Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) (16 page)

He was a big guy but it wasn't hard to see that he went for the bulk over strength. He was wearing loose track pants and a deliberately tight t-shirt, and several saints' medals along with his gold crucifix.

"No curfew tonight," Riley said easily. "I'm here for Magnolia's dog."

"What dog?" Sac Sweat asked with a shrug. Gronk was still barking.

"Dude," Riley drawled. "Come on. Give me the dog and we'll call it a day."

Sac Sweat flipped him off before crossing his beefy arms over his chest. "I'm not your
dude
, bro, and I don't have anyone's dog. Get the fuck off my porch."

Where the hell is Will?

Riley waved at the door. "We can
all
hear the dog," he said. "She doesn't even want the rest of her stuff back. Just the dog. You can keep the furniture and the flat screen television, and that's awfully generous with you being such a fucking cumstain and all."

"No dog here," Sac Sweat said with a flippant shrug. "Bitch must have me confused with some other guy she was banging."

"Oh, you mean this dog?" Will called from inside the house. He was headed straight for Sac Sweat, and had Gronk tucked under his arm. "We're taking him with us. Where are his toys?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Sac Sweat roared. "How the fuck did you get in my house?"

Will reached out and grabbed his wrist, and within an eye blink, he was falling to his knees and howling in pain.

"You like these fingers?" Will asked. He sounded casual, as if he was asking how he liked his steak cooked. "You wouldn't want these fingers broken, would you? Good, good. Now, get up, you fucking cocksucker, and find the goddamn dog toys."

Will followed him around the house while we stood guard at the door. Sac Sweat produced a grocery bag filled with stuffed animals, rawhide bones, and tennis balls, and Will gestured toward Matt. "Hand them over, to my friend here," he said. "What about this guy's bed? Where does he sleep?"

Sac Sweat kicked an empty case of beer and swore under his breath. "He's a dog. He sleeps on the fucking floor."

Will growled and shook his head, staring at him for a long moment before twisting Sac Sweat's ear lobe. He was on the ground and whimpering again.

"You're some kind of stupid," Will said. "I'm not leaving here without the dog's bed, his food, and his bowl. Nothing would make me happier than to take your ear with me, too. I'll add it to the jar I keep in my basement."

"Okay, okay," Sac Sweat cried. "Fine. I'll get the stuff, you creepy asshole. That bitch wasn't worth this kind of trouble."

"Shut the fuck up," Will said, "or be prepared to complete this task with some broken fingers."

"Guys," Riley murmured, glancing at us over his shoulder. "I didn't realize Will was a
real
badass motherfucker. I'm a little scared right now."

Matt snorted. "You and me both."

Sac Sweat bitched and moaned the entire time, but eventually produced all of Gronk's things. "Hopefully the search for your testicles won't be nearly as complicated as rounding up some fucking kibble," Will said. "What kind of man steals a girl's dog? You have some fucking problems. Get a goddamn therapist. Try anger management. Meditate. And whatever you do, lay off the juice, man."

That sent Sac Sweat on edge, and he rammed his fist against the door jamb. "Get the fuck off my property before I call the cops," he yelled. "My uncle's a State Trooper."

"Everyone's uncle is a Statey," Patrick replied. "And
you
stole a dog from a nice woman. You are the dickhead in this situation."

"This guy's not worth another second," I said. "Let's get out of here."

Will placed Gronk in Riley's hands as he inclined his head toward the SUV, and we backed away from the front porch. "Hey, swamp ass," he called, pivoting on the last step. "I took all your spoons. Have fun with that."

Sac Sweat glowered at us from his door, but didn't respond until we were within feet of the car.

"I knew she was a slut but I didn't think she'd run five dicks at once," he shouted. "Does she charge extra for that?"

Riley stopped, his jaw locked and his eyes narrowed, but didn't turn back.

"You're gonna need to double bag it with that whore," he continued. "Fuckin' trash."

"Are you handling this, or am I?" Will asked Riley under his breath.

Riley shoved the dog into Will's arms, turned, and within two huge strides, was driving his fist into Sac Sweat's jaw.

"Keep talking," Riley said, grabbing him by the front of his shirt. "Let's hear you spew some more shit because all I've wanted to do for the past hour is beat the snot out of your punk ass."

"Someone had to do it," Will said with a sigh. He handed the dog to me before counting to ten and pulling Riley away. "Okay, that's enough. He's already ugly, don't make it worse or he'll keep stealing dogs to get attention from the ladies."

Riley wiped his bloodied knuckles on his jeans. "Don't ever bother her again," he snarled. "I will come back here, and I'll wreck more than your face."

We piled into the SUV, now heavy one Boston Terrier and his belongings, and peeled out of the neighborhood.

"Nicely done, boys," Will said. "It's good to know that you can get your shit together sometimes."

"We really are like the Justice League," Riley said. "Or the Autobots. Or some bigger, better, united version of both."

"How did Gigi hook up with a douche canoe like that?" Matt asked. "She's a pretty girl, and she's smart, and he was…shit, he was a damn fucktart."

"Yeah, she deserves better than an asshole like that,” I added.

From the front seat, Riley shook his head. "Oh, trust me," he said. "She's heard that from me more than once. He made her pay for everything, and then opened credit cards in her name without telling her. And he was a mean little bitch, too. Always saying shitty things to her, and making her feel bad. She believed it would get better, but then something happened, and she finally saw the light."

"What a miserable excuse for a man," Will muttered.

"Awful," Riley said. "Did you really take his spoons?"

"Affirmative," Will said. He shifted in his seat, and pulled a dial from his pocket. Wires hung from it like tentacles, and he tossed it to Riley. "Thermostat, too."

Riley turned it over in his hands. "Teach me your ways," he said, awed.

"We should work with her more," Patrick said with a note of hesitation. Matt and I glanced at each other, eyebrows raised at Patrick's change of heart. "Her gardens are…they're very good."

Riley snorted. "That's what I've been screaming about."

"This guy is no Gronk," Patrick said, a skeptical eye trained on the dog in my lap.

"You're right," Matt said. "He's more of a Jimmy Garapolo."

We drove to Magnolia's aunt's house, where she was staying until she found a new place. It was a charming stone cottage near the shore in Beverly, not too far from Will and Shannon, and the property was with overflowing with rosebushes, crab apple and cherry blossom trees, and—perhaps none too coincidentally—magnolia trees.

When she opened the door, her expression immediately registered shock, joy, and relief, and then tears were streaming down her face. She plucked the pup from Riley's hands and cuddled him to her chest.

"Thank you, thank you so much. Frannie," she called over her shoulder. "Come quick, they found Gronk!" She smiled at us graciously, and then noticed all the dog paraphernalia we were carrying. "You even brought his things! Oh, my God. I can't believe this. I was convinced I'd never see my little boy again, and I don't even know how to thank you."

Will reached into the zipper pocket on his thigh and retrieved a handful of spoons. "These are for you," he said. "I also removed half of the light bulbs in his house, and then jacked the heat up to ninety degrees before disconnecting the thermostat. He's going to sweat his little dick off in the dark tonight, and he's going to be eating his cereal with a fork tomorrow. Seems appropriate."

"Thank you," she said. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble for me. I don't deserve this."

"You didn't deserve that cuntsucker," Riley said. "Us getting Gronk back was nothing, and we'd do it again."

An older woman wearing a sauce-splattered apron appeared, and she shoved her glasses onto her head. "I told you it would be all right," she said. "That dipshit Cole wasn't worth your time, and he was too lazy to do anything to Gronk aside from being a big bully. I told you he wouldn't sell him on Craigslist."

"This is my aunt, Francesca," Magnolia said, gesturing to the woman while Gronk bathed her face in kisses. "You know Riley, and this is Matt, Patrick, Sam—"

"Sam," Francesca cried. "Sam, it's nice to finally put a face to the name. I've heard so much about you."

"I bet you have," I murmured.

Magnolia pointed at Will. "I don't think we've met."

He extended his hand with a quick nod. "Will," he said. "Shannon's husband."

"Right, right. I think I saw you at the Turlan event last winter," she said. "We've been making spicy sausage and peppers today because—"

"—because she was making herself sick with stress," Francesca said, interrupting Magnolia with a wag of her finger.

"Will you stay for a bit? We have plenty, and I need to say thank you about seven million more times, and maybe you can tell me how you busted up your hand." Magnolia nodded toward Riley.

"Thank you, ma'am," Will said, "but it was no trouble."

"Trouble or not," Magnolia said, "I owe you guys."

We exchanged quick glances and shrugs, and Patrick said, "I could eat."

"I have enough for an army, and in our family, we show our love and appreciation with food. You're coming in, you're staying, we're feeding you," Francesca said, and it wasn't up for debate.

N
ovember

"
L
et's do something today
," I murmured.

"And by
do something
, you mean stay in bed. Correct?" Sam asked, his chin scruff scraping over my shoulder. "When was the last time we did that? I haven't had you all to myself in months."

It was true. Since school was back in session and Sam was busy with several new projects, we'd been running in every odd direction, all the time, and we were savoring this one, glorious weekend of relative calm. Riley was out of town with a college friend's bachelor party weekend, and the firehouse was remarkably quiet.

I loved the never-ending family festivities, but I also loved Sunday morning snuggletimes. I was as shocked as anyone to discover that I liked the chaos, noise, and clinically manic levels of over-involvement in Sam's family, but I'd always assumed big, bossy families made a habit of kicking their own to the curb. That wasn't how the Walshes rolled, and now I understood that.

"You can have me all to yourself at the movies," I said. "Or that new brunch spot, the one that puts a fried egg on a donut."

"Oh, that's right up my alley," Sam groused. "But I'll remind you, we can also stay in bed all day. You've been so freaking busy that you're too tired for anything more than me eating your pussy. I haven't had a proper blow job in three months."

I sat up, suddenly concerned. "Are you mad?"

Sam scowled, shaking his head. "Of course not. You love having a million things going on at once, and I love that every one of those things makes you happy. I have no idea where you are at any point in the day because your schedule is too complicated for me to follow, but blow jobs are a small price to pay for your good spirits."

I rolled my eyes. "Your poor, neglected cock."

He lifted up the blankets, nodding between his legs. "You're welcome to make amends."

I
leaned
against the bathroom counter while I brushed my teeth, bringing my face close to the mirror, and ran my finger over my upper lip.

The fine, dark hairs always appeared above my lip every month or so. Ellie always said it wasn't particularly noticeable and I shouldn't stress about it, but I noticed. I always envied the women who had only a light dusting of peach fuzz on their arms, and the ones who could go entire weeks without shaving their legs and not look like a gorilla.

The girlstache wasn't bad, but keeping it in check was half the battle. Reaching into a drawer for the crème bleach treatment, my eyes landed on an unopened box of tampons. I remembered exactly when I bought them because I grabbed some chocolate-covered marshmallow pumpkins in anticipation of my premenstrual chocolate requirement, and then commiserated with the cashier about the Halloween festivities starting in early September these days.

It was the middle of November now.

Nope, nope, nope. Not happening. It's just not happening.

I dropped the toothbrush and darted into the bedroom for my phone, ignoring Sam's curious gaze as I snatched it off the side table. He was still tucked into the blankets and sheets, shirtless and scrolling through
The Boston Globe
on his iPad. I didn't need to see the tablet to know; it was his weekend routine.

With the door shut behind me, I pulled up the fertility app on my device. I'd stopped marking my basal body temperature every morning, and I was long past monitoring my cervical fluid, but I still tracked my periods.

My hands were shaking, and I kept tapping the wrong icon.

"It's nothing," I murmured to myself. "Nothing at all. No reason to freak out."

When the calendar finally opened, I scrolled through October, September, and August, and then back over each month as if a string of red dots would magically appear and scold me for daring to think that it'd happened for us.

Even without that damn tea recipe from my great-grandmother.

Pushing away from the door, I returned to the drawer with the bleach and tampons. Nestled far in the back was a package of pregnancy tests, one that I'd picked up last winter when I was a week late. Fate was kind enough to wait until I'd gotten home from the pharmacy for the unmistakable cramps to start low in my belly. I'd shoved the box away, out of sight, allowed myself some pity and chocolate.

I tore the box open, tossing aside the directions and grabbing one of the test sticks with trembling hands. "It's going to be negative," I said, shoving my sleep shorts down. "Totally negative."

When I was finished, I set the test on a shelf and washed my hands while humming Lupe Fiasco's "The Show Goes On," all while pretending I wasn't going a little crazy waiting for three minutes to pass. The hopeful anticipation was the worst. Those milliseconds, when visions of baby blankets and little toes and being someone's
mother
stretched on like small eternities, flashed over and over until I started believing it could be real.

I wanted to know, but I didn't.

At the end of the last chorus, I lunged for the linen shelf. I was working so hard at bracing myself for another negative that I didn't trust the double plus signs or the big, bold letters screaming "pregnant."

"False positive," I murmured, dumping the remaining tests on the countertop.

I peed on four more sticks, and watched with a combination of shock, confusion, and terror as every single one registered the same result. Lined up on the countertop, they formed a low roar of "pregnant, pregnant, pregnant, pregnant, pregnant."

It wasn't clear how long I stood there, staring at the tests with my fingers pressed to my lips, but I jumped out of my skin when Sam called, "Everything okay in there?"

I opened the door and leaned against the jamb, my arm banded under my breasts. He was still in bed, still shirtless and sleep-rumpled, and I smiled.

"What?" he asked. He patted the empty space beside him, his eyes a little drowsy, a little heated, a little hungry. "What's the smile about?"

I pulled my lip between my teeth. "I think I'm, uh," I stammered. "I think I'm pregnant. I think we're having a baby."

Sam shot up, his tablet clattering to the ground and the blankets pooling at his waist. His gaze went from Sunday morning sexy to serious. "What? What do you mean? I know, but what—or, when? How long? Are you sure? I mean—"

"Eleven weeks. Maybe twelve. I don't know exactly. I must have lost track," I said. I pointed over my shoulder, toward the bathroom. "I'm not sure but I just took five tests and they're all positive and I think…I think we're having a baby. But it's still early. Anything could happen."

Sam vaulted out of the bed and towed me into the bathroom. I watched as his eyes raked over the row of positives. He turned to face me, his expression at once soft and wild, and he brought his hands to my cheeks.

"Tiel," he whispered, his lips pressed to my forehead. His hands shifted to my shoulders, down my arms, and settled on my waist. He dropped to his knees, pushed my t-shirt up, and ran his palm between my hips. His eyes were bright, and it wasn't until that exact moment that I felt the gravity of all those double positives. "Will you ever stop surprising me?"

"It was a surprise to me, too," I said. I dragged my fingers through his hair and canted his head to meet my eyes. "It's still early."

"Don't do that." Sam wrapped his arms around my waist, his face pressed to my belly. "It's early, but it's not
that
early."