A Father's Fight: Blake and Layla #2 (Fighting #5) (10 page)

Sixteen

Layla

It’s D-Day. Time to hear Trip’s side of the story so
that I can put my curiosity to rest and end all this before Blake gets back. The
phone calls, probing into Axelle’s birth records, all of it needs to stop.

I scan my surroundings and try to act casually as I people watch
from the small Italian café at The Venetian Hotel. Few Vegas locals hang out at
the casinos, which makes this the perfect place to meet without getting caught.
The coffee shop is public enough for safety, but I chose a table off in the
corner to allow us some privacy.

A warm cup of herbal tea between my hands fights off the chill
that I can’t seem to shake. It’s not lost on me that my hands were cold the
last time I saw Trip. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just as nervous to see
Trip today as I was back then, although this time for totally different
reasons.

As I wait for the blast from my past to show his face, my
thoughts return to Blake. I can’t imagine how he must be feeling, and the
sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get to my man and get on with my
life. I have every intention of telling Blake about my meeting with Trip, but
he’s dealing with enough now, and the more I can handle behind his back the
better.

He’ll be upset, possibly even furious, and insist that these
things are his job to handle for me, but he wasn’t around the night Axelle was
conceived or the nine months afterward when I was treated like a high-school
leper. He didn’t live with me through sixteen years of abuse and the constant
fear that my choices were going to end up destroying my daughter. Nope, that
was all me.

Blake was dragged neck deep into my past when Stew showed up at
my door. I watched helplessly as he was drugged and jailed all for the sake of
loving me. No way I’ll risk bringing him down with this shit again.

This has to be the end now, and I won’t walk away until I’m
convinced it’s finally over.

Sitting up straight, unable to relax, I rub a small circle to try
to relieve the tightening cramp in my side. My lower back seemed to spasm all
night, or maybe it was junior working out some kickboxing moves. Either way I
can’t seem to shake the feeling that this baby is getting way too big for my
body.

I take another gander through the small coffee shop, swiveling on
my stool. A couple, some people in business suits, and a small group of girls,
but still no Trip.

My eyes scan the area back and forth, unable to shake the feeling
that somehow Braeden knows I’m up to no good. I told him this morning I was
meeting up with some girls to walk for exercise and that he wouldn’t want to
come and listen to them talk about menstrual cycles and yeast infections. After
he recovered from gagging, he let me go, as long as I promised to text him when
I got here, which I did, and before I leave, which I will.

A tall man with short brown hair, the color of milk chocolate, enters
the café, stops, and immediately locks eyes with me.

Trip Miller.

His sky-blue eyes widen for a second before he continues toward me.
I study him as he approaches. His worn jeans fit nicely on his long legs, a
black long-sleeved collared shirt is left untucked and rolled up to his elbows,
and as he gets closer, I can see part of a tattoo that curls up the left side
of his neck. Although his hair isn’t as shaggy as it was in high school, it’s spiky
in a way that still gives him an edge, and his face is still as handsome, but
now more rugged and grown up.

The sight of him used to send my stomach tumbling in a flurry of
butterflies, but now there’s nothing but simple appreciation and anxiety.

He stands at the edge of the table and blows out a deep breath
with his hand on his chest. “Layla, wow . . . you look great.”

“Thanks, um . . .” I motion to the seat across from me. “Have a
seat.”

He pulls out the stool and sits, the waitress on his heels to
take his order. “Coffee, black.”

After she disappears to grab his drink, he turns to me. “Thank
you for meeting with me.”

“You didn’t really give me much choice.” I thumb the ceramic
handle of my mug. “How did you get my number?”

“The receptionist at the UFL Training Center.” His cheeks take on
color and he ducks his chin, clearly embarrassed over his stalking behavior.

“Vanessa.” That bitch.

“Um, yeah, sorry about that.” He peeks up. “You’re pregnant.” His
eyes dart to my ring finger, and I’m grateful to have Blake’s engagement ring
on so he doesn’t get the impression that I make a habit out of getting knocked
up out of wedlock, which I do. “How many kids do you have?”

“This’ll be my second.”

The waitress delivers his coffee, but Trip doesn’t take a sip,
only cups it in his hands as I’m doing with my tea. Silence stretches between
us, and a sense of urgency to get what I need, call Trip off his interest in me
and Axelle, and get home to welcome Blake back rides me hard.

“Listen, Trip, I don’t mean to rush this, but—”

“Cut to the chase.” His lips form a tight line, as if he’s
disappointed that we won’t be skipping down memory lane holding hands for a
while longer.

“Please.”

His knuckles go white around his coffee, and he fixes his eyes on
mine, but doesn’t offer a word.

Great. I guess I’ll lead.
“About the night at the party, you have to understand I remember very little. After
hearing from Stewart that . . . I was raped . . .”

He cringes and rubs the back of his neck, but doesn’t confirm or
deny it.

“I thought not remembering was a blessing, but after talking to
you, there are missing pieces, and I have to know if anything Stew told me was
even true.”

His expression hardens. “Fuckin’ hate that guy.”

I flash him what’s sure to be a weak smile. “You’re not alone in
that, I assure you.”

He finally sips his coffee then sets it down, staring into it. “I
had my speech planned out, thought through everything I was going to say, and
now that I’m here, I don’t know where to start.”

I lean forward, my forearms braced on the table. “How ’bout the
beginning?”

He nods, takes another sip of his coffee, and then leans back in
his chair. “I had a shitty upbringing. My stepdad was a prick. He’d slap me
around, get drunk, and make my mom cry. I was kind of rebellious. I’m sure you
noticed.”

“Yeah, I did.” It’s one of the things I adored about him.

“I liked you freshman year, but always thought you were too good,
too, uh . . . sweet for a guy like me. Sophomore year came then junior, and as
every year passed, I became more obsessed.” He shrugs. “You really stood out.”

He was obsessed?
I
was
the one who was obsessed. “You never even spoke to me.”

“I know. You scared me. There was something about you, even just
the way you looked, that intimidated the hell out of me. You were so
confident.”

Huh . . . I guess I was, back then, before Stew.

“Anyway, when you showed up at that party, dressed like a
rock-n-roll princess, I knew I was done for. I couldn’t resist you any longer.
I drank, trying to build up the courage to talk to you. Seeing you hanging out
with Stew and all his fucking losers just drove me to drink more. I hated
seeing his arm on your shoulder, his eyes eating you up when you weren’t
looking.” He looks down and I follow his gaze to see his knuckles go white
gripping his mug. “I wanted to pull you away from him.”

A shiver runs up my spine at the menace in his voice. “Did you?”

His cobalt eyes find mine. “I didn’t have to. You came to me.”

I blink, trying to crank back in my memory and remember. I wanted
to talk to him that night, told myself I wasn’t going to leave until I did, but
don’t recall actually doing it.

“I knew you were pretty wasted, but I had no clue just how wasted
you were until . . .” He turns away, his face flushed. “Until later.”

I sift my hand into my hair at my nape and massage the back of my
neck, trying to recall that night. “I don’t remember any of that. I must’ve
made a total fool of myself.”

“Not at all.” He wipes something invisible off the tabletop. “You
were sweet. We talked about music and cars, Mrs. Caffrey’s wig.”

A tiny grin ticks my lips. “Her wig was hideous.”

“It really was.” He chuckles, but his laughter dies when his eyes
meet mine. “We were talking and laughing. Then out of nowhere you just leaned
in, wrapped your arms around my neck, pushed up on your tiptoes, and kissed
me.”

My cheeks flame and I duck my chin. “Oh wow, I’m, uh . . . I’m
sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He tilts his head, his eyes on my lips. “I loved it.”

Why does reliving this now feel like cheating? He couldn’t
possibly have feelings for me now, nine months pregnant with another man’s baby
and his ring on my finger.

I bury my face in my tea and take a long sip.

He shakes his head and blinks. “Anyway, one thing led to another,
and it was like the more we kissed the more we needed. Two years of pent-up
feelings mixed with liquor, and I was helpless to stop it.”

The baby does what feels like a backbend, and I try to rub away a
low cramp. “And by ‘it’ you mean . . .?”

“We found an empty room in the house. I swear I didn’t plan to
let things get as far as they did. I just wanted to get you alone for a little
while, kiss you without an audience, but when I tried to slow down”—he
shakes his head, a tiny smile curling his lips—“you told me you loved
me.”

I groan and drop my head into my hands. God, that’s totally
something I’d do. I was so infatuated with him I’m sure I did that.

A soft chuckle calls my eyes to his. “Hey, don’t be embarrassed.
It was amazing. I mean . . .” He shakes his head, his eyebrows dropped low with
the seriousness of whatever he’s about to say. “No one in my life had ever
loved me, and there I was locked in a dark room with this gorgeous girl who has
awesome taste in music, and she
loved
me. I can’t tell you how long I held on to that.”

That’s sweet in a sad way. “I don’t understand. How could I have
been aware enough to do all this, but not remember?”

“I didn’t say you didn’t slur it.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You
were stumbling and giggling. It wasn’t until about halfway through that I
realized you were—God, this is so humiliating.” He runs one big hand over
his face.

“We’ve come this far, Trip.” As much as I don’t want to be
witness to my teenage self’s embarrassment, I have to know. “Might as well put
it all out there.”

“I didn’t have a lot of experience back then. I was pretty fucked
up myself, but looking back on it, I’m pretty sure you were slipping in and out
of consciousness.”

I cringe. “That’s awful.”

“By the time it was over, you were out. I didn’t know what to do.
I tried to wake you up, but you were totally gone. I checked to make sure you
were breathing, heart was still beating, but I panicked. I dressed you as best
I could, pulled the covers up over you, and tried to figure out what the fuck
to do.” His hand fists into his hair as if he’s reliving that night eighteen
years ago. “I sat there for what felt like hours when someone knocked on the
door. It was that girl, the one I’d seen you talking to earlier.”

Oh shit, what was her name? “Daphne . . .”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I think she figured out pretty quickly what had
gone on. She seemed . . . I don’t know . . . worried about you? Or concerned? I
wanted to get you out of there, get you home, but I couldn’t exactly carry you
out of there unconscious and thrown over my shoulder.”

Dread drops like a rock in the pit of my stomach. “What did you
do, Trip?” The words drift from my lips on a whisper, something inside already
well aware of what he did.

Pain slices through his expression. “She said she’d take care of
you.” He swallows hard. “Told me she’d stay with you until you woke up, make
sure you got home okay.”

“Oh my God.” I drop my forehead into my hand and groan.

Daphne hated me. Even after that night, she had nothing but
contempt for me as if my being with Stewart robbed her of her plan to seduce
and marry the asshole.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice shakes with emotion, but I feel nothing
for his pain. “I really thought she’d take care of you.”

I rub my temples and search for a feeling, a memory, something
that validates his story. “She didn’t.”

“Fuck, Layla.” His eyes darken in a scary way. “I never should’ve
left you.”

“I can’t believe this shit. She was in on it.” Fuck! “Why you
didn’t tell me this sooner? We had an entire year together, and you wouldn’t
even look at me.”

“At first, I tried. When I’d pass by you in the hallway, you’d
always have your eyes to the floor. After that night, you weren’t the same
girl.”

“You took my virginity, Trip.” My whispered shriek sends him back
in his chair as if it delivered a physical blow. “I wasn’t the same girl.”

“I’m so sorry, I know, and I deserve your anger.” His pleading
gaze fixes on mine. “I broke you. I could see it. I assumed that you’d woken
the next day hating me for leaving you after having unprotected sex with you.
You’d have every right to. And then you were hanging out with Stewart every
day. I never saw you again by yourself. You were always with him.”

I dig the heels of my palms into my forehead, pushing back the
headache that’s starting to form behind my eyes. “Still, when you realized I
was pregnant, you had to have wondered.”

“I didn’t wonder.” His jaw is hard. “I knew.”

He knew? My jaw falls loose on its hinges. He fucking knew!

My blood ignites with the heat of my anger. “Why didn’t you say
anything? Do you have any idea what he put me through? What he put Axelle
through? You had the power to save us!”

He leans in, eyebrows low. “I had nothing to offer you. Stew had
his father’s fucking legacy. I had a drug-addict mom and a stepdad who knocked
me around. I thought by letting you go I was doing what was best for you and
our baby.”