Her Two Billionaires and a Baby(BBW Menage #4)

Chapter Seven

Wah wah wah wah 345 wah, Somerville, Dylan heard, his ears ringing as he sat up fast, the cold night air hitting his bare chest when the down comforter slid to his waist. The dispatcher's words sounded so familiar.

When she repeated the address again, his blood ran cold. Then the words: multi-unit fire.

If you had told him even a year ago that he could move that quickly, shove on pants and boots and a jacket, be down God knows how many sets of stairs and out the door and in his car in less than two minutes, he'd have told you were a fool.

Tonight? Not tonight, though, because that was Laura's address the dispatcher just announced, followed by the words multi-unit fire. Blood pumping hard, he fumbled for his phone (thank God it was still in his pants from yesterday) and as he peeled out of the garage he tapped through his Contacts list to Mike.

Multi-unit fire.

Weaving across two lanes, he sped to her place, the drive inching by so slowly. The dashboard clock read 3:11 a.m. Shit. Mike might not answer. Mr. New Age sometimes turned the damn phone off for peace and serenity and all that shit that he'd surely left behind the last time Dylan saw him. Please let him answer. Please don't have blocked him.

Please.

Multi-unit fire.

“'Lo?” Mike's voice. Dylan shot through a red light and prayed, making a sudden turn on a one-way street that might buy him an extra minute. Or kill him. Either chance was equally possible.

He put it on speaker. “Laura's apartment is on fire.” Not the time for preliminaries.

“WHAT!” Mike's voice went up an octave.

“Sorry to be so blunt. Get over to her apartment. You remember where it is?”

Mike's voice had a weird quality to it. “Oh, yeah. I do. Just – shit! Just save her, Dylan.” Click.

Multi-unit fire.

Ask for so little, Buddy. He took a right so hard he thought the Audi might flip, but damn if that fine European engineering didn't come in handy when you're doing 77 mph on Mass Ave. If a cop saw him, he was toast.

No cops yet.

Two minutes.

Multi-unit fire.

In a multi-unit fire, two minutes could mean death. Block that thought, Dylan, his mind shouted at him.

One minute. He heard sirens, ears perked, discerning the direction. Going away from her part of town. Damn it! He might beat them all at this rate. He shot through four different stop signs, hoping like hell no one was walking an unleashed dog in the middle of the night, and slammed on his brakes, halting in the middle of an intersection, running for her building.

Smoke poured out of the basement windows. F*ck f*ck f*ck. That could make the first floor – literally, the floor itself – a structural nightmare, depending on where the actual fire was. Firefighter mind battled with his lover's (ex-lover's) mind and love won out as he sprinted up the steps and felt the front door using the back of his hand. Cool.

Red lights and his all-too-familiar siren sound caught his attention, the truck making its slow turn. “Stanwyck!” someone shouted. Murphy. Dylan waved as felt the locked doorknob, then kicked in the door. A mother with two teens ran past him, followed by a young woman, college-age, carrying a cat and dragging her bike.

Laura. His mind raced, plotting out the scene. No heat – yet – but tons of smoke. Crouching, he found clear air on the ground and began feeling his way to her front door. Just feet away, he felt it; cool. Locked.

“Thank God,” he muttered, two bodies moving past him as he heard the steady thump thump thump of fireman making their way cautiously upstairs. A loud clanging from below; a different crew was sourcing the fire, figuring out the focal point to work on containment and the level of danger.

Kicking in his second door in less than thirty seconds, his heard the splintering of the threshold, bent down again and shouted “Laura!”

No answer. Some memory gnawed away at him, how horrified she'd been (but had tried to hide it) when he'd mentioned fire safety in her building on that first date. Her unease, a pained look in her eyes. Fear? A victim?

Bullhorn. Dylan couldn't make out the words he heard outside, but he knew the crew worked to remove everyone from the building. He guessed six units, but it could have been more. As he crawled through the tiny apartment he felt a wave of adrenaline, then gratitude, that she lived in such a small place. Finding her would be easy.

But what if you find her dead? a voice crept in. He shoved it away and felt, hand by hand on the wall, along the perimeter of her place. Living room, kitchen, no dining room, a bathroom, and then – bedroom.

“Laura!” The smoke was rising up through vents in the floor, especially near the forced hot water heaters against each wall. As he moved, eyes closed, he cursed himself for not grabbing a mask. Stupid stupid stupid, violating ten years of careful work. Emotions put people in jeopardy, Joe had taught them, and now he was caught in his own emotional turmoil, the blaze endangering them both.

Mike would kill him if he couldn't save Laura. He half blamed Dylan for Jill's death anyway, irrational as it was. If something happened to Laura...

Something brushed against him, too small to be human. Cat? She had three cats, right? In the darkness he coughed, then shouted her name again, the cat long gone. “Laura! It's Dylan!”

“Dylan?” a little voice cried out. Left. It was to his left. Moving away from the wall, he violated what he'd been taught, disorienting himself. The bed, thankfully, was close. Instinct surged within him as she came into view, huddled under the covers, two cats guarding her.

“Get off the bed now, Laura,” he ordered, steel in his voice. The cats scattered. She was trembling and likely half in shock.


“I can't,” she mewled. How could a grown woman's voice be so tiny? Something was off, but this wasn't the time for psychology. He stood, grabbed her, and pulled her off the bed roughly. No time to be kind. Her body fell in a funny way, more awkward and bulkier than he expected.

“You can and you will,” he said gruffly. The smoke was thicker now above, and he could feel the heat from below. They had a minute here, maybe two.

“Stanwyck!” someone shouted. Murphy. “You in there?”

“Back bedroom. One female. Still conscious. I got her.” His arms were on her shoulders and she was struggling to stand.

“Don't stand. We have to crawl out now. The smoke is too thick.”

Murphy shined a bright flashlight in the room, illuminating what little could be seen in the two feet above the floor. “This way out!” he shouted. “Two minutes, max!”

“The cats! And grandma and grandpa!” Laura cried, trying to stand and walk toward Murphy. He could see her shins and knees and then nothing – grey.

Yanking her hand, hard, he made her fall. “The cats are probably outside by now. Don't stand!” he warned, nearly growling. “Follow me!” Fear made him a lousy leader. And what did she mean by “grandma” and “grandpa”?

“Are your grandparents here, Laura?”

“No!” she wailed. “They diiiiied.” Her voice took on a keening tone and she began to rock. Oh, shit. No time for this.

“Crawl!” he ordered. Murphy started toward them on all fours, the line of light bobbing and weaving in his hand.

“I can't! The baby!” She sat on her ass and began what looked like an agonizing crab walk, her ass dragging.

Baby? Baby?

Murphy's flashlight ray landed on her belly in that instant, illuminating a very obvious mound. She was pregnant? A zing of every emotion he'd ever felt, from joy to agony, flashed through him.

Grabbing the covers off the bed, he thew them on the ground and spread them out. “Get on,” he barked. Somehow, her addled state cleared enough for her to comply.

“Murphy! Help!” he begged. Crawling, he dragged Laura a few feet using one hand. The hardwood floors were a godsend right now. “Clear the way – remove the area rugs!”

“Done!” the gruff man shouted.

Two more pulls and Dylan barely had her in the living room. He was doing this wrong. Murphy came in and planted himself in front of Laura.

“I'll pull, you push,” Murph suggested. Within seconds they had it figured out, blind and coughing, freeing her into the hallway which was blessedly more clear. Dylan stood, slid his arms under her, and ran out into the fresh air, hefting Laura delicately.

“Here!” A paramedic from a nearby ambulance company waved him in. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mike, then Josie, but couldn't say anything as Laura coughed and mumbled.

“Shhhh,” he said as he laid her down on the gurney. “Twenty-nine year old caucasian female, pregnant. How far along are you, Laura?” he asked.

“Nineteen weeks.” Her voice was getting smaller, her breathing more labored. Shit – how much smoke had she inhaled? He could see Mike and Josie trying to come over, a cop behind yellow tape blocking them, Mike arguing and gesturing wildly.

Then Josie slipped under the tape and sprinted, screaming “She's pregnant!” Mike's arms stopped in mid-air, his face agog. Dylan would have to deal with him later.

“I'm so sorry,” Laura rasped. “I was about to tell you, but...”

Dylan kissed her forehead and smiled, sniffing as he cried tears he didn't know he was capable of. “It's complicated,” he whispered.

She choked out a very weak laugh and said, “It's always – ” before losing consciousness.

Mike broke past the cop and shouted “Laura!” as the paramedics worked on her, loading her into the ambulance, Josie seamlessly climbing in for the ride. “Brigham” she mouthed to him as the lights turned on, the sirens roared, the back of the ambulance shrinking, then turning left, out of sight.

Of course they would take her to Brigham and Women's Hospital. That's where all the high risk pregnancies –

Fingertips touched his soot-covered arm tentatively. “Dylan? Is she – ” Mike stood there, wild-eyed and shirtless, flip-flops on his feet and running shorts thrown on. He'd clearly raced here from the cabin. How did he get here so fast?

“She's breathing. They're taking her to the Brigham. How'd you get here so fast?”

“I'm at a meditation retreat here in town.” He shook his head impatiently. “The Brigham? Why would they take her there? You always said that's where...” Mike's voice faded out. “Oh, holy f*ck.”

Dylan slipped to the ground, his own body coming into sharp focus. Lungs were a bit wheezy, his body covered in black, feet floating in sockless boots, brain hurting. “She's pregnant, Mike. Nineteen weeks.”

“That means – ” Mike sat down next to him, elbows on knees. “We gotta get there. Now.”

One of the firefighters shouted “Clear!” and Dylan knew from the response that he wasn't needed; so many guys were here he'd just get in the way now.

“Yeah, we do. Can you drive?” A lump formed in Dylan's throat at the simple request, so casual and assumed, like old times.

Mike looked down at his attire. It was November. “Can we stop by the apartment and let me grab something? Or – ” Mike's question carried so many layers of meaning. Four month's worth.

Maybe a lifetime's worth.

“Yeah. Sure. I'll drive, then, and park the car at home.” They walked quietly toward the street until Mike grabbed Dylan's arm. “Hey, Dyl?”

“What?” Exhaustion was creeping in. He didn't have it in him to argue.

“I'm so sorry.” The embrace was the last thing he expected. And then – “Thank you for saving her.”

“Them.”

Mike pulled back, confused. His face cleared and he raked his hair, shaking his head. “Them. Right. Hoo boy.”

“Hoo boy? Hoo girl?” Dylan responded, the knee-jerk joke so inappropriate he cringed. Couldn't turn it off, even in crisis.

Mike's answer came as an afterthought as the two split to their respective vehicles, both running, seeming to communicate without words. “Who knows?” he shouted, the joke capturing Dylan's heart and carrying him forward, hopeful, as they raced to their future.