A Father's Fight: Blake and Layla #2 (Fighting #5) (8 page)

 
 
 

Twelve

Blake

It’s eight fifteen a.m. when we pull up to the airport.
I thought I’d be up all night with worry, but with our making love in The Room
combined with Layla’s warm body pressed against mine, I slept like the dead.

Even now, as I hop out of the Rubicon at the terminal curbside, I
feel pretty good about seeing my folks. I still don’t know what the hell’s
going on, but my gut tells me it’s some form of fence mending that’ll give them
access to their first grandchild.

Braeden passes me and stops short as he rounds the hood to take
the driver’s seat. “I’m taking care of your girl.” He holds up a set of car
keys. “You take care of mine.” He lifts an eyebrow over his Maverick-wanna-be
sunglasses. “Do you remember where she is?”

I snag his keys and shove them in my pocket. “Long-term parking,
spot J-32.”

“Yes, and I swear to God if you so much as rip one in my car I’ll
know”—he rakes his sunglasses up on his head, eyes narrowed—“and I
will hunt you down.”

“Idiot.” I shove past him and roll my eyes at his answering
chuckle.

Since the Jeep is lifted, I asked Layla to stay in and told her
I’d come around to say goodbye. I open the passenger-side door, and she’s
pressing buttons on her phone, texting maybe. She shoves her phone into her
purse and smiles a little bigger than I appreciate.

“Shit, baby, don’t look so broken up over my leaving.” I pull her
into my arms for a long hug, and she wraps hers around me as best she can at
the awkward angle.

“You said you’d be home by dinner.” She pulls back and rests her
forehead against mine. “What did you expect? Tears?”

I kiss the tip of her nose. “You cry during cat litter
commercials, Mouse. So yeah, I fuckin’ expected tears.”

She shakes her head, our foreheads still touching. “If you chase
around a feather at the end of a stick, then I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Brae climbs into the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll take
good care of your woman.” His eyebrows pinch together in concentration. “Let me
see if I remember your instructions.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh,
okay, yeah . . . lots of Vikings reruns, cuddles, and a sponge bath. In that
order.” He winks.

I glare at him, but my lips curl into a smile. “Right, and I’ll
make sure to wash your car with a baseball bat and battery acid before I
leave.”

“Hm, oil massages are great for pregnant women I hear, and
something about kegels, which I’m excited to learn more about.”

I burst into laughter, wondering if my brother did an Internet
search on pregnancy to stockpile ammo to use against me. “I’m thinking I might
need to do a little four-wheeling in a rock garden before I come home.”

“Boys, boys, no fighting around the pregnant lady. Laughing makes
me pee.”

Brae’s eyes dart to her. “Eww.”

I shake my head. “Dude, pee is the least of the
ewws
when it comes to pregnancy.”

She smacks my arm, grinning. “Oh you love all my
ewws
. Now go; you have a plane to
catch.”

“I love
eww
.”

She snorts with laughter, leans in, and presses her sweet lips to
mine. “Go and hurry home.”

After a few more kisses and some pushing from Braeden for me to
get my tongue outta my girl and get on the damn plane, I say goodbye and head
off to board a flight that is taking me to who knows what back in Oceanside.

~*~

Layla

I wave goodbye to Blake through the Rubicon’s window.
He stays with his eyes on the vehicle until we’re out of sight. My heart dips
at watching him disappear and leaving him to face The General on his own.

“So what’s on the agenda today, boss?” Braeden turns and peeks at
me from the corner of his eye, probably terrified to take his focus off the
road after the slew of threats Blake tossed out.

“Hmm . . . it’s Saturday, so you can start with the laundry then
the bathrooms. The toilets could use a good scrubbing. All the grout in the tile
needs to be done with bleach and a toothbrush.” I turn my gaze out my side
window to hide my smile.

“Damn, and here I thought I left the military base.” I turn just
in time to see him salute me. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”

I salute back. “At ease, soldier.”

A comfortable silence stretches between us, and I fumble with my
purse strap. “Ya know you don’t have to stay with me all day.” I grit my teeth,
waiting for his lecture on the sanctity of a promise.

“Yeah, I know my brother’s being a little overprotective. We’ll
play it by ear, okay? I need to be close just in case something happens, but I
think as long as you check in and let me know you’re okay, I suppose I could
let you shower alone.”

I swat his arm. “Ha, ha. Guess it’s back to cleaning then,
Braeden-ella.”

“Fuck, where’s a fairy godmother when a guy needs one.”

“I believe there’s—” The shock of my phone’s vibration at
my hip cuts off my clever quip.

Crap! Maybe pretending I don’t feel it is best. I told myself the
next Unavailable call that comes in I’m going to answer, but I can’t in front
of Braeden.

“You should get that.” He motions to my purse. “It could be
Blake.”

Shit, shit, shit!

“Oh . . . yeah.” Ugh. I dig for my phone, pretending I can’t find
it and hoping it’ll stop ringing before I do. It does, and I check the screen
to make sure it wasn’t Blake.

Unavailable.

The single word sets my pulse rocketing through my veins.

This is the second time he’s called this morning. He doesn’t
leave a voicemail, and I try to calm my nerves.

“Not Blake then?”

“No, just a friend from work. I’ll call her later.” My cheeks flame
at my lie.

That never would’ve worked with anyone else. Everyone knows there
are very few women who are employed by the UFL, and I would never be friends
with the ones who are, with the exception of Eve.

“This is a great song.” I turn up “No Use for a Name,” not even
paying attention to the song, just looking for the distraction. Music fills the
space for the rest of the ride home while my phone continues to vibrate in my
hand.

Enough is enough. This has to stop.

It’s time to face the past head on.

##

By the time we pull up to the condo, my phone has rung
four different times, and now I’m getting the short buzzes that indicate text
messages. Is he texting now too?

I don’t dare read them and vow to wait until I’m home behind a
locked door before I steel my emotions to Trip’s attempts at contacting me. We
park in Blake’s designated spot, and I see the Bronco is gone. Axelle must be
out with a friend. I’ll have the condo to myself, except . . .

“Hey, Brae? Could you do me a favor?” I say before I’m out of the
truck.

“Sure.” He turns his shoulders toward me, really listening and
aiming to please.

“I’m having this intense craving for Rice Krispie treats, but I
don’t have the stuff to make them.”

“You want me to hit the store and grab the shit you need to make
’em?”

“If you don’t mind.”
And even
if you do, yes please.

“You gonna make some for me too?” He gazes down at me through
slits in his eyes.

“Fine, you can have one.” I force a smile, but my phone buzzes
again and I need to handle this situation before my bravery wears off. I press
my hand to my lower belly. “Oh, boy. I gotta pee bad!”

“Whoa . . .” He recoils. “TMI. Tell me what you need and skedaddle
before you soil Blake’s leather seats.”

“Rice Krispies, marshmallows, and butter!” I wave and hop down
from the Rubicon, dancing for a minute just for show before I race off as fast
as my Weeble Wobbles body will carry me.

I hear the engine fire up and pull away, so I grab my phone while
walking. Five new text messages?

Picking up my pace, I scurry inside the house, hurry to my
bedroom, and shut and lock the door.

First, I scroll through Unavailable’s messages.

Layla, please pick up the phone. I just want to talk to
you.

Then the next.

It’ll only take a minute, I swear.

And the next.

I understand why you don’t want to talk to me, but you
don’t know the whole story.

And again . . .

If you’d just give me a chance to explain.

And finally.

Please answer.

My phone vibrates, and I answer it before the caller ID even
shows up. Not that it matters. I know who it is. “Hello?”

“Oh . . . uh, Layla?”

“What do you want, Trip?”

A beat of silence. “Look, I know when we last spoke. . . ”

He’s remembering his conversation with Eve, but I don’t correct
him.

“. . . was a shock to you and I’d hoped you would’ve remembered.”

“I remember nothing.
Nothing
because I was drugged the night I was gang raped and ended up pregnant with a
baby no one would fucking claim, Trip! So no, I don’t fucking remember anything.”
Acid churns in my stomach, and my head gets light with the anger of eighteen
years.

“Shit, Layla . . . I . . . I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t know? That’s fucking laughable! How could you not
know? Here’s a clue, Trip, and please for the safety of women everywhere, do
try to keep up. When a woman is
incoherent
,
she’s incapable of giving consent!”

“God, I can’t even imagine what you must think of me.”

The plastic case on my phone protests under my unyielding grip. “Oh,
dig deep into the depths of hell, Trip. I’m sure you’ll come up with something
close.”

“It didn’t happen the way you think it did. That’s what I’m
trying to tell you, Layla.”

What? What’s he saying? “Didn’t happen the way . . .” I shake my
head. “No, I don’t have time for this. I don’t . . .” I can’t consider that
things didn’t happen exactly the way Stewart described, but then again, when
has Stew ever
not
lied?

“You told me you loved me.” His whisper is so faint I almost
wonder if he didn’t mean for me to hear him.

I told him I loved him? But how? I was gone. Passed out cold.

“Let me tell you my version of the story.” The pleading sound of
his voice perks my ears, but my stomach is heavy with dread.

“I’m afraid of any other version, Trip.”

“I understand, but . . . if you’d give me an hour, just one hour,
I could come to Vegas and—”

“Why are you doing this? I don’t want to relive this. I . . . I’m
sorry, I have to go.”

“Please, don’t hang—”

I hit End and send a quick text to Blake, who won’t get it until
he’s off the plane.

If you need me, call Braeden’s phone. Love you. xL

I power down my phone and shove it to the bottom of my sock
drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.

Well, at least out of sight.

 
 
 

Thirteen

Blake

It’s almost noon when I pull my brother’s charcoal-gray
Mustang GT into the driveway of my parents’ house. The Mexican-style
architecture of the old house doesn’t make me think of family holidays or
summers spent skateboarding in the street. It all brings me back to the night I
was taken to military school.

I’ve been back to visit a half dozen times since I left the
Corps, but no matter how many times I come back, the driveway holds a memory I
can’t seem to shake.

I throw the car in park and push up and out, my feet hitting the
pavement almost on the exact spot where I broke my dad’s nose. It’s been years,
and I still search for the bloodstain that faded a long time ago.

With a deep breath of the briny ocean air, I square my shoulders
and push back the nervousness that started building the second my plane flew
out of Las Vegas airspace. It’s as if the further away I got from Layla, from
my home, the more my anxiety built.

My hand absently pats my phone in my pocket, reminding me that
Layla is a phone call away. It’s only a few hours before I have to head back to
the airport. Surely I can endure anything for a few hours.

I ring the bell and shove both hands in my pockets.

A few clicks of the locks and the door swings open so quickly
that a small gust blows the loose strands of my mom’s light brown hair.
“Blake.” Her eyes are wide and her lips parted, as if she’s breathing through
the emotion to avoid letting it overtake her.

Not showing emotion. No hugs. Nice to see nothing has changed.

“Hey, Mom.” I take in her jeans and pale green collared shirt.
Even when I was a kid, she only wore jeans on the weekends. I never thought
about it much, but now I have to wonder if that was her choice or The General’s
demand.

“Come in.” She steps back to allow me inside, and it’s as if I’m
stepping back in time. Everything looks the same from the pale yellow wall
color to the antique furniture. Even the lulling tick of the grandfather clock
that my dad brought home from a garage sale still sounds through the otherwise
silent house.

I move past my mom to the living room with the hope that she’ll
make this quick so I can get back to my life in Vegas. “I don’t have a lot of
time. My plane leaves at five.”

She pushes back a wisp of hair that’s fallen down from where the
rest is wrapped at the back of her head. “Oh, so soon?”

I sit on the couch, and she takes one of the chairs across from
me.

“Yeah, Mom, Layla’s about to have a baby. I need to stay close.
I’m sure you can understand that.” Fuck, I can already feel the burn of anger
stir in my chest and the sound of my father’s voice in my own.

“Of course.” She drops her chin and fumbles with a kitchen towel
she has wadded in her hands. “I’d love to meet her someday.”

Good, at least we’re getting right to the point.

“I’d like that too, Mom, but Layla’s had it rough. When Dad and I
get in the same room together, shit goes south quickly. Layla and Axelle can’t
be around that. I won’t allow it.”

“Axelle is your adopted daughter, right?”

“Layla’s daughter, and yes, now my daughter too.” Just saying
their names makes my chest feel warm.

She shifts in her chair keeping her back straight and her knees
together, the picture of pristine discomfort. “Braeden says Axelle is very
smart.”

“She is. And she’s strong, just like her mom.”
And nothing like you.
My jaw aches as I
bite down hard against blurting something hurtful.

“And you,” she whispers.

“What?”

She lifts her gaze to meet mine. “She’s strong like you.”

I shrug, not comfortable taking any kind of compliment from my
mom.

“Are you still playing?” She doesn’t whisper as if it’s a dirty
little secret as she used to, but her eyes dart toward the bedrooms out of
habit.

“Every day. I’ve even been working with Axelle, teaching her the
basics. She’s picking up the guitar like a champ.” I shouldn’t be angry
anymore, but every word fires from my lips like a bullet aimed straight for her
heart. I want her to know that I’m encouraging my kid toward music rather than
treating her interest in it like a fucking disease.

She dips her forehead and nods. “That’s great.”

Shame twists in my gut, and the impulse to get on with it is
overwhelming. “So you sent Brae to get me to come home. You got me here, now
what?”

Her eyes slide to the hallway that leads to three bedrooms,
including hers, before she turns back to me. “Would you like something to
drink? Or eat?” She stands. “I could make you a sandwich.”

I glare at her and want to yell for her to just get it over with
already. “Make me a . . . Mom? Just tell me why you want me here. What was so
important that you had to send Brae?”

She sits back down and takes a deep breath. The air between us is
thick with her silence, and I start to wonder if she even heard me.

“Mom, spit it—”

“Diane?” The General’s deep voice echoes from the hallway that
leads to their bedroom. “We have company?”

Her eyes widen, and she tilts her head toward his voice, but
keeps her eyes on me. “Yes, honey. Blake’s here.”

The only sound coming from the hallway is shuffling, and out of
habit, I stand to greet my father. He comes around the corner, and all the air
leaves my lungs in a whoosh.

“Dad . . .” It’s not what I call him, and even as the single word
left my lips, I wondered why it came as easily as it did. I clear my throat. “Sir?”

“Son.” His steely green stare fixes on mine for a second before
he drops his gaze and continues to move toward my mom and me. He’s smaller than
he was the last time I saw him, his usual military posture now that of an old
man. His hair seems to have grayed even more, and what used to be strikingly
sharp facial features now seem gaunt. But even still, his presence fills the
room.

My mom moves to help him to the chair she was sitting in, but he
waves her off and drops into the one right next to it, allowing his wife to
keep her spot.

Once seated, he takes a breath as if just trudging across the
room cost him all his energy. “I see your brother was more persuasive than I
gave him credit for.”

His voice calls me back to the present, and I sit back down,
elbows on my knees, ass on the edge of the couch. “What’s going on, sir? You look.
. .” I can’t even put a name on what he looks like.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Look like shit?”

I nod and shrug one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. Last time I saw you,
when you came to Vegas, you seemed fine.”

His expression twists in a grimace. “About that, Blake . . .” He
sets his eyes on me, and now that I get a closer look, those too look pale. “I
didn’t give you the benefit of the doubt. I assumed you were causing trouble
when you weren’t, and I’m . . .” He licks his lips, preparing for something
that is so foreign it’s probably painful. “I’m sorry. I wish I could take back
the things I said.”

His apology knocks me back with a jerk. I blink, stutter, and
search for a proper response. I’m shocked by his apology, but it doesn’t take
away the sting that years of his rejection have caused. “It’s, um . . . nice of
you to say that, but what’s done is done. I could’ve used your support back
then when I was locked up. Some things are too old to take back.”

He pins me with a thoughtful stare, not intimidation as much as
introspection. “I hope that’s not true.”

I gaze at my mom, who has tears in her eyes, and what started as
anxiety flares into widespread fucking fury. Even now, I can’t help but feel as
if they’re fucking with me. Jerking me around without letting me in on the why
of this mindfuck.

“Tell me what the hell is going on, or I swear to Christ I’ll
walk out of here and never come back.” My breathing speeds up, and I can’t hold
back the waterfall of anger that’s threatening to spill.

My dad holds up a shaky hand. “Calm down—”

“Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down! You haven’t spoken to me
but to tell me how disappointed you are in me and tell me what a fuck up I am,
and now that I’m here, you look like you’re knockin’ on death’s door and
apologizing? I left my family, my very pregnant fiancée, to be here, so do me
the courtesy of filling me in so I can get the fuck gone.” I run two hands over
my scalp, begging to keep it together. “Just stop messing with my head.”

“Duke.” Mom’s call of my dad’s name sounds almost frantic, as if
he has the power to make things right, and she’s pleading with him to do so.

He lifts his chin in a show of stoicism. “I’m dying.”

And the world fucking stops. Life hits pause. The room, our
expressions, everything except the steady thud of my heart.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.

“What did you say?” I whisper, but my voice sounds distant, as if
I’m calling from another room.

“I have stage-four pancreatic cancer.” He’s sitting up tall,
acting as if he’s just told me the headline of today’s news.

My thumping heart drops into my gut. “You’re undergoing
treatment?”

“There’s treatment that could buy me some time, but there’s no
cure.”

“What treatment?” That must explain why he looks so beaten up, as
if he’s been put through the ringer and laid out wet.

“Your dad is refusing treatment, Blake. He’s choosing against it
because the odds are—”

“Whoa. What?” The question is spit from between my clenched
teeth. Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing? He’s dying without a fight?

He clears his throat. “The treatment available to me is chemo and
radiation. I don’t want to live out the rest of my days sick all the time.”

I throw a hand out in his direction. “What do you call this?
You’re sick now!”

He nods, unable to argue with the truth. “I don’t feel that bad.
Just tired.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The anger behind my words fuels my
body, and I push to stand then pace. “So that’s it? No one else gets a say.
You’re choosing to die?”

Why the hell do I care? This guy hasn’t given a shit about me my
entire life, and now he’s dying and still proving he doesn’t give a shit. Fathers
who care fight for their lives, if not for themselves, for their kids, for
their grandkids.

I grip the sides of my head to avoid putting my fist through a
wall. Braeden knew. This is why he insisted I come home, why he wanted me to
see The General. Fuck, I have no explanation as to why this news feels like an
A-bomb to the gut, but it does.

“It’s
my
life and I’m
given a choice on how I want it to end.” Even though he’s sick and clearly
weak, his voice still carries an authority that demands attention. “This is it,
and honestly, I’m surprised you care as much as you do.”

He’s not the only one.

He took everything away from me: my music, the trust I had in my
mom. He belittled me and locked me up in military school to make sure I stayed
away from the thing I loved most in the world. He did that. He never believed
in me, never gave me permission or the freedom to follow my dreams and cast my
own future. I was ashamed of my music my entire life until Layla. That’s all
because of him. So yeah, why the fuck does it feel as if I’m swallowing a golf
ball and my eyes are burning?

The room feels too small. I need to get the fuck out of here.

Without another word, I move to the door, throwing it open so
hard I’m sure it left a dent. I avoid the car out of fear that driving might be
the end of me.
Some of us
make
staying alive for our kids a priority.

As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, I look left, then right, and
take off running.

 

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