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“Contraction?” Kettle asked in concern.
“Yes,” I panted as the pain ebbed, allowing me to breathe once again. “Jesus, these Braxton Hicks ain’t no joke!”
I had already been to the hospital twice in the last two days, and both times, they’d sent me home because I wasn’t experiencing real contractions, but Braxton Hicks.
If these were the fake contractions, they’d have to be administering that epidural at the check-in desk. I’d already threatened Kettle with a gelding if he got me knocked up again. There was no way in hell I could go through this twice. The last nine months had been pure hell.
Morning sickness. Motion sickness. Light sickness. Husband moaning sickness. Anything I could have, I did. Gall bladder attacks. Kidney stones. Allergic reactions to something I’d never been allergic to before. You name it I had it.
And don’t even get me started on the fucking stretch marks and how my body no longer responded to my will. I’d peed on myself more times from sneezing in the past nine months than I had my entire thirty years of life.
Pregnancy really had a way of making you humble.
“Alright, well if they get worse or closer together, let me know. It was nice seeing you Heather.” Kettle said absently.
“Amanda,” she corrected, not caring in the least that Kettle had called her by the wrong name.
“Sorry, Angela. Have a good rest of your day.” He said before pulling me by my hand out the door.
I got a wave in just before the doors closed. “Tiago, you butt head. You damn well knew her name!” I absently slapped him on the ass.
He grinned at me. “Yeah, so?”
I rolled my eyes, and then laughed as I came up on the scene going on in the back of Kettle’s truck.
“Hey! You guys better be taking my truck to the car wash tomorrow!” He yelled as we came to a stop beside Baylee who had a hold of Blaise’s hands.
“Is it working?” I asked.
Baylee snorted. “Yeah, it surprisingly works better than a shower. Why do you have so many cokes in your truck, Kettle?”
Sebastian moved into the bed of the truck as he poured yet another bottle of Coke onto Blaise’s back and answered the question. “Kettle has a craving for Coke. He doesn’t like to run out.”
I would’ve replied, but the wind picked up, blowing sand through the air, which I inevitably inhaled.
Then sneezed.
Then promptly peed all over myself.
“Mother fucker!” I yelled as my hand went down to my crotch.
I held on for dear life as I crossed my legs. “It won’t stop!” I yelled as it continued to pour down my legs. “Oh, my God! It’s like a waterfall. What do I do? What do I do?”
At the time, I didn’t find it the least bit funny.
There I was, standing in the middle of a packed Chili’s parking lot, while I watched two of my best friends in the world pour Coke over their child, all the while I leaked all over my clothes, Kettle’s boots, pants, and the side walk.
It wasn’t until Kettle grabbed my face and made me look into his big blue eyes that I finally calmed down enough to realize that no woman in the world could hold that much pee, let alone a pregnant woman who had a bladder the size of a shot glass.
“I think my water broke,” I whimpered fervently.
Kettle nodded, eyes serious, as he put his hand to my tummy. “Any contractions?” He asked as he looked down at my belly, and then further to my legs.
“No,” I said just as I was slammed hard with a contraction that stole my breath.
He looked down at his watch and calmly timed it as my eyes crossed. “That one was four minutes thirty seconds after the one you had inside. Think it’s time to get you to the hospital.”
They say that first labors take hours. Even days.
