Marital Bitch (Men with Badges)

Chapter TWENTY FIVE

(Colleen)

Do you want a girl or a boy?

"YOU HAVEN'T PUT this many hours in since before you got married," Tim says from the door to my office. He lets out a yawn and rubs his eyes.

"Yeah," I respond and sit my pen down. I've been working on a game plan for the upcoming trial for hours now and yet nothing has come of it. I lean back and yawn, which causes Tim to yawn again. "It's getting late," I say, "You should go home to your wife."

"And you should go home to your husband," he smiles. I clear my throat and check the digital clock on my desk; it reads 9:30 p.m. Brad will be here any minute.

"Actually," I smile, "he's coming to pick me up. He should be here soon."

"He's picking you up?" Tim asks with raised eyebrows.

"He's working on some case that's shot his nerves. He just doesn't want me out at night alone," I nod. Tim rubs his chin in contemplation; most likely sizing himself up as a husband in comparison. Even when he’s being a shit, no one really compares to Brad.

"Well, one thing's for sure-- he must really love you," Tim says, throwing a wink in for good measure.

"You'd think," I mutter under my breath. My cell phone buzzes, signaling a new text message. It's Brad. He's pulling up to the building. "Well, he's here," I say, standing and collecting my things in my brief case.

"Have a good night, Colleen," he smiles. I shake my head and laugh at him. For a forty-year-old seasoned attorney, he still busts his ass like when he was a baby lawyer. "You go home and enjoy what's left of your night. I have a few more hours to put in." I nod and brush past him.

"Ah come on, Tim," I look back and grin. "Daddy owns the firm. Cut yourself some slack." He walks up beside me and thumps my shoulder with the prescription glasses in his hand.

"That is the reason I can't cut myself any slack," he says and walks away. "Go home, kid, your husband's waiting for you." I walk down the hall and get into the elevator, still smiling. It's a relief to have Tim back from the D.C. office where he had been transferred to on a temporary basis for the last six months. I don't feel so alone here now; stuck with just The Toad and his diaper-wearing imbecile father.

Downstairs in the lobby, the feeling of calm leaves me. Brad’s truck—which he has unfortunately named Sweetness—is parked in the fire lane right out front and he's gotten out; standing on the other side of the locked doors, waiting for me. Sheesh. I want to run out there and shake him and ask him why he insists on doing this if he thinks of me as just a friend. I can get home without incident. As he so kindly and continuously likes to point out—anyone who kidnaps me is in for an ordeal. He is entirely convinced that my abductor would return me within the hour.

I swipe my I.D. badge to unlock the door, and then walk out. He doesn't smile at me, he just places his hand on my lower back and escorts me to the truck. This is the most contact we've had in over a week.

It's Friday now, and he's come to pick me up all week since I've been putting in fifteen-hour days: getting off usually no earlier than 9 p.m. Monday and Tuesday nights he didn't look at me, either, nor did he place his hand on my back. It was the same with Wednesday, but at least then he opened the door to the truck for me. Thursday night he gave me a sad smile. Tonight, I don't even get that; and I don't even know what I did that was so awful to deserve any of it. All I know is that he's angry with me; but he won't talk about it, and by Tuesday I was tired of pressing him to open up.

Brad normally has no issue telling me what I've done to piss him off, but this silent treatment is faintly reminiscent of The Heather Incident and that scares me. Deep down I had a feeling he would never truly get over that, and maybe he never will.

The whole thing used to make me a little sad. It's been years and he has yet to really move on from it. I used to wish that he could just get over it and we could erase the whole incident from memory. But I get it now. If I saw him with someone else, I'd lose it, too. He really loved Heather and I messed that up for him.

A tear slips from my eye and I try to wipe it away without notice. He scoffs. I look over to him and he's shaking his head. "What the f*ck are you crying for?" His lack of sympathy or even general regard for my emotional well-being sends me over the edge and I break out in a full cry. "Crap," he grumbles.

"I'm sorry," I say. Since he's barely speaking to me, I decide to take the floor. "I'm so sorry about the whole Heather thing. I am! I am!" I sob, turning into a blubbering mess. I don’t even know where this is coming from.

"Don't!" he shouts, startling me. "Don't you f*cking go there!" He grips the steering wheel tightly, his face reddening. I ignore him and continue. Fighting with Brad is far better than being ignored by Brad.

"I know I can't take it back and I'm sorry for that! I have no excuse!" I scream. "But at some point you have to forgive me or not. There can't be an in-between anymore." I cover my face with my hands.

"You? You!" He barks an angry laugh. "You have no clue how shitty it is to follow you around like a lost f*cking puppy, just waiting to be pet and then shoved aside when something else interests you!" My stomach churns at his words. One moment, I feel a little light headed and the next I can feel my dinner making its way up.

"Stop the car!" I panic as the intensity of my queasiness skyrockets.

"She's not a car, Colleen," he chastises, not even looking away from the road.

"Stop the damn truck!" I yell, my arms stretched out before me on the dash. Still he doesn't look over.

"Why!" he snaps, "for what goddamn reason should I stop the truck?"

My line of vision goes fuzzy and I can't make out the road in front of us. I dry heave once and my stomach calms. But the peace doesn't last. I take two deep breaths and then expel my dinner onto the floorboard.

"Oh, shit," Brad says, startled. He slowly pulls over and puts the truck in park. "Baby, are you going to get sick again?" he holds my hair back away from my face. His free hand is rubbing my back in the most soothing manner. I shake my head.

"I told you to stop the truck, you imbecile," I groan and wipe my mouth. This is so disgusting.

“I wish I had listened to you. Poor Sweetness,” he says. Sweetness? Poor Sweetness? Seriously? Even the truck gets more sympathy than I do. And only Brad would name his damn truck Sweetness. Really? I kick the floorboard and find myself disgusted when my own throw up sloshes around my shoe. I dry heave again, this time opening the door and into the fresh air.

“Disgusting,” I hear him mutter from behind me as he holds my hair and tries his best to soothe me, which isn’t saying much. He fishes around and finds a water bottle for me. I gulp its contents down quickly and lean back inside the truck—stupid Sweetness—catching my breath.

“Is it something you ate?” he asks nervously. I shrug my shoulders and close my eyes. It probably is. I haven’t thrown up in years. “Or do you think you could be pregnant already?” I feel one of his hands graze my stomach before he pulls it away quickly. My heart flutters and my cheeks redden at his impulsive action. I like his hand there. It feels so intimate.

Pregnant? I think that over for a moment. Is it too soon? It’s probably too soon, I reason. But God, I sure hope so. Another flood of images of rowdy little boys flood my mind and warm my heart. I want to have Brad’s baby.

"How long's it been since, you know, anyway?" he asks. I brace myself against the dash and shoot an incredulous look his way. Is he really trying to ask how long we've been having sex for? He begins to blush under my stare. Brad. Blush? What? Well, this is new.

"You mean how long we've been bumping uglies for? You mean how long we've been f*cking for? You mean--" and he cuts me off.

"Don't be crude, Colleen," he chastises me, a smirk playing on his lips. The hell? Really? He is telling me not to be crude? Oh, for the ever loving-- "and it’s not bumping uglies," he says, interrupting my internal banter. "It's bumping pretties." I roll my eyes.

He starts up the car and rolls down the windows. "Let's go home, you disgusting thing, you. I don't think my poor truck can take any more of your particular brand of abuse."

"Anyway," I grumble, "I don't know how long it's been. We'll have to look at a calendar."

We get home and to my surprise, Brad comes around to my side in a flash and opens up my door. He offers his hand, which I happily accept, and he helps me out. We walk in and I leave my disgusting shoes just outside the door, and rush up to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

"So, should I go buy one of those things?" Brad asks, sneaking into the bathroom behind me. Despite having brushed my teeth, I can still smell the puke on me so I decide to shower. I undress in front of Brad. I notice he's paying attention to my now naked body as opposed to my face. I take a small bit of pride in the fact that I can cause a physical reaction out of him, judging by Mac's suddenly obvious presence.

"Would you?" I ask. He nods, his eyes focusing on my bare breasts. I'm still on the fence about whether or not I think he thinks of me just as a friend; so I do what any red-blooded woman would do, I try to seduce him to find out. My right hand finds its way to my right breast and begins to gently rub my nipple. Brad gulps, his eyes never leaving my chest. In a not-so-genius move on my part, I try to roll my nipple between my fingers but my nail gets in the way and before I know it, a biting pain shoot through my nipple and I swear on all that is Holy, I think I'm having a heart attack.

"What the hell are you trying to do!" Brad shouts, rushing toward me. The tears flow freely down my face.

"Trying to seduce you!" I cry, unabashedly. His body shakes with laughter but he's careful to keep as quiet as possible.

"You don't have to try, pretty girl," he whispers as he gently massages my battered nipple. He kisses my forehead and smiles. God only knows what the hell he's smiling about.

"I'm going to take a bath," I say with a sigh. I feel better under his touch.

"And I'll go pick up that thingamajig," he grins.

"Hey, pretty boy," I say as he walks away. He looks back, still grinning.

"What's up, pretty girl?"

"Do you want a boy or a girl?" I ask. His entire face lights up.

"What do you want?"

"On three," I say and he nods.

"Boy," we say in unison. And we're both standing there like love-struck fools. At least I hope we are. I know I am.

"Don't you ever tell James this, but I'm really glad I had a big brother," I admit sheepishly. He laughs and walks back over to me.

"As the middle child, and only boy; I can promise you that having an older sister sucks," he admits. Now I'm laughing along with him. "But really," he says, his voice softening, "a little girl like you would be pretty cool." I sniffle at his words, tears threatening to spill; and I'm really damn sure now that I'm not just his best friend.