Crushed (Breaking the Rules Series Book 5) Read online

  Gross. Just thinking about Pepper—also known by her real name, Elizabeth—and my brother fucking makes me want to puke.

  “Fine. Tell Pepper to wait. Andi isn’t well, man. She doesn’t need this right now. I know you two are excited, but please, I’m begging you, don’t tell my wife.” When I turn back to him, he’s frowning at my words.

  He nods in agreement, though, and begins to retreat. “I hope everything works out with this baby, Jackie. The new assistant, Dena, should be here any minute.”

  After he shuts the door, I call Andi for the second time this morning. This time, she picks up.

  “Hey, babe,” she answers softly.

  “How’s your morning?” I ask as I mess around on my website. Carl and I have worked our asses off on this thing over the years, and I think it looks pretty awesome.

  “Not good. I don’t feel well. I’m really craving chicken fried steak with gravy and mashed potatoes,” she sighs.

  I smile. She’s been lacking in the appetite department and eating only bizarre healthy shit, so this seems like improvement.

  “I’ll bring some from Papa’s Diner for lunch.”

  She’s already telling me no before the words are even out of my mouth. “That’s not necessary. Just because it sounds good doesn’t mean it’s good for the baby. I’ll just make an egg salad sandwich and have some hummus.”

  Not this again. I still don’t know what the fuck hummus is. “One meal isn’t going to kill you, Andi. I’ll get a side of steamed broccoli so you won’t feel as bad. You should eat what you’re craving.”

  Her exhalation is loud and irritated. This is a conversation we have practically daily. “It might not kill me, but it could kill the baby.”

  I bite my tongue. I want to yell and tell her that I read the fucking books too and nowhere did it say that chicken fried steak was detrimental to the health of the unborn baby. Instead, we sit in silence for several moments before I speak again.

  “Have you called any of the girls? Opal? My mom? Maybe you should go to lunch with one of them—to one of those vegan places you love. I could call Mom and send her over. You know she would enjoy your company.”

  I know the answer though. She’s in one of her moods. These moods of hers drag her into an unknown territory—a place I don’t know. Pepper used to say that Andi had “dark days” when she and Bray broke up. It looks like I’ll be calling my best friend Pepper later.

  “No. I told you I wasn’t feeling well. I think I’ll just take a nap. I’ll talk to you on your lunch break.” Her tone is dismissive, and I feel like she’s about to hang up on me.

  “Fine.” I hate the clip in my voice.

  “Fine.”

  Have we reached this moment in our marriage? Where all we ever do is fight? All I want in life is for her to be happy, and I can’t fucking figure out how to make that happen for her.

  The moment we hang up, I slam my phone down onto my desk and crack the screen. “Fuck!” I roar as my office door flings open.

  We need to visit Dr. Sweeney. Again. As much as that shrink gets on my nerves, I know we are overdue for a session. I can’t do this alone—I need his help.

  “What did that phone ever do to you?” a sassy female voice asks.

  My eyes fly up to the culprit who walked into my office unannounced. I raise my eyebrow in irritated question.

  “I’m Dena. You must be Jackson. Your reputation precedes you,” she says with a grin.

  My eyes asses my newest assistant before I reward her with an answer. She’s tall, maybe even a little taller than Andi. Her long, dark-brown hair has been curled into relaxed waves that hang down in front of her shoulders. Wide, brown eyes twinkle as she watches me size her up. In another life, I’d have thought she was pretty—gorgeous, even—but not this life. In this life, my heart belongs to Andi.

  “First rule. Don’t come in unannounced. I could be in here with my wife.” I say the last word with heavy insinuation. I don’t want her getting any funny ideas.

  She rolls her eyes—fucking rolls her eyes at me—and I see red. Who the fuck is this chick to come waltzing in here like the Queen of fucking England?

  “Calm down, killer. If we’re going to work together, you’re going to get one thing straight. I’m here to help you. And if helping you means coming into your office when I need something, I’ll do it. If I know your wife is in here, I’ll make sure to knock first.” Her hands are on her hips, and she has a dark brow raised—as if she’s daring me to challenge her.

  Fucking Jordan and his lame-ass hiring abilities.

  “Don’t call me killer. Did Jordan show you how to log into your computer and check my e-mails?” I question snippily.

  She rolls those eyes again and I nearly fire her on the spot. When she waves a stack of papers in her hand, I look at her in confusion. With a sigh, she waltzes over to my side of the desk and slaps them down in front of me on my desk.

  “What’s this?” I demand. I’m unnerved by her proximity with her standing so close to me. Do people not understand the meaning of personal space? She and Jordan must get along beautifully. They probably had a Kumbaya moment in the conference room and braided flowers into each other’s hair.

  “That, killer, is your e-mails for the day. They are in order of importance. The top one could wait, but since he was so damn insistent, I moved him to the top just to get him out of my hair. And what in the hell is that?” she laughs.

  This girl is making me fucking insane.

  My eyes follow hers to my computer screen, and I’m about three seconds from dragging her out of my office. “None of your business,” I reply with a growl.

  She chuckles. “It should be. Your site is fugly.”

  Fugly. My hand twitches to send Jordan an SOS text.

  “My site is badass, actually. Carl and I have worked for years on this thing,” I snap. I’m irritated as hell that she’s making fun of my baby.

  “Lucky for you and Carl, I can help you. Totally fixable, killer. When you get a minute, I’ll tell you what needs to be done. I have a minor in web page design—and your web page is in desperate need of my help.”

  What a smug-ass bitch.

  Does it really look bad? Damn Carl and his canned website he bought for ten bucks.

  “Jordan doesn’t pay you to work on my website.” Just leave my office already.

  Shaking her head, she pins me with her pointed stare. “Does Jordan pay you to work on Harry Potter stuff?”

  The fucking nerve of this woman! “Out! Your ass is fired!” I roar and point to the door.

  Her eyes go wide with shock but only for a moment. Soon, she bursts into laughter that has my anger fleeting. She’s a lunatic.

  “Ha! You really had me going there for a minute. I have real work to go do. Holler when you get tired of your website looking like Dweeby Potter made it from his momma’s basement.” She giggles like a madwoman all the way out of my office.

  Turning my eyes back to my screen, I gape in horror. My site was made by Dweeby Potter from his momma’s basement.

  Who is this girl?

  She’s about to make my life fucking miserable.

  “Swing by Papa’s Diner on the way home,” I tell my driver, George, while I wait for Pepper to answer the phone.

  On the third ring, she picks up. “What?”

  “Hey, bitch face. I heard you’re knocked up again,” I laugh. My laugh is hollow though. I’m joking with my wife’s best friend, who hates my guts—the feeling is mutual—but nothing about this is a joke. It’s my reality, and it’s fucked up.

  “Fuck you, Jackson. Did you call to rub it in that I’m still packing ten pounds from Molly and that asshole couldn’t be bothered to wear a rubber so now I’m going to gain another thirty or forty pounds? You win, Jackson. I’ll forever be a bloated whale because of your brother. Now, what do you want?”

  Pepper. Always a joy.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

  The line goes silent. Argui
ng with Pepper is the norm. But I don’t have time for bullshit right now. I need to fix my wife.

  “Shit!” she hisses under her breath.

  She knows. The only thing that could put an argument on hold between her and me would be if Andi is in trouble. Pepper knows her better than anyone.

  “Dammit, Jackson—Andi can’t go back there. What’s going on?” she demands. One would say that she sounds angry but I recognize the fierce need to protect her oldest friend.

  “I know. I’ve tried everything. Dr. Sweeney can’t get her to take any meds now that she’s pregnant. She quit a couple of days ago. And now . . . Now, she just wants to sleep all day and not do a damn thing. I’m not asking her to clean the fucking loft—I’m asking for simple shit like to go shopping with you or have lunch with my mom. She refuses. She never feels well. All she wants to do is protect the baby by living in a damn bubble!”

  I want to punch something, but George will piss his pants if I knock out the window of the car he totes me around in. Even though I bought the damn thing, he acts like he owns it. After he married Mom a few years ago, he thinks he can give me fatherly lectures—and busting the window out would most definitely ensure a lecture.

  “Should I call her?” she asks. Her voice breaks, and I can hear the emotion. If the Ice Queen cracks, shit is bad.

  “No. Please, God, no. In fact, don’t tell her you’re pregnant. I don’t think that will help a damn thing right now. What I need is advice. How did you help her during those dark times? She’s hurtling there fast, Pepper.”

  She sighs loudly into the phone. “Be persistent, Jackson. Tell, don’t ask. I know you’re an ass, so that should be easy. If you give her choices, she’ll always choose the easy way out. Pull her out of her comfort zone. Give her happy moments to replace the sad ones. Be there for her. That’s all I can say. I’ll send Opal’s skinny ass over there for a surprise visit too.”

  Sensing her worry, I grunt my understanding. “I can’t lose her, Pepper. This pregnancy is killing the Andi I know. Without her, I’m fucking nothing.”

  It’s the truth. Andi came bouncing into my life and healed my broken heart. She was always a ray of fucking sunshine in my unhappy life. I need her like I need air.

  I can’t lose her.

  “You totally have this, Jackie. Now, go get my girl back.”

  Eighteen Weeks Pregnant

  I’m freaking the hell out. Earlier, when I was on the miscarriage support group site, a woman said that her pregnancy was fine until she drank a cup of coffee. Coffee! I’ll have Jackson throw it all way when he gets home. Another lady said that she started spotting after sex. That one made me want to throw up.

  Sex is our thing. Sex has always been our thing. If we take that out of the equation, what are we?

  What about the baby?

  The baby is more important than sex. We’ll just have to deal for five more months.

  “Baby, I’m home. I brought dinner,” Jackson’s voice booms from the living room.

  I snap the laptop shut and slide it between the bed and the nightstand. He’ll be furious with me if he finds out I was reading those stories again.

  “I’m in here,” I call out to him. My hair is a wavy mess from having let it air dry after my shower last night. I’m still in my nightgown. I don’t even know if I brushed my teeth today.

  When his broad frame enters the doorway, I bring the blanket to my chin and look over at him innocently. Immediately, though, he’s onto my game.

  “What are you doing?” His voice is full of suspicion. He knows.

  “Nothing,” I lie, which earns me a glare from him.

  He stalks over to my side of the bed and plants a kiss on the top of my head before disappearing into the closet to change.

  I’ll have to tell him. Most importantly, I’ll have to tell him about the lady who had sex and later miscarried. We can’t take any chances.

  “Jackson,” I holler. My voice is shaky. Unsure.

  “Yeah, babe?”

  We can’t have sex. “We need to talk.” Rubbing my palms across my face, I suppress a whine. I really don’t want to have to tell him this, but it needs to be said.

  “Can we talk over dinner?” he asks as he emerges from the closet, looking good enough to eat in a pair of loose jeans and a fitted, black T-shirt.

  No. “Yes, of course.” I’d rather tell him now, but I’m too much of a wussy. How will ten more minutes make a difference?

  “How was your day?” he murmurs as he approaches my bedside.

  I chew on my lip. “Terrible.” That’s not a lie.

  He sighs and cups my cheek with his warm hand. “Why was it terrible?”

  My tears blind me for a moment, and I shake my head. Leaning down, he presses a long kiss to the top of my head again. I want to slide my hands around his neck and hold on for dear life. Things feel warmer, safer—happy, even—when he’s around. I need his strength.

  “I’ll get supper ready. Come out when you’re ready.” After a sweet stroke of his hand through my hair, he leaves me.

  The tears roll down my cheeks and I choke back a sob. What am I doing? Jackson loves me. He’ll understand.

  Sliding out of the bed, I swipe my tears away and then pad out of the room. I find him in the kitchen dishing out food from containers onto plates. While he’s busying himself with his task, my heart aches. That man does everything he can for me. I love him so damn much.

  I walk up behind him and slide my arms around his waist from behind. Even after a full day at work, he smells so good. I’m lost in his scent—in the sweetness that is him—until it hits me.

  Another smell. A smell so delicious that I want to scream.

  “How could you?” I hiss as I wrench myself away from him.

  He looks over his shoulder at me in confusion. My eyes flit over to the white gravy dripping from the spoon and I burst into tears.

  “Babe—”

  “No! I told you I couldn’t eat that toxic shit and you brought it here anyway. What is wrong with you?” Tears angrily stream down my face, and I practically run back to our bedroom. Then I slam the door behind me and flip the lock.

  Never have I locked my husband out before.

  Never.

  Why would he do that to me?

  My stomach growls. It’s angry at him for teasing me.

  A pound on the door makes me jump. I scamper over to the bed and crawl back under the covers.

  “Goddammit, Andi! Open the fucking door!” Another beat of a fist on the door.

  “No! You knew I couldn’t eat that shit, yet you brought it home anyway. What are you trying to do to me?” My voice is so high pitched that I barely recognize it. Who am I?

  “Andi, baby, open the goddamn door. Now.” His words are soft yet somehow so powerful.

  “No.”

  Another slam of a fist to the door.

  And then silence.

  A loud sob escapes me. Did he leave? Jackson, please don’t leave me.

  Seconds later, I hear a clinking noise—metal against metal.

  “Jackson Compton, don’t you open that door!”

  He ignores me as he sets to jimmying the doorknob with what sounds like a screwdriver. After only a minute or two, the door handle falls to the carpet with a thud and the door swings open with a crack against the wall.

  I turn my head away from him and stare at our thick, cream-colored carpet as he storms over to me. I expect anything from him—anything but what he does. Jackson should yell or throw something. My Jackson doesn’t cry, and he certainly doesn’t crawl onto the bed, yank the covers away, and bury his head into my lap while begging me to let him help me.

  Who is this man?

  Who am I?

  “Andi, please,” he cries and hugs my waist tight.

  Tears shamelessly fall down my cheeks. There’s something about when your husband cries that rips your heart right in two. I’ve lost seven babies. Seven. Not once did he shed a tear. Yet now, when we’re th
e furthest along in a pregnancy, he bawls his eyes out, soaking my nightgown with his tears.

  Doing what feels right, I slide my fingers into his hair and massage his scalp. My instinct is to comfort him. The love of my life is broken. How do I fix him?

  We hold each other for minutes. Or an eternity. Time disappears. It’s just him, me, and our unborn baby. Together, we fiercely clutch one another—neither of us making any moves to let go. Jackson is my forever.

  After his tears disappear and all that can be heard are the ragged breaths each of us take, I finally speak.

  “You should have brought a chicken salad,” I joke. It sounds fake, but my words are meant to lighten the mood.

  He laughs softly. “Remember that time Jordan arrived with takeout and forgot the slice of chocolate meringue when Pepper was pregnant with Mia?”

  Now, it’s my turn to giggle—and it’s real. “Oh my God, I thought she was going to claw his eyeballs out.”

  He props himself up on his elbows and lifts his head up to look at me. His eyes are still red from crying. He breaks my heart.

  “Andi, you just had a Pepper moment.”

  I gasp in shock. “I did not!”

  Chuckling, he eases me backwards as he climbs to cover my body. Heat floods every inch of me, and my flesh burns where he touches me.

  “You did. It’s a good thing I love you,” he teases with a chaste kiss to my lips.

  Once I’m settled on my back, he sidles in next to me on one elbow. His dark eyes devour my face as if he will suddenly unlock the mystery of life and I’m holding the key. I innocently blink at him. Nothing makes sense to me. Just him.

  His lips dip down to mine again, and he kisses me with a love so fierce that my heart physically aches. When his hand palms my cheek and slowly trails down along my jaw and to the side of my neck, I whimper. Then he continues to kiss me reverently as his hand reaches my sore, much larger breasts. From experience, he knows to be gentle. Delicately, he teases the flesh through my nightgown with his long, firm fingers.

  Those fingers. I want them on me. Inside me.

  “Jackson.” My voice is a ragged plea against his lips as his hand continues the journey over my slightly swollen belly and then down farther. I’m not supposed to want this. The website said—