Due At The Same Time

Indi (Chapter 9)

(DISCLAIMER: this is a rough and not edited story, also THIS STORY MAY BE TRIGGERING TO ANYONE WHO HAS EXPERIENCED INFERTILITY)

Seven years ago. . .

My fists clenched in determination, I stared down the bulldozers as they moved slowly toward me.

The rest of my Save Applewood Nature Park group had skittered out of the way when the development team brought in the trucks and bulldozers to scare us off.

But I wasn’t budging. Even though there was a huge lump of fear in my throat, I was determined not to leave until they backed down.

A huge crowd had begun to gather: nosy neighbors, picnickers, bikers, and TV reporters, all of them flicking eyes between the development guys in ill-fitting suits and me.

If I left right now, they’d start work on the new golf course and the oldest park in town would be nothing but a giant gaping hole in the ground. Community groups had begged for an environmental survey, hoping that the presence of the endangered Shy Coral-Hued Worm would delay it until we could organize opposition to destroying the park.

Then I saw a very tall man striding over to me.

Oh, shit.

Here must be the stuffed shirt expert, ready to assure the TV reporters and the rest of the crowd that there was absolutely no danger to the Shy Coral-Hued Worm with this new golf course.

I gritted my teeth as he strode up to the reporters, imperiously gesturing to them for a microphone, which he tapped with tanned fingers.

He was very tall and lean, with short dark hair beginning to gray, dressed in a light blue collared shirt and suit pants, with a striped blue and white tie. Holy goddess, it must be 102 degrees out here and he was dressed like he was going to the Kentucky Derby, complete with classic pointy asshole shoes and some fucking cologne that smelled like gold doubloons.

I was only wearing a long gray skirt and tank top, but I was not about to let him intimidate me. I just had to overcome my natural shyness.

He flicked eyes over to me. They were light ice-blue, and for a moment I felt an unusual squirmy sensation deep in my gut.

“I suppose you must be the hippie here trying to chain herself to a tree,” he said sharply as he set his briefcase on a nearby rock and took out a huge stack of papers.

It was that cultured, condescending voice that pissed me off.

“I suppose you must be the corporate bootlicker who doesn’t care about the park at all! They’re proposing to ruin important habitats here!”

“Pardon, but you don’t have to tell me about the importance of habitats. I’m Professor Ambrose Hargreaves, from Smith & Cockburn College,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something to me. “Who are you?”

“I’ve never heard of you,” I retorted, ignoring his question. “But think about all the species you’d be killing here! Think of all the people who use this park!”

“Look at it!” he countered, pointing down at the ground, where the Shy Coral-Hued Worm, most unlike its name, was wriggling about in grimy pink glory. “It’s just a worm, madam. There is absolutely nothing special about it. If you get out of the way of these bulldozers I will personally order you a dozen new worms.”

I glared at him, heat and anger pulsing in my temples.

Professor Hargreaves had his sleeves neatly rolled up, just one prim and proper little lieutenant general roll of his powder blue collared shirt, but it was enough to show the way his tendons flexed.

Ugh

What a waste of good arms on a spineless corporate lackey.

“It’s not just about the worm, asshole,” I hissed. “The Eastern bluebirds eat this worm. Without the worm, no bluebirds. The whole interdependent web of life is threatened if we don’t do a proper environmental study.”

His eyes narrowed at me, the big stack of papers stilled in his hands.

“What’s this about the bluebirds? That wasn’t in the preliminary report I got.”

“There aren’t bluebirds around here!” one of the developers shouted, but Ambrose ignored him.

“Yes, there are!” I insisted. “They’re rare but I’ve seen them.”

His eyes raked almost painfully down my body, and I felt one thing instantly under my skin.

He wanted me.

"I saw nothing about that in the preliminary report,” he repeated, and I saw some of the corporate guys shuffle around.

There was silence for a moment, the sound of a large dog loudly eating an ice-cream cone the only thing I could hear in the park.

“Not very many sightings of the bluebird,” one of the other suit guys finally said resentfully, and I sucked in my breath with hope.

And without another word, Dr. Hargreaves dropped his papers and twisted around, striding from his place with the other suits to stand beside me.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“The Shy Coral-Hued Worm will not be harmed on my watch!” he boomed out as my jaw dropped with shock.

I watched as the developers’ faces puckered angrily, and they began to argue with the professor, shaking their fists and the development plans at him. One of the truck drivers revved his engine.

But the professor didn’t back down. Without the slightest sign of effort, he immediately launched into a passionate legal and constitutional defense of the park.

When the truck driver revved his engine, Dr. Hargreaves grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him, keeping his strong fingers encircled around my elbow, and my skin fucking burned where he touched me, my skin heating up with the raw passion I felt rolling off him.

Once he had decided something was right, he was like a granite rock, shouting down the opposition and quoting lengthy passages of the state constitution until they all gave up and rolled out of there.

I watched in astonishment, the sweat rolling down my back and soaking my tank top, as they all left, the TV cameras, the bulldozers, and the trucks.

Everybody but the two of us.

“You did that, Professor Hargreaves,” I said, hardly believing it. “I didn’t think you would.”

“I suppose I did,” he said, looking a little surprised himself. “That was most unlike me. Call me Ambrose, by the way.”

Ambrose

What a proper, old-fashioned name for a man who had seemed like the very sort of traditional, tightly-wound asshole I had always avoided.

For a moment we stared at each other, and I felt something crackle between us, and then the papers from his briefcase began to scatter on the wind, and I immediately dropped on my hands and knees to pick them up.

They were clasped to my bosom when I looked up and he was staring down at me, his eyes so full of naked lust that I didn’t move away.

I hadn’t meant to be on my hands and knees in front of him in such a wanton pose, but I stood up and held out the stack of papers to him, waiting to see what he would do.

He took the papers, stacked them neatly on top of the nearby rock, then bent down and kissed me.

And at first it was going to be a pity fuck for me, like just a primal expression of glee and relief at what he had done out there, but then his lips fell on mine, and it was nothing like I had expected, all that starched stiffness unraveling outward as his hands gripped the back of my head, his lips devouring me with some fucking dirty nasty energy I didn’t know he had in him, and my heart began to pound.

He pulled me behind the rock so we were hidden from everyone at the park, pressing me up against the hard surface as he kissed me so thoroughly that I felt like I was melting, blazing sticky heat but I didn’t care as I put my hands on his taut back, feeling the lines of lean muscle through his sleek shirt.

His tongue didn’t tease at my entrance so much as demand with heady power, and I opened my mouth with a gasp, feeling my nipples tauten under my shirt, rub against his hard belly.

He broke off.

“Madam—I apologize,” he said in a raw voice, looking agonized, the muscles in his jaw moving. He ripped his glasses off and stuffed them in his pocket, but he didn’t move his body from where his long thighs were pressed against me, his chest heaving, his other arm only inches from me. “I will—attempt to remove this arm. I am—having a very difficult time controlling myself. You are—driving me mad, madam. This has never happened before, I assure you.”

The idea that he was coming apart, that this stiff and proper man could have that wild look in his ice-blue eyes, one arm curving around me, the other tearing at his tie, was intoxicating to me. What would it be like to see all the tightly-wound parts of him unravel?

So instead I gripped him by the front of his lapels and he fell on me with a groan.

I was absolutely dripping wet, my back stretched tight as I arched my pussy against the thick bulge grinding into me, and he fumbled at my long skirts like he couldn’t wait another second.

“Bloody hell, woman, you’re like a godsdamn Fabergé egg, like a luxury for an emperor,” he groaned in my ear, and I wanted to scream with laughter at this insane description of myself, since I was a massage therapy student who had no money and 4 roommates, but I was too horny.

I didn’t plan on coming, not on the backside of this rock, with the road only a few dozen feet away through the trees.

But something about how this man fucked me meant my body was on fire, wanting more of him, wanting to see how he’d come undone.

He sunk his hands in my hair and pulled, and I didn’t even know if he was doing it on purpose, the way he was fucking me like some feral, possessed animal, one hand digging into my ass, the other wrapped around the back of my throat so he could devour me with his lips. His cock was long and thick, with a slight bend at the end that hit me just fucking right, and suddenly I was literally goddamn squirting, coming with a huge gush and soaking my thighs and the entire front of his fancy pants, but I didn’t care, riding him with fevered, frenetic energy, clutching him tighter with my thighs, wanting him and his strange combination of propriety and untamed passion.

He smelled like fucking old money and a dirty raw desire, and I fell for him then, dragged under the ocean of that strange, wild combination that was Professor Ambrose Hargreaves and I couldn’t wait to explore more.

Present day

He probably just wanted to have sex with me, nothing else, I thought dismissively, as I put the memory firmly away and hurried outside.

At 30 weeks my stomach was really beginning to stick out now, Finn & I’s baby kicking out and fluttering like a butterfly as I waddled out the door to see my ex-husband and my baby daddy wrestling in the middle of the lawn.

Finn appeared to have several pieces of paper in his hand and he was holding his arm out to stop Ambrose from grabbing them.

“O Indi, your eyes are like a bluebird’s wing,” Finn called out in a high falsetto. “O Indi, your skin is like a creamy bath of marble sculpturing. Who the fuck is taking a bath in marble sculpturing, you dipshit?”

“What is going on?” I cried out as my my ex twisted Finn’s wrist.

My baby daddy was built like the back end of a refrigerator, but at this he was forced to drop the papers on the ground.

Ambrose went to grab them and Finn stepped directly on the scattered papers, his boot leaving muddy footprints all over.

“Indi, this fucking fool’s still in love with you,” Finn howled, pointing and laughing at Ambrose.

My blood seemed to run cold, my stomach doing flip-flops in horrified disbelief.

Almost automatically, I glanced over to my ex, assuming Finn was just taunting him.

But Ambrose had fallen to his knees to try to collect the papers. He looked white to the gills as he nodded.

One short, sharp confirmation.

The hell?

Just then my horrible ex kicked at Finn’s kneecap and the other man went down like a sack of rocks, his big hands reaching out to grab Ambrose by the collar and then they were both rolling across the lawn again punching each other. I heard a crunch as Ambrose hit Finn’s nose, then a crack as Finn’s elbow connected with Ambrose’s ribs.

“Fucking give it up!” Finn ordered. “You lost Indi and she’s mine now!”

“She needs to know how I feel!” Ambrose gritted out.

I realized sitting here and yelping “stop!” was not going to do anything, so I grabbed the garden hose and turned it on full blast at both of them.

My commitment to a peaceful existence with all living things had never been tested more.

They didn't want to stop punching each other, but were forced to when I aimed the powerful jet of water directly between them, Ambrose rolling away and grabbing for his glasses and Finn on his hands and knees heaving.

I directed the water lower, filling in a pool of water between them and the two men got to their feet, eyeing each other warily.

“Can you go get me an ice cream cone, Finn?” I asked quickly. “And a jalapeño? I’m getting these wild cravings and I feel quite faint.”

Finn looked resentfully over at Ambrose.

“All right,” he said. “Don’t touch Indi,” he added, pointing a big tattooed finger at Ambrose. “Don’t touch her, don’t look at her, don’t talk to her.”

“And can you maybe get one for Astrid, too?” I asked, hoping desperately to lower the temperature between all of us so Astrid wouldn’t go into early labor or something.

“Baby, hell no,” Finn said. “That’s not my baby in her. I don’t have to do fuck-all for her. She can get her own damn ice-cream cone.”

He got in his car and drove off as Ambrose dropped heavily down to the curb.

I eyed my ex.

He might be the father of Astrid’s baby. According to the test, he had sperm. His count was just so low that presumably it would have taken a long time to get her pregnant. And it had only been a few months after they got together.

I didn’t want to talk to him, but I knew if I had any hope of a peaceful last few weeks of my pregnancy and a nice relaxing baby shower this week, I was going to have to try to break the constant tension between the two men.

So I pulled out a lawn chair and sat down in it, Ambrose beside me on the curb, arms propped on his thighs, his head hanging between his legs.

I felt absolutely furious at him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I asked through gritted teeth. “Why are you doing this? Why are you getting into fights with Finn?”

Looking over at him, I saw that there were rips and tears all in his collared shirt, and a big bruise was blooming on his cheek.

“I’m trying to figure out how I fucked my life up to this extent,” Ambrose said bitterly.

I noticed one of his hands was shaking as he ran it through his hair.

This was surprising. Ambrose was usually so assured in everything. Usually, Ambrose’s philosophy was that life was perfect and he was a king among men.

“What do you mean?” I asked, stalling for time, because I need to haul myself up and out of this chair and away from this conversation.

This had been a mistake.

I didn’t want to hear his answer. Did I?

“I know you must hate my goddamn guts,” Ambrose said, and his voice was still hoarse from being throttled, “and maybe that poetry was kind of shit. But I just want you to know even though I’m a colossal asshole, I love you and I was delusional to think I could stop loving you. I don’t think I can ever stop. I’m so sorry I fucked us up like I did.”

He turned sideways and I clenched my fists to resist the urge to pop him right in the nose.

“What gives you the fucking gall to tell me in my third trimester that you still love me?” I hissed furiously at him, and that was only the beginning of the fury I intended to unleash on his head when a stately Rolls-Royce glided smoothly down our street and parked directly in front of Ambrose’s house.

His mother (oh god) and father got out of the car.

Millicent always had her lip curled up and a cat’s-asshole expression on her face and today was no exception.

“Hello, Mother,” Ambrose said, wiping his hands on his pants and standing up. “What are you doing here?”

“It Is Your Father,” she said in all capital letters, enunciating each word carefully. “I believe he is due for A Little Visit with you. Perhaps you can be a good influence on him, son.”

Oh, god. Millicent had often done this when Ambrose and I were married. When Harold would fall afoul of one of her many insane dictates, he would be sent in disgrace to visit us.

And Ambrose did as he always had done. Nodded like a prissy little saint and promised to do his best, then took his mother’s arm to guide her back to the car, with barely a glance spared for his own father.

“I hate how Ambrose treats you,” I said tightly, as I watched my ex-husband’s ramrod-stiff back and shoulders accompany his mother to the car.

“Ah well,” Harold said, “What are you going to do? He’s a Sagittarius.”

I tsked, torn between affection that he still remembered all the astrological charts we’d done together and frustration that he wouldn’t stick up for himself.

“That is no excuse. He needs to pull his head out of his ass.”

I glared at Ambrose’s back, annoyed at myself for feeling anything in regards to him. I hadn’t felt a thing for months. Why was the old frustration at his inability to see how fucking toxic his mother was creeping back?

I had tried to tell him so many times. But he would never listen.

That was just another reason that it was a good thing Ambrose and I had divorced. He had a pig-headed insistence that his own godlike judgment must be right.

At any rate, Harold seemed perfectly unaffected by being deposited in Applewood Subdivision.

“Need any help around here?” he asked.

“I wish you would leave her,” I sighed. “It’s not OK how she treats you. You must know it isn’t.”

For a moment, pain crossed his face, and he looked weary, even his mustache drooping in defeat.

“She keeps a tight hold of the money,” my ex-father-in-law sighed. “I couldn’t afford to live on my own. I’ve had to do some outlandish things just for a little pin money to buy a cigar now and again. Like sell plasma.”

“You sold plasma?” I asked sharply, feeling horrified.

Ambrose’s parents were absolutely loaded. To think of him in his 70s having to go down and sell plasma just for a little freedom!

“Yes. . . among other things,” he said. “But I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Wait, what other things did you sell?” I asked, but Harold didn’t answer, only patted my hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry about me, honey. Let’s just have a nice visit. Want me to make you a cup of rose tea?”

“All right. Rose tea sounds divine. But you shouldn’t have to sell plasma. Anytime you need money, come to me. Please.”

He helped me up and we started to walk back into the house when I noticed a few envelopes had fallen out of Ambrose and Astrid’s recycling bin and into my lawn.

I bent down, cursing Ambrose and Astrid for their messiness, and shoved the papers back into their recycling.

But just before I slammed the lid back down, something insane caught my eye, and suddenly I knew.

I knew who Astrid’s baby daddy was

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