LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) (22 page)

A large part of Sarah’s unhappiness came from knowing that her role was going to be replaced. Despite her insistence that she was looking forward to being a mother, I could see that she was regretting missing out. Not all the time, but enough to make her terse with me.

Sometimes I felt that even when I breathed, it irritated her.

Sometimes I could feel the darkness inside me, inside her, like a destructive force

I was the one who’d stolen away her smile. And I hated that.

She yelled at me. A lot.

Frustrated, I yelled back.

“Am I doing anything right?”

She cringed, but then her eyes turned flat and blank.

And I realized.

Sarah loved the fantasy of being in love. She didn’t love me, not really. And when the cracks started to show, she actively widened them, day by day.

I didn’t know what to do.

Beverley finished her number at the end of the first act, and the audience clapped and cheered. We were used to it, but it never got old.

I stood with the rest of the backup dancers, our chests heaving with the effort of running and dancing for 45 minutes. Sweat was pouring from my body, making it glisten under the spotlights.

As we ran off stage, leaving Beverley to her ovations, I saw Kathryn gesturing urgently from the wings.

“Luka! I’ve had a call from the hospital. Sarah has gone into labor.”

I stood staring at her, my brain refusing to accept the information.

“She can’t. She’s only 30 weeks. It’s too soon.”

“Just get over there,” she said, shooing me toward the changing rooms.

“But we’re in the middle of a show,” I said, my brain still not connecting.

“Just go!” she said again. “We’ll be fine.”

Finally, finally, my brain kicked into gear. The baby was coming and it was far too soon.
Too soon
.

I yanked a ratty t-shirt over my head and didn’t bother to change out of my costume, still covered in sweat, and wearing leather-look pants, thick stage makeup, and my hair gelled into spikes.

I grabbed my gym bag, not even changing out of my Latin shoes as Kathryn pointed to the rear exit.

“There’s a taxi waiting for you. Good luck!”

The cab driver was in a chatty mood.

“Where to, guv?”

“Royal Free Hospital, Maternity Wing.”

“Right you are. Don’t you worry, mate. I’ll get you there. Your first, is it?”

“Yes.”
Stop talking!

“I remember when my missus had our first kid. Felt like I was having one meself. Cor dear, what a racket. I hope you’ve got a strong stomach, son. Nasty business.”

My fingers drummed on my thighs and my body felt tight and restless. We were stuck at traffic lights. It seemed as if they’d never change to green.

“Want my advice?”

No
. “Sure.”

“Say yes to everything she asks, and feed her chocolate.”

“While she’s in labor?”

I was stunned. In Slovenia, women weren’t allowed to eat while they were giving birth. I think. How the hell did I know that?
Did
I know it, or was I imagining it?

“Just have some ready. It could be a long night.”

Maybe that was a good idea. Sarah had been going crazy for Snickers bars. Once at 3AM, and I had to find a convenience store that sold them.

He dropped me off right at the entrance to the maternity wing.

“All the best, son. Don’t forget the chocolate.”

This was it. I was about to become a father.

My hands were shaking as I sprinted inside, breathless with nerves, my accent so strong that the receptionist could barely understand me.

I took a deep breath and explained again who I was.

“My girlfriend Sarah Lintort is here. I got a call that she’s gone into labor.”

She took another look at my weird get-up and her lips thinned. And it was only when I noticed the strange looks I was getting from the nurses and one of the porters, that I realized I must be a bizarre sight, sweat-streaked and covered in makeup. Plus I was so hyped, that they probably thought I was on crack. I knew I looked as though I’d come from a club, or maybe an orgy, and I’d left Sarah to give birth alone.

Or maybe they were just used to guys like me—fucking terrified.

I was nearly crazed with anxiety as the receptionist took forever to look it all up on her computer. Thank God I was on Sarah’s list of approved visitors, along with Seth, the bitch of a mother, and Jess, one of her girlfriends. Otherwise, I’d have been out on my ass.

The receptionist finally found a nurse who could tell me which room Sarah was in and what was going on.

“The midwife was with her now, but she’ll be ready to go home once the doctor has seen her.”

“Home?”

The blood drained from my face and my voice came out in a strangled squawk.

We weren’t ready for a baby. I hadn’t put the crib together, hadn’t bought the stroller Sarah wanted, or the bouncy-chair-thing that I couldn’t even remember the name of. We weren’t ready.
I
wasn’t ready.
It was too soon
.

She must have seen the panicked look on my face.

“It’s just Braxton Hicks—she’s not in labor.”

“The baby isn’t coming?”

“Not yet. You’ll be able to take Sarah home soon,” and she pushed open a door to one of the birthing suites.

Sarah was sitting up in bed, tearful and pissed off.

“God, Luka! I phoned the theater over an hour ago! What if it had been real? I’d have been having our baby all alone.”

The nurse gave me a quick smile and left the room.

“I got here as soon as I could.”

Sarah bit her lip as her eyes scanned over my makeup and stage costume.

“Shit, I know. I’m sorry. I was seriously freaking out. Seth wasn’t answering his phone, and Mum was at her Bridge Class. She’ll be here soon.”

Great, just what I needed.

“I can take you home as soon as you’ve seen a doctor.”

“I know. They told me.”

I reached out to take her hand, but she snatched it away from me, wiping her tears and smudging her mascara even more. We sat in silence, neither of us knowing what to say.

A moment later, the door swung open and Mrs. Lintort bustled in, followed by a harassed looking doctor.

“Darling, how are you? Thank goodness you called me. You shouldn’t have been all alone,” and she shot me an evil look.

I ignored her and turned to the doctor.

“You’re sure it’s a false alarm?”

“Yes, completely sure. This is very common. It’s unnerving for a first-time mum, but if it happens again, just check the timing. If the contractions don’t get closer together or feel stronger over time, it’s unlikely that she’s going into labor.”

“So I can take her home now?”

“Her blood pressure is a little higher than we’d like, but that’s probably just the stress. We’ll keep her in for an hour or so and see how she does.”

She smiled at Sarah, who was staring up at her, eyes huge and scared, her body seeming frail and small beneath the swollen belly.

A surge of protectiveness rushed through me. She was carrying our child. I had to make sure she was safe. I had to make her
feel
safe.

The doctor gave us more reassurances and then left us alone.

“You look ridiculous,” Sarah’s mom began immediately. “Can’t you wear some proper clothes?”

“He came straight from the theater, Mum,” Sarah said wearily.

Mrs. Lintort pressed her lips together. “I’m here now, darling. I’ll take care of everything.”

Sarah burst into tears, sagging against her mother’s chest.

I felt useless and ridiculous as she’d said. I left them alone while I found a bathroom to wash off the makeup and change out of the leather pants and into sweats.

I didn’t know how to deal with it. I wasn’t used to parents who gave a damn, and Sarah’s hormones were making her crazy. Half the time she was climbing all over me, and the rest of the time she was yelling at me or pushing me away. I didn’t know what she wanted, couldn’t get a read on her. Sometimes she was really hard to love.

But our baby—the love I felt for the blip on a screen, the daily signs of a new life growing in Sarah’s belly—I knew exactly how I felt about her, and exactly what to do. I’d be in her life, and no one was going to stop me.

Working out what kind of life that might be . . . yeah, that was the hard bit.

As I walked back into the birthing suite, Sarah was being helped into a wheelchair, her expression sheepish and defiant all at the same time.

Mrs. Lintort huffed until I stepped out of the way.

“I’m taking Sarah home with me,” she said. “She needs someone who can look after her properly.”

“Is that what you want?” I asked Sarah.

But she closed her eyes and wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m so tired. I’m just so tired.”

I stood in front of the wheelchair, forcing Mrs. Lintort to stop.

“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked Sarah, pulling her hand into mine.

“I . . .”

“Why would she need you?” sneered Mrs. Lintort.

“I’m speaking to Sarah,” I snapped back.

“God, just . . . stop fighting, please!”

“Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”

I stood aside, watching Sarah’s shoulders slump in defeat, half disbelieving what I’d seen, what I’d heard. Where was my ballsy, fun-loving
buča
? I didn’t recognize her, and I didn’t know how to reach her.

But I had to try.

I didn’t reply to the last statement because if I said what I thought about her mother . . .

“You don’t have to go to your mother’s. I’ll look after you.”

I ignored the snort of disdain that made Mrs. Lintort sound like the sow she was.

Sarah shook her head sadly. “You have a matinee tomorrow. You’ll be gone all afternoon and evening, and . . . I just . . . I don’t want to have to think.”

I stepped back from her, feeling the growing distance between us.

“Whatever you want, Sarah.”

Her mother shot a triumphant look and wheeled her from the room. Neither of them looked back.

I punched the hard hospital mattress, frustration pouring from my body. And then I went back to an empty apartment, wondering why I was staying in London.

Why?

SARAH STAYED WITH
her mother for three days before she came home.

I was packing a suitcase when she opened the door and walked in.

“You’re leaving me?” she asked, her tone bewildered and sharp.

I turned to meet her worried gaze.

She looked tired, with dark rings around dull eyes, her hair lank and lifeless.

I turned back to my packing.

“I’ve taken five days off. I’m going to Chicago.”

“Without telling me? Were you even going to leave a note?”

Her voice became increasingly shrill with every word that left her angry mouth.

“Yeah, I was going to leave a note,” I said sarcastically. “Since you haven’t returned any of my calls or messages for the last three days.”

Her lips pinched together and she lowered herself into a chair.

“I just needed a time-out.”

I raised an eyebrow as I met her gaze. Seven months of working seven shows, six days a week, with a couple of understudy calls in the mornings, as well, was grueling. Especially coming right after a six-month European tour with
Slave.
And having only one day off a week to cram in chores and seeing friends, particularly if they have day jobs—it’s tough. Mondays always went by far too quickly, but the joy of a great part in a great show with a great cast is a gift, and I wasn’t going to complain about it. But a time-out from everything else sounded pretty good to me, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quieter now and edged with guilt. “I know how hard you’ve been working. But I was so tired and confused. It’s really scary,” and she clasped her hands over her stomach. “Mum thought I’d be better off not having to worry about anything for a few days.”

“And now you’ll have another five worry-free days,” I stated, aware it was a shitty thing to say.

She gasped, and I braced myself for the tears that usually followed.

“I can’t believe you’re going to leave me,” she said bitterly. “For a whole week!”