Twisted (28 page)

It’s unreal. The adoration. The worship that’s so overwhelming,

it almost hurts to look at him. I mean, I love Kate—more than my

own life. But that took time. I
gradually
fell in love with her.

This . . . was instantaneous. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I

knew I’d gladly jump bare-assed into a pool of battery acid for him.

Insane, right? And I can’t wait to teach him things. Show him . . .

everything. Like how to change a tire, and sweet talk a girl, how

to hit a baseball, and throw a right hook. Not necessarily in that order.

I used to make fun of those guys at the park. The dads with

their strollers and goofy smiles and man purses.

But now . . . now I get it.

Kate’s voice pulls me from my baby gazing. “hey.”

She sounds worn out. I don’t blame her.

“how are you feeling?”

She smiles sleepily. “Well . . . imagine peeing out a water-

melon. ”

I flinch. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

her eyes fall to the pale-blue-blanketed bundle in my arms.

“how’s the little guy?”

“he’s good. We’re just hanging out. Shooting the shit. I’m tell-

ing him about all the important things in life, like chicks and cars and . . . chicks.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

I look down at our son. And my voice is awed. “You did such

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a great job, Kate. he has your eyes. I love your eyes—did I ever tell you that? They were the first thing I noticed about you.”

She cocks one brow. “I thought my ass was the first thing you

noticed?”

I laugh, remembering. “Oh yeah, that’s right. But then you

turned around and just . . . blew me away.”

The baby lets out a sharp squawk, capturing our attention.

“I think he’s hungry.”

Kate nods and I pass him over. She undoes the clasp of her

pajama top, exposing one ripe, juicy breast. She brings the baby

close and he latches onto her nipple—like an expert.

Did you expect anything less? This is my son, after all.

I watch them for a moment. Then I have to reach down to

adjust the tent pole that’s sprung up in my pants.

Sick. Yeah—I know.

Kate throws me a smirk and glances toward my crotch. “Got a

problem down there, Mr. Evans?”

I shrug. “Nope. No problem. Just looking forward to my turn.”

See—there’re two kinds of women in this world: The ones who

figure if they can’t get any below-the-waist action for six weeks after giving birth, neither can their guy. Then there’s the second group.

The ones who look forward to those hand jobs, blow jobs, and then

some—because they know the favor will be returned when the ban

is lifted.

Kate definitely falls into the second group. I know this, and

apparently so does my cock.

“After the massacre you witnessed in the delivery room? I didn’t

think you’d ever want to have sex with me again.”

My mouth falls open. In shock.

“Are you frigging kidding me? I mean, I thought your cunt was

magnificent before, but now that I’ve see what it’s really capable of?

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It’s reached superhero status in my book. In fact, I think that’s what we should name it.” I lift my hands, envisioning a giant billboard.

“Incred-a-Pussy.”

She shakes her head. And smiles down at the baby. “Speaking

of naming things . . . we should probably come up with one for

him, don’t you think?”

Kate and I decided to wait on the name game until after the

baby was born—to make sure it was a good fit. Names are cru-

cial. They’re the first impression the world has of you. That’s why I’ll never understand why people curse their kids with labels like Edmund, or Albert, or Morning Dew.

Why don’t you just cut to the chase and call the kid Shit head?

I lean back in the chair. “Okay—you can start first.”

her eyes roam the baby’s face. “Connor.”

I shake my head. “Connor’s not a first name.”

“Of course it is.”

“No—it’s a last name.” In my best Terminator voice I say,

“Sarah Connor.”

Kate rolls her eyes. Then she says, “I’ve always liked the name

Dalton.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“O-kay. Colin.”

I scoff, “No way. Sounds too much like ‘colon.’ They’ll be call-

ing him Asshole the minute he steps foot on the playground.”

Kate looks at me incredulously. “Are you sure you went to

Catholic School? It sounds like you grew up in juvie hall.”

Life is one big school playground. Remember that.

Wolf-pack mentality. You need to learn early how not to be the

weakest link. They’re the ones who get eaten. Alive.

“Since you don’t approve of my choices, what do you suggest?”

she asks.

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I look at the sleeping face of our son. his perfect little lips, his long dark lashes.

“Michael.”

“Uh-uh. In third grade, Michael Rollins threw up all over my

penny loafers. Whenever I hear that name I think of regurgitated

hot dogs.”

Fair enough. I try again. “James. Not Jim or Jimmy—and sure

as shit not Jamie. Just James.”

Kate raises her eyebrows. And tests it out. “James. James—I

like it.”

“Yeah?”

She looks down at the baby again. “Yes. James it is.”

I reach into my back pocket and pull out a folded piece of

paper. “Fantastic. Now for his last name.”

She’s confused. “his last name?”

We’ve talked about using Brooks as the middle name. But let’s

be honest—the only people who use a middle name are serial kill-

ers and pissed-off parents. So I came up with something much

better.

I put the opened paper on Kate’s lap.

Take a look.

BROOKS-EVANS

She looks up, eyes wide with surprise. “You want to hyphenate

his name?”

I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. I think women should take

their husband’s last names. Sure, it comes from the idea that a

woman is property. And no, I don’t agree with that. In the future, if some punk comes along and implies that he
owns
my niece—I’m gonna buy him a shovel.

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So he can dig his own grave before I put him in it.

But technically speaking, Kate is the last of the Brooks. Name-

sakes don’t mean as much anymore, but I have a feeling it means

a lot to her.

“Well . . . he’s ours. And you did do most of the work. You

should get half the credit.”

her eyes soften as she reminds me, “You hate to share, Drew.”

I push some wayward hair behind her ear. “For you, I’m will-

ing to make an exception.”

Plus, I’m banking on the fact that one day soon, Kate’s last

name will match our son’s.

Of course, Kate deserves the best proposal ever—and the best

takes time.

Planning.

It’s in the works right now. I’m taking ballooning lessons on

Saturday afternoons, when she thinks I’m playing ball with the

guys. Because I’m going to take Kate on a private hot-air balloon

ride to the hudson Valley. There’ll be an elegant picnic ready for us when we land. And that’s where I’ll pop the question

That way—on the outside chance Kate actually turns me down—

I’ll have her in a totally secluded area until I can change her mind.

Genius, right?

I’ll have a limo waiting nearby—but not too near—to drive

us back home, so we can sit back and relax on the way. And have

limo-sex, of course. You should never pass up the opportunity to

have sex in a limo—it’s always fun.

Kate’s eyes are shiny with tears. happy ones. “I love it. James

Brooks-Evans. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

I lean forward and kiss our son’s forehead. And then I kiss his

mother’s lips. “You’ve got it all wrong, baby. I’m supposed to be

thanking you.”

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She looks down at James tenderly. And in that voice that could

make an angel green with envy, she starts to sing.

There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway

A song that they sing when they take to the sea

A song that they sing of their home in the sky

Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep

But singing works just fine for me

So good night you moonlight ladies

Rock-a-bye sweet baby James

Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose

Won¹t you let me go down in my dreams

And rock-a-bye sweet baby James

There’s only a few times in a guy’s life that he’s allowed to cry

without looking like a total chump.

This is one of those times.

When Kate is finished, I clear my throat. And rub the wetness

from my eyes. Then I climb onto the bed beside her.

I’m pretty sure it’s against hospital policy, and I admit, some of those male nurses look pretty fucking intimidating.

But come on—they’re
nurses
.

Kate turns toward me, so James lies between us. My arm lays

over him, my hand on her hip, encircling them both.

Kate’s eyes are velvety warm. “Drew?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you think we’ll always be like this?”

I give her a small smile. “Definitely not.”

And then I touch her face—the one I plan on looking at every

morning and every night, until death shows up to drag me away.

“We’re just gonna keep getting better.”

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So there you have it.

how’s that for a happy frigging ending, huh? Or beginning . . .

I guess . . . depending on how you look at it.

Anyway, now’s about the time I start spouting off some pearls

of wisdom.

Advice.

But given the events of the last year, it’s become increasingly

obvious that I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. I don’t think you should listen to anything I’ve said.

You still want me to give it a shot?

Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

here goes:

Number One—people don’t change. There’s no magic bullet.

No bibbidi-fucking-boo.

What you see is what you get. Sure, certain habits can be

tweaked. Reined in. Like my propensity for making snap judg-

ments. The very idea of assuming I know everything—without

checking with Kate first—now makes me sick to my stomach.

But other characteristics, they stick.

My possessiveness, Kate’s stubbornness, our collective com-

petitiveness—they’re too much a part of who we are to be totally

eradicated.

It’s kind of like . . . cellulite. You ladies can spend all day at the spa wrapped in mud and seaweed. You can throw a fortune away

on those ridiculous creams and scrubs. But at the end of the day,

that puckered, dimply skin is still gonna be there.

Sorry to be the one to break it to you; it’s just the way it is.

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But if you love someone,
really
love them, you take them as is. You don’t try to change them.

You want the whole package—cottage cheese ass and all.

Number Two—life isn’t perfect. Or predictable. Don’t expect

it to be.

One minute, you’re swimming along in the ocean. The water’s

smooth and calm; you’re relaxed. And then—out of nowhere—an

undertow sucks you down.

It’s what you do next that counts. Do you give it all you’ve got?

Kick for the surface, even though your arms and legs are aching?

Or do you give up and let yourself drown?

how you react to life’s twists and turns makes all the differ-

ence.

So Number Three—the important thing is, if you can make it

through the rough, unexpected times? That light at the end of the

tunnel is worth all the shit you had to wade through to get there.

That’s something I’ll never forget. I’m reminded of it every

time I look at Kate. Every time I look at our son.

When it’s all said and done? The payoff is way more than fuck-

ing worth it.

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Turn the page for a sneak peek

at how Kate and Drew’s best friends

handle falling in love

in Emma Chase’s next book

Tamed

COMING SOON FROM GALLERY BOOKS

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I pull on a pair of silk boxers, then heat up a bowl of leftover

pasta and chicken with marinara sauce. I’m not Italian but

I’d eat this every frigging day of the week if I could. It’s about eight thirty by the time I finish washing the dishes from dinner. Yes, I am the man who washes his own dishes.

Be jealous ladies. It’s understandable—I’m a rare breed.

I flop back on my awesome, king-size bed, and grab the Golden

Ticket from the pocket of my discarded pants.

I finger the letters on the bright green cardstock.

DEE WARREN

ChEMIST

LINTRUM FUELS

And I remember the soft, smooth flesh that swelled from