A Father's Fight: Blake and Layla #2 (Fighting #5) (9 page)

Fourteen

Layla

After Braeden got back from the store with Rice Krispie
treat ingredients, I insisted I needed a trip to Baby Mart to shop in an effort
to get out of the house. Knowing that my phone is stashed in my sock drawer is
too much of a temptation because that conversation with Trip has me more
curious than I’d like to admit.

He made the night I got pregnant with Axelle sound like something
completely different. I don’t know Trip at all. After that night at the party,
he basically ignored me, and I was too caught up in the stress of becoming a
teenage mother to give a shit about him. A few months into our senior year he
disappeared. Rumors around school said he went to juvie, others that his
parents shipped him across the country to live with an aunt. Either way, my
days of crushing on Trip were over the morning I woke up naked in the back of
Stewart’s 4-Runner.

I mindlessly flip through newborn onesies while lost in my
thoughts.

Did I really tell him I loved him? My face heats with a fire so
intense that I already know the answer to that. I’m sure I did.

Enough of this! I’m shopping to keep my mind off this crap, not
to dwell on it.

I move to the next aisle and find Brae studying the silicone cups
of a breast pump on display. He turns it in his hand, sticks one cup to his
eye, and then the other. What is he doing? I cover my mouth to avoid him
hearing me giggle as he presses the cups to his swollen pecs.

In his black cargo pants and long-sleeved gray thermal, he looks
all military badass and gets the attention of a few women nearby. He has no
idea he’s gained an audience as he flips the cups around in his hands one more
time before facing them out, holding them like guns. He makes realistic
explosion noises with his mouth while fake-firing the breast pump cups at
random items throughout the store. An unflattering, guttural giggle bursts from
my lips.

He turns toward me, a half smile pulling at his mouth. “You think
this works?” He presses the cups back to his pecs, his eyebrows dropped low in
genuine curiosity.

I roll my eyes and head toward him, laughing. “Why, you thinking
of getting one?”

“I don’t know.” He studies it some more. “Looks kinky to me.”

I rest my hand on a hip, cock my head, and glare. “I bet a soccer
ball would look kinky to you.”

He closes his eyes, bites his lip, and moans so deep a few of the
women watching lean in toward him. “God, Layla . . .” He groans. “Don’t mention
soccer balls when we’re in public. They get me so hot.” He lowers one cup to
his crotch, but I rip it from his hand before he’s able to follow through.
“Hey, I was playing with that,” he says with a childlike pout.

I swear I hear a woman swoon. I swat his bicep and shove him to
move on down the aisle. “You’re disgusting.”

We pass by his all-female audience, and Brae flashes them his
most panty-melting smile. “Any of you ladies want to point me to the nearest
sporting goods store?”

I throw my head back laughing and speed walk ahead of him to
avoid the embarrassing reactions that I’m sure he’s getting.

He catches up with me, chuckling, when his phone rings. He pulls
it from his pocket, and his eyebrows pinch together before he answers it. “Hello?”
He listens for a second and then holds one finger up to me.

I point to the check out and motion that I’ll meet him out front.
A quick line, sweet checkout lady, and a few new unisex baby outfits in a bag,
I find Brae outside leaning against the wall.

“You ready?” His expression is serious, totally void of his
earlier levity. Something about that phone call ripped away his teasing
demeanor.

We walk to the Rubicon in silence. I don’t want to pry, but I’m
worried about Blake. “Was that your brother on the phone?”

He opens the passenger side door and takes my bag to toss it into
the backseat. “No.”

“Oh.” I grab hold of his arm, and he helps to hoist me into the
seat. “Have you heard from him?”

His green eyes set on mine and he shakes his head. “No.”

Okaaay.
Maybe we can
try for a two-syllabled answer?

“I’m just worried.” I strap on my seatbelt, and before I get out
another word, he closes the door and moves around the hood to climb in the
driver’s seat.

He fires up the engine, but rather than backing out of the spot,
he grips the steering wheel then drops his hands and turns to me. “There’s
something you should know.”

Nervous butterflies explode in my stomach.

“The reason Blake went home . . . what my mom wants to talk to
him about is”—he exhales, long and hard—“The General’s sick.” His
shoulders relax a smidge, as if he’s been carrying around that secret for a few
days too long.

“Sick as in—”

“Cancer, Layla.” Pain washes his expression. “He’s dying.”

My hand flies to my mouth to muffle my cry. I can’t speak, but
shake my head back and forth slowly as if the movement will toss the truth from
my memory.

“The doctors gave him six months tops. He’s, uh . . . even these
last few months he’s going downhill fast.” He rubs his eyes as if he’s forcing
back tears.

“I’m so sorry.” I grip his shoulder and squeeze, hoping to convey
comfort. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

Poor Blake. He thought this trip to see his parents would be
their extension of an olive branch, a chance to come back into his life and be
grandparents.

He was wrong.

On one hand, I think he’d take that news in stride. He hates his
father, and I can see how his death would be upsetting, but I think it would be
worse if he had a good relationship with him. On the other hand, the great
thing about life is that it gives us plenty of time to make amends for the ways
we screwed up. Time allows opportunity for healing. When someone dies suddenly,
they no longer have the chance to make things right.

Oh God . . . Blake.

I sniff back the wave of sadness that overcomes me. I know deep
down he wants his father’s approval.

“Blake, he’s . . . not okay, is he?” My fingers twist frantically
in my hair, itching to comfort him and regretting letting him go.

Braeden’s gaze swings to mine. “Honestly?”

I nod.

“No. My mom said he got pretty pissed and took off.”

“He’s coming home. We need to call him. I bet he jumped on a
flight—”

“He’s on foot. Left my car in the driveway.”

I pat myself down. “Shit. I don’t have my phone. Call him, call
him right now.”

“I tried, Layla. He’s not answering.”

I breathe deeply, trying to soothe my nerves, regulate my
heartbeat, and remind myself that my body isn’t my own right now and I owe it
to this baby to chill the fuck out.

A dull pain tightens on my left side. I gasp and my hand flies
there to push back what’s sure to be a baby part pressing against my rib.

“You okay?” His voice is laced with worry.

“Fine, just a big kick.” I breathe deeply through the cramp until
it subsides. “We need to get back to the condo, just in case Blake shows up.”

He nods and points the Rubicon toward home.

“Drive fast.”

##

It’s almost three p.m. and my phone has rung on the
hour every hour since we arrived, but none of the calls were from Blake.

Between pacing and staring blankly at the wall, I’ve had time to review
every possible scenario, and lucky for me I have a vivid imagination. I’ve
closed my eyes and prayed, even willed him to get in touch with me through ESP,
but the only person who’s been consistently ringing my phone has been Trip.

“Here.” Braeden hands me a glass of OJ.

“No thanks, I’m okay—”

“You haven’t eaten.” His expression is stern, replacing his
prettiness with the focus of a hardened soldier. “You need something besides
water.”

My appetite dissolved. It’s as if my stomach is too full of worry
to fit anything else in there. But he has a point.

I nod, take the offered juice, and drink as much of it as I can
while he’s watching. “Thanks.”

He takes the glass and brings it to the kitchen. Come on, Blake.
He hasn’t answered my calls or texts, and somewhere along the way my worry for
him has morphed into anger.

“Why won’t you pick up your phone and—”

My phone vibrates in my hand. I check the caller ID and hit
Accept.

“Blake! Oh my God, are you okay?” A shallow sob bursts from my
throat.

“Shhh, Mouse, I’m okay. Are you?” There’s a tired panic to his
voice that pinches my heart. “I just charged my phone and saw all the missed
calls. Is it the baby?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine . . .
 
I just want to hold you.” Another sob.

“Fuck, I want that too. I’m so sorry I didn’t get in touch
sooner. Brae taking care of you?”

“Yeah, he is, but, Blake, he told me about your dad.”

Silence is followed by him clearing his throat. “You’re lucky you
got the stay-at-home version. The in-your-face version is . . .
unpleasant
.”

“Are you okay?”

“I am. There’s so much I want to tell you, but I want to do it
when you’re in my arms.”

“I’d love that.” I check the digital clock on the cable box. “What
time does your flight leave?”

“That’s, uh . . . what I wanted to run by you. I’m going to stay
the night and come back in the morning.”

Disappointment settles in my gut, and the baby must feel it
because another tightening kick throttles my side. “Oh, really?”

“If that’s okay with you.” His words rush out, letting me know
he’d put his own needs aside in favor of mine. “If you want me home, I’ll jump
on the next flight.”

“No, that’s fine. Just promise me you’re okay. The hardest part
is knowing you’re hurting and that I can’t be there for you.”

“I’ll be okay. I didn’t handle the news well, took off for most
of the day, and now I have so many fucking questions that I don’t think I can
move past all the shit I’m feeling without getting some answers.”

I have so many fucking
questions that I don’t think I can move past all the shit I’m feeling without
getting some answers.

The single line of truth works like a dagger to the chest. Is
that what I need too? Answers that will propel me through the confusion? Help
me to put the past behind me for good?

“I think that’s smart.”
For
both of us.

“Good, thank you, baby. I’ll be home around noon tomorrow.”

“Okay, Blake. I love you.”

“I love you too. Put Brae on the phone for me, yeah?”

I hand the phone to Braeden, who sometime during the conversation
had moved to sit next to me on the couch. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Bro, what’s up?” He drops his head to the back of the couch. “I
know, but it’s not my news to tell.” He regards me for a second. “That’s
different. She was worried about—” He checks the display screen. “Hold
on, dude, Layla’s got another call coming in. I’ll call you back from my
phone.”

He hands me the phone and pulls out his own before stepping out
to the patio to call Blake back, I assume.

As if on autopilot, I look down.

Unavailable.

I don’t think I can move past all the shit I’m feeling without
getting some answers.

I hit Accept.

“Trip. How soon can you get to Vegas?”

He stutters. “I can be there tonight.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Eight a.m. Give me your number, and I’ll
text you the place.”

“Sure, yeah . . .” He gives me the number and I program it into
my phone.

“Got it.”

“Thank you, thank you, Layla. I just want a chance to
explain—”

I hit End before he’s finished and mentally prepare for the
answers I so desperately need.

And hope that the truth doesn’t send my world crashing down
around me.

Fifteen

Blake

I haven’t been able to even look at The General since I
got back from my anger-induced walkabout and opted for sitting outside rather
than risking another confrontation. Although my dad seems to take the hint that
I’m avoiding him and leaves me alone, my mom is oblivious.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out to eat?” My mom is sitting
with me on the back patio.

“No, Mom, I’m not that hungry.”

“You need to eat.” Her voice is so timid, just as I remember.

Before I was dragged off in the night to military school, I
thought my mom and I had a special bond. I thought she was like me, hiding some
secret on the inside to keep it safe while pretending to play the role of perfect
wife on the outside. Boy was I wrong.

She didn’t keep my secrets out of some bond or loyalty to me. She
did it out of fear. Being with Layla has made me see what real strength looks
like, and it has zero to do with muscle mass. True strength comes from resilience,
an inner force that refuses to give up a fight. It comes in packages of all different
sizes, five-foot-three inches of blond and gorgeous with a tongue that can
slice through the biggest men with words or bring one to his knees with want.

Funny how weakness can be disguised by strength. On the outside,
most would consider my father a strong man, but his unwillingness to fight for
his life proves he and my mother are the perfect pair.

“How long has he been sick?” I don’t look over at her but keep my
focus on the small garden across the yard.

“My guess is it’s been awhile. He was having problems but refused
to see a doctor.”

“Hardheaded son of a bitch.” I push two hands through my hair and
lock my fingers behind my head.

“Then when all that happened with you in Las Vegas, he changed.
He made an appointment, and a few test results later . . . well, here we are.”

I tilt my head to meet her eyes. “Changed after Vegas?”

“Mm. He felt bad, I think, for not believing in you.” Her eyes
narrow. “He lives with a lot of regret, Blake.”

“I highly doubt that. He’s hated me from the beginning.”

“No, he hasn’t. He . . .” She turns to the back door, probably
making sure we’re not being overheard, then scoots closer to me. “He sees
himself in you.”

“God, Mom”—I rub my eyes, pressing in on them until I feel
the dull ache in my brain—“don’t say that. You’re confirming my worst
fear by saying that. I’m about to have a baby and make Layla my wife. The last
thing I want hanging over my head is the possibility that I’ll end up like
him.”

“I know nothing I say will convince you, but at least give him a
chance to explain.”

I shake my head, and she leans in closer to catch my eyes.
“Please, just talk to him. If you don’t like what he has to say, you leave
tomorrow and everything goes back to the way it was.”

“Until he dies.” My stomach pinches painfully.

She clears her throat. “Yes, Blake. Until he dies.”

“Fine.” I push up from my chair. “Where’s he at?”

She blinks up at me a few times. “Bedroom.”

I nod and pass by her into the house, heading for my parents’
room. Unease pricks at my nerves as I pass by my old bedroom. Everything looks
almost exactly the same as it did the night I left. The metal band posters are
gone, but the twin bed and dresser are the same.

Reaching my parents’ door, I knock softly even though it’s
cracked. The sound of the local news and the blue light from the television
filter through the gap.

“Come in, Son.” His voice sounds weak, as if maybe I woke him up.

I push inside to find him on his bed, his back propped up with
pillows and a blue blanket over his legs.

“Do you have a second, sir?”

He nods and motions to a chair near his side of the bed before
hitting Mute on the TV. “Feel better after getting some air?”

A slight heat warms my cheeks at his witness to my weakness.
“Sorry I took off.” I tuck my chin and take the offered seat. “I know Mom
worries. I just needed to—”

“Process.” He regards me with an understanding I’ve never seen
from him before. “I get it. Took
me
three months, so . . . yeah, I get it.”

“And now you’ve processed?” My fists clench at my thighs. “Come
to terms with the fact that you’re giving up?” I can’t help the anger that floods
my veins.

He chuckles softly. “Never really thought about it as giving up.
I figured I’d lived a long life. I have no desire to prolong the inevitable if
it means my last few months on this earth are spent bedridden. I want to spend
my time with your mom, with your brother and you, and I’d like to hold my
grandbaby before my time comes”—he drops his chin and smooths his blanket—“if
that’s okay with you.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I force back the emotion and remind
myself that this is not the weakened man who sits before me. This is the man
who smothered me until I couldn’t fight hard enough. This is the man who gave
me something to fight for when I should’ve lived free and easy to do whatever
the fuck I wanted.

“Dad, I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m sorry, Blake. All I ever wanted to do was protect you, and
because of that I lost you.”

“Protect me from what?” I lean in closer, fixing my glare on his
foggy green eyes. “You took everything I loved away from me.”

“I know, but that’s not how I saw it back then.”

“Not how you saw it?” My jaw tenses and I’m spitting words
through clenched teeth. “There’s no other way to see it.”

“What you see, the man I was when you were a growing up . . .” He
sighs heavily and allows a few quiet seconds to tick by. “I wasn’t tough when I
was a kid. When all the other kids were outside playing, I had my nose shoved
in a book. I got teased, beaten up, bullied.”

“You never told me that before.”

“It was a long time ago.” His eyes lose focus and wander away
from mine. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“You’re not proud of being smart?”

“No, I’m not proud of hating who I was, trying to be like
everyone else. I gave up on the books and forced myself into the war games that
the other kids were playing. It was hard, but in the end it made life easier.”
He turns his focused eyes to mine. “I thought I was doing the same for you.”

“You could’ve just sat me down, had a man-to-man.”

He drops his salt-n-pepper eyebrows over a steely glare. “Would
you have listened to me?”

Fuck, probably not. I hated being told what to do, hated who my dad
had become, hid my secret for so long it shoved a wedge between us in a major
way.

My non-answer is my answer.

“By that time I was moving up in the ranks, I was powerful, and”—he
chuckles—“well, none of that matters. Look at me now.” He waves a hand
down his once powerful body, which is now still and exhausted. “Dying gives a
man a lot of time to think on his mistakes. I don’t have a lot of time, but what
time I have I want to spend making this up to you.”

One wet drop escapes my eye, but I swipe at it before it moves
down my cheek. “Make it up to me by fighting. Do whatever it takes to earn us
more time. I can’t put all these years behind us with only a few months.”

“All the treatments take energy, and I’m. . .” A long breath
falls from his lips, and he almost seems to shrink in size. “I’m tired, Blake.”

How do I argue that? I’ve heard cancer treatment is horrific and
without hope of survival it would be a daunting prospect. “Will you at least
consider it?”

He places his hand on the bed closer to me. It’s the nearest he’s
gotten to physically comforting me, and although he’s not even touching me, I
feel it. “If anything has ever made me want to fight, it’s this moment, the
chance to earn your forgiveness.
That’s
worth fighting for.”

“Fuckin’ A, Dad . . .” I rub my eyes and marvel at the change of
events.

So this whole time I’ve been pissed at The General for fucking up
my life, but if he hadn’t done what he did, where would I be today?

My stomach hollows out with the realization. He gave me my fight,
lit a fire so deep in my gut that I’d crawl through hell if it meant holding on
to something I love. My career, Layla, Axelle, everything I have I had to fight
to keep. Holy shit! A wave of gratefulness surges in my chest.

“So.” He clears his throat. “Tell me all about Layla, Axelle, and
my grandbaby.”

Right then it all makes sense.

Everything life throws affects who we become. Different
experiences wouldn’t have brought me to where I am today. I owe everything I
have to the fact that my dad didn’t make things easy on me.

Rather than give him my forgiveness, he deserves my gratitude.