Page 14 of Property of Shotgun

My fingers fumble as I try to tie the robe. Another contraction slams into me, and this time my legs buckle from the pain. I try to catch myself, but my reflexes are compromised by the pain, and all I can do is brace my palms against the tile as I fall to my knees.

A feral groan rips from the back of my throat.

Call for Legend.

Get to the phone.

Call 9-1-1.

Save my baby.

The blood seeps through my robe as I crawl out of the bathroom, and I scratch the first thing from my list. I can’t let my boy see me like this. He’ll be terrified. I barely make it five feet, before I collapse, and roll onto my back, clutching my stomach. Sanctioning whatever strength I can muster, I crawl into my bedroom. I spot the phone charging on the nightstand.

Just a little more.

Five, maybe ten feet.

Please, God. Please.

I need to save my baby.

I don’t know why I brought God into it. He’s failed me every time, and he fails me now.

FIVE

SHOTGUN

Hand to God,I don’t know how the hell Irish put up with her. The woman is infuriating. She’d rather fucking have someone deliver her a gallon of milk, then ask anyone for help. Forget me—would it have fucking killed her to open her front door and ask Fuckface to go to the supermarket? She didn’t have trouble sending him to Target when she thought I bought Legend something and forgot about Raiden.

I slam the loaf of bread on the conveyer belt a little too hard, earning me a look from the cashier.

“Sorry,” I mumble as I continue to unload the cart.

I don’t even know if she needs these things. Nor do I know if the kids are allowed to eat half the snacks I picked out—all of which are probably loaded with sugar and those dyes everyone swears are poison, but when I called Fuckface to check in and he told me that all was good, except for the fact she had Instacarted a gallon of milk, I lost my fucking shit.

I grabbed the keys to the cage, and now here I am, grocery shopping at ten o’clock at night like I have a family of ten to feed.

“That’ll be three hundred and sixty-three dollars.”

I stare at her for a beat. What the fuck did I buy?

Shaking my head, I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and hand her my credit card. My gaze falls to the groceries. Am I supposed to bag them myself?

I’m about to ask her just that when my cell phone rings. Biting back a curse, I retrieve it from my kutte. Without bothering to glance at the screen, I accept the call and lift the phone to my ear, propping it up with my shoulder as I start throwing all the groceries back in the wagon. I guess bags are a luxury Shoprite doesn’t offer anymore.

“Hello?”

“Uncle Shotty?”

Instantly my body goes still, and I feel all the blood drain from my face. There is no good reason for Legend to be calling me at this hour, and I can hear the fear in his voice.

“Legend, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Mom,” he mumbles, his voice quaking. “I heard her scream. It sounded like she was in pain. I know I’m supposed to be the man of the house now, but her bedroom door is shut and I’m to afraid to go inside. I knocked and she didn’t answer.”

The poor kid is rambling. Without asking the cashier to give my credit card back, I abandon the groceries and sprint for the door. She calls out for me, but I ignore her.

Fuck the card.

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