitch black, and the clock on the mantle reads three fifty-three.

Frogs swim in the lake out back, while the cicadas, thankfully, sleep.

Mosquitos buzz, hungrily hunting for a crack in the window screens surrounding Tommy’s home.

They know there are people inside, exposed arms and legs and blood ripe for suckling.

But we learned long ago to make sure that shit is taken care of.

Franky and Fox sleep soundly, soft breaths inhaling and exhaling in sync. Franky rests with his face on Fox’s chest, his long lashes folded down to kiss his cheeks, and his lips pushed forward in the pout he got from Alana.

Lucky kid.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t get too much from the Watkins side of the family, besides his eyes—the same green sparkle as mine and Tommy’s—and his over-analyzing ‘ why am I like this?’ mind—which only he and I have in common.

Fox shifts in her sleep, smacking her lips and exhaling a soft sigh.

She curls tighter into the couch, pulling her feet up and resting her knees against Franky’s hips, and because of her new position, her shorts ride up and reveal more than she probably means to.

A fraction of her swollen ass cheek—just one side—and a flash of red underwear.

I should put a blanket over them.

Jesus, I should stop being a fucking creep. But knowing and doing are two entirely different things, and for as long as she’s dreaming, she’s not taunting me.

Which is a nice break, honestly. To see her like this, to appreciate the fine lines of her cheekbones and the long, cascading mahogany hair she tied up hours ago.

She uses a thick scrunchy that I know, I can just tell, is made of smooth silk that would create the perfect sliding friction when rubbed between a man’s fingers.

Her shirt rides up, exposing the bottom half of her ribs and delicate vines with draping flowers expertly inked into her skin.

The designs sneak from her back to her belly, proving she didn’t go with a small, spring-break tattoo like most girls get.

No. She decorated her body with an entire piece that would have taken hours and hours, days, extended across several weeks, sitting in an artist’s chair.

It would have meant layers and careful planning and, when it was all done, a hell of a lot of money exchanged from one hand to the next.

I really should put a blanket over them.

I settle back in my recliner and tap my phone screen for the millionth time since the sun went down, a long white cord snaking from the wall to my device, because fuck knows, without it, I would’ve drained the battery hours ago.

No texts. No missed calls. No baby.

I peek toward Fox’s phone, dumped on the couch cushion by her feet and seemingly forgotten, but her battery remains intact, the time glowing on the screen proof that if the baby was here, we’d know.

One of us would have been alerted.

Groaning, I drop my head back and stare up at the ceiling, as minute by minute, time passes through a sieve at the speed of… insanity. Sixty seconds never felt so long, and even when they pass, I merely start again and count the next. Then the next.

Two minutes feels like two hours, which gives me all the more time to obsess over the mortality rate data I tried eons ago to expunge from my mind.

For every elevated breath sound Franky or Fox expels, time seems to go slower.

Because their ability to sleep is as cruel as eating a meal in front of a hungry man.

Hell, if Fox hugged me the way she hugs Franky, maybe I could close my eyes, too.

“Jesus.” What the fuck is wrong with me ?

I press my hands to my face and my fingers to my eyes, forcing them shut and holding the lids down, if only to force a little darkness, like that might help me sleep.

But then my phone vibrates against my leg, silent, really, but right now, in the state I’m in, it could be a cannon blast piercing my thigh.

Startled, I fumble my phone, spinning it around, then spinning it again, and because the cord tangles, I yank it free of my phone and toss it aside.

Finally, I spy Tommy’s name on the screen. A text, not a call.

I hurriedly open our chat and am met with a beautiful, soul-cleansing, heart-squeezing photo of a baby girl’s foot.

Just her foot.

Air explodes from my lungs, collapsing my chest and drawing tears to my eyes, but I look at the speech bubbles popping up at the bottom of the picture, so I wait.

And wait. And wait some more, and when the bubbles continue, but the words don’t come, I consider smashing my fucking phone against the wall.

But then he hits send.

She’s here. If you guys are awake, come on over. Alana’s begging to see you all. If you wanna wait till morning ‘cos Franky’s asleep, she’ll understand.

Then he sends another.

Don’t call me. I don’t wanna spoil her for you. Come meet your beautiful niece face to face. You’re gonna be obsessed like I am.

Wait till morning?

Is he fucking insane?

I bound off the chair and shove the phone into my pocket, and though I could leave these two here to sleep, sucking in a few hours of pre-dawn baby snuggles all on my own, I know it wouldn’t be the right thing to do.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to turn on my heels and bolt out the front door. Every scrap of decency I’ve ever owned not to blame my actions on ‘ but I didn’t want to wake you .’

If I bring Fox and Franky to the hospital, I risk Fox grabbing the baby and claiming first rights. Best friend. Aunty. Loud as fuck. Blah, blah, blah .

I could just go. They’ll get over it eventually.

Fuck.

I walk to the couch and slow my breathing. Calm my thoughts and regulate the adrenaline pulsing through my veins. It’s like I’m readying for a fight. Bursting with bloodlust. Prepping to go toe-to-toe with someone bound to leave me busted and bruised.

But none of that is true. There is no threat.

There’s just a woman who deserves to meet this baby as much as I do, and a little boy who deserves it a million times more than both of us combined.

Swallowing, I set one hand on the back of the couch, to prop myself over the duo so I don’t fall on them, and then with the other, I gently shake Fox’s shoulder.

“Hey?” I whisper, barely loud enough for the sound to register in my own ears.

Then I shake her again and watch as she slowly, dazedly, meanders toward consciousness. “Fox? You awake?”

Her eyes move behind her eyelids, but her lashes remain on her cheek.

“Fox? Can you hear me?”

“Screwing with my sleep is unforgivable.” She snuggles into Franky and smacks her lips. “If this is payback for the fork, I’m gonna stab you with it.”

I choke out a soft, barely there chuckle. And because I can, because fuck it, it’s four in the damn morning, and she’s all lazy and relaxed; I lean closer, resting my lips just an inch from her ear. “The baby is here.”

Her eyes snap open.

Lowering into a crouch, I move to her level and brush messy locks of hair from her cheek. “Tommy texted and said we could meet her whenever we’re ready.”

She doesn’t move. From deep sleep to completely alert, her brain switches on, but her body remains totally and severely still.

Her ability to control her movements this way is admirable.

Concerning, too, when I think of how she grew to conquer such skills.

She stares into my eyes, searching for the world’s longest minute of silence. Then her lips curl into a devious grin, and her cheeks warm.

Fuck, why is she pretty at four in the morning?

“She’s here?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“And we can see her?”

“He said Alana’s bugging out for a visit.

Which means she’s okay.” I scrub my free hand over my face and breathe again for the first time in a while.

“I didn’t ask questions, and he said not to call, since he wants us to meet her in person.

But that implies Alana’s doing good, too, dontcha think?

Because she’s the one who wants us to visit. ”

“Yeah. I think.” She carefully straightens on the couch, slow movements and clumsy support while she tries to stop Franky from jolting awake.

My palm itches with: do I, don’t I ?

Stay the fuck away, or make this easier for her?

The darkness somehow makes everything just a little less…

scary, the time, a little more whimsical, so I offer my hand and swallow my fiery exhale when she accepts, her fingers wrapping around to touch my wrist. She smiles in appreciation and uses me to stabilize herself on collapsing cushions until, finally, she extricates herself from beneath Franky’s weight and lays him back down.

“You got it?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” She fixes her shorts and drags her shirt down to cover her belly, then scrubbing her hands over her eyes, she blinks, blinks, and blinks again. “What time is it?”

“Nearly four. Which is basically six, your time, right?”

“Mmm.” She pushes the hair off her face and turns to me with a megawatt smile. “She’s actually here?”

“Unless Tommy’s punking us. ”

Fuck me. She does a little dance, pumping fists and skipping feet. Then, like a light switch, she turns it off and strokes Franky’s cheek instead. “Hey, buddy. Wake up.”

He grumbles and pulls away from her touch.

“You have to get up, honey. We’re going for a drive.”

“You could probably stay here if you want.” I fake a smile and pretend her rolling eyes aren’t explicitly for me. “I mean, if he wants to sleep or whatever.”

“Nice try.” She bends over the couch, much like I did, with one hand on the back to support her weight, while she runs her fingers through Franky’s hair with the other.

But dammit, her shorts are still a little high, and the swell of her ass is just…

it’s right there. Right in front of my face.

“Did you sleep?” she murmurs. “You look pretty alert for four in the morning.”

“Got a few hours,” I lie. “It’s probably gonna be chilly out there. Do you have a sweater?”

“Oh…” Frowning, she glances over her shoulder. “No. I didn’t bring one from the apartment. Shoot.”

“Wake him up, and I’ll get you one of Tommy’s.

” I hold her gaze for a moment more, absorbing her early-morning niceness, since I know she’ll return to her regular pain-in-the-ass self soon enough.

Then, straightening my legs and maneuvering the gap between her, the couch, and the coffee table, I come out the other side and turn my slow walk to a sprint.

Sweater. Coffee. Car.

I race through the house and collect the things we need, draping a hoodie over my arm and pouring a to-go cup of coffee for the road, then returning to the living room less than a minute later, I stride in to find Franky still asleep.

Fuck it.

I flip the lights on and clap my hands.

“Wake up, Page!”

He shoots straight up on the couch, wild hair pointing in every direction and a nasty, mean scowl folding his lips down. “What the heck?”

“You’re a big brother, kiddo! Let’s go.”