Twisted(63)

She looks at me, totally straight faced. “I’m having a baby, Drew—I’m not dying.” Then her eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, I’m not dying, am I?”

And that’s all it takes to snap me out of my panic.

“No, Kate. You’re not dying.”

She nods. “Okay, then. And just for the record, I love you too. I love that you’re funding Mackenzie’s future because you won’t stop cursing. I love how you tease your sister unmercifully but would kill anyone who hurt her. But most of all . . . I love how you love me. I feel it every moment . . . every day.”

I walk up to her and cup her cheek. Then I lean over and softly kiss her lips.

She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. And then her jaw tightens with determination.

“Now, let’s do this thing.”



Turns out all the worrying was for nothing. Because at 9:57 this morning, Kate gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. And I was right next to her the whole time. Sharing her pain.

Literally.

I’m pretty sure she broke my hand.

But who cares? A few broken bones don’t mean much—not when you’re holding a seven-pound, nine-ounce miracle.

And that’s just what I’m doing.

I know every parent thinks their child is adorable—but be honest—he’s one good-looking kid, don’t you think? A patch of black hair lays smoothly on top of his head. His hands, his nose, his lips—looking at them is like looking in a mirror. But his eyes, they’re all Kate.

He’s exquisite. Perfection made flesh.

Granted, he didn’t come out looking like this. A few hours ago, he bore a strong resemblance to a screaming featherless chicken.

But he was my screaming featherless chicken, so he was still the most beautiful f*cking thing I’ve ever seen.

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 watermelon. ”

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 telling 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 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? 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-*.”

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 crucial. 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.