Page 77 of No First Kisses

My hands fall to my sides, and I let him stare as long as he wants.

That drive has given me exactly what I need from him.

Time to plan.

Going into labor isn’t part of that plan, but I have to adjust.

He comes closer, and we really are touching at that point. I have no choice. I have to move. It is either that or something bad is going to happen. I watch the shift in his eyes and know I don’t have enough time to try and convince him.

“I know you’re a slut, just like she was. But I don’t fuck pregnant bitches.” He lifts his hand and runs it down my bruised cheek, pressing into the cut in a mockingly caring move.

But he takes his eyes off mine, and I smile.

My fingers tighten around two pieces of metal.

The knife slides into my stomach at the same time I have what I need.

When did he get a knife?

My right hand comes up faster than my left, because it isn’t holding the heavier item, and I hit him under the chin with every single ounce of rage and pain I am feeling.

The gun in my left hand is pointed at center mass, the exact same way I’ve practiced for years on the range.

Blood, teeth, and snot fly out of Ortega’s face. He goes down harder than I did when he pistol-whipped me earlier.

Knowing not to get too close to him, I step back and double-check to make sure the gun is loaded. One hand on my stomach, pressing into my side to keep the blood from pouring out, I groan as white spots dance in front of my eyes.

I have to take my hand off my wound when I can’t get the clip out one-handed. Blood immediately starts leaking out.

“Holy mother of pearl.” I groan as another contraction hits, and the two types of pain merge into one.

I don’t stop checking the gun, though, as I breathe through the pain.

When I realize he used the entire magazine, I scream in frustration. “You piece of shit.” I keep the clip out but pull the trigger just to make sure it is empty. Yes, I have it pointed right at him, just in case there is a shot left.

Then I throw it onto the ground, out of reach, and pull off the sweater I put on that morning, pressing it into my stomach.

Through the pain, I stare at the bloody mess on his face. “I think I broke your jaw.”

Not the words I really want to say while I’m in labor, and not the person I want to say them to, but I don’t really have much of a choice, do I? Especially since I have a knife wound in my stomach.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t groan.

Doesn’t whine or cry about being hit by a girl.

When his chest doesn’t rise or fall with any breath, I know I’ve done more than just knock him out.

“This is great,” I say to no one in particular. “Just fuckin’ great.”

Another contraction hits, this one less than five minutes from the last, and I start to panic.

I stare at Ortega, wondering if there is any chance he left the keys in the ignition, but I know better.

Carefully, or as carefully as I can move since I’m in labor and can barely function, I get close to him.

His eyes are staring straight up, and I flinch without meaning to. I start crying, unable to stop the tears, not knowing why I’m crying in the first place. Managing to kneel down, I check his pockets, coming up empty for a phone or keys.

---