Rough Around the Edges. Marie Ferrarella

could feel another contraction taking root. She licked incredibly dry lips and wished she was six again. Six and sitting in her family room, watching cartoons. Or eighteen and taking her college boards. Any place but here, any time but now.

      “So you helped?” she heard herself ask as she mentally tried to scramble away from the pain there was no escaping.

      O’Rourke saw the look in her eyes and took her hand, holding it tight. She held it tighter. “I was the oldest of six.”

      She felt as if she was in a doomed race. Kitt began to breathe hard. “You’re sure you’re…not some…weirdo who gets…off…on this kind of thing?”

      She was pretty, he thought. Even in pain, with her blond hair pasted against her face, she was pretty. Leaning forward, he brushed the wet hair from her forehead, wishing there was some way to make her comfortable. “Not very trusting, are you?”

      That was a laugh. “I have absolutely no reason to be-e-e-e.” Arching, she rose off the floor and screamed the last part against his ear.

      O’Rourke took a deep breath, shaking his head as if that could help him get rid of the ringing. “So much for tuning pianos,” he quipped, drawing back. She was shaking. The only thing he had to offer her was his sweater. “I know it’s not comfortable, but it’s the best I can do right now.”

      Her eyes widened as she saw him stripping off the sweater. He was some kind of weirdo. A weirdo with what looked like a washboard stomach.

      Her purse, where was her purse? She had pepper spray in there if she could just get to it. “What are you doing?”

      He tucked his sweater around her upper torso as best he could. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. “Trying to keep you warm.”

      He sat back on his heels, taking her hand again. “What’s your name?”

      “Kitt—with two t’s. Kitt Dawson.”

      “Please to meet you, Kitt with two t’s.” Shifting his hand so that hers slipped into his, he shook it. “I’m Shawn Michael O’Rourke.”

      It was coming. Another contraction. She tried to brace herself. “That’s some mouthful.”

      He grasped her hand again, sensing another contraction was about to seize her. “My friends call me O’Rourke.”

      Her eyes met his. It was blurry inside his van. “And are we going to be friends?”

      He grinned. “Well, Kitt-with-two-t’s, we’re certainly going to be something after tonight.”

      In response, Kitt screamed again.

      Chapter Two

      Kitt’s scream echoed in his head, making his ears ring.

      “I guess this means it’s showtime, so to speak,” O’Rourke said, bracing himself.

      He only hoped he was up to this.

      True, he’d helped his mother when it came to be her time, but Sarah O’Rourke gave birth so easily it was almost as if she were a mother hen laying eggs. There was nary a whimper out of her, not even once. Just biting down on what she’d come to call her “birthing stick” and within a half an hour, O’Rourke found himself with a new little brother or sister. He always felt that his mother had simply had him in attendance, off to the side, on the off chance that something went wrong. He’d held her hand, mostly, and mopped her brow.

      His father was never around for the momentous occasions. James O’Rourke was too busy trying to earn enough money to support all the hungry little mouths he and Sarah kept bringing into the world.

      Standing there, holding his mother’s hand, O’Rourke had thought little of it then. It was just the circle of life continuing, nothing more. The impact of it was never as great as it was at this moment. This was some strange woman he was helping.

      What if…?

      O’Rourke refused to let his mind go there. He had no time for “what-ifs.” The woman was screaming again like a bloody banshee, arching so that she looked as if she was trying to execute some incredibly convoluted yoga position from the inside out.

      O’Rourke tried to think, to remember. His mother had always seemed so calm about it.

      “Gravity’ll help you, Kitt.” Suddenly inspired, he grasped Kitt by the shoulders and positioned her so that her shoulders were propped up against the wall of boxes in the van.

      Wearing a thin cotton blouse that was soaked clear down to the skin, Kitt felt the rough cardboard digging into her back. For the first time, as the twisting corkscrew of pain abated for a moment, she noticed her surroundings. There were boxes everywhere. Big boxes. Was he some kind of bootlegger?

      “What…what is all this?” She tried to crane her neck, her hands resting protectively around her swollen belly. “Are…you…a…smuggler?”

      O’Rourke bit back a laugh. “Why? Do I look like a smuggler?”

      She looked at him with eyes that were beginning to well up with pain again. “You…look…” She searched for a word. “Dangerous.”

      He’d certainly never thought of himself in that light. “Dangerous?”

      She hadn’t meant to insult him. He was trying to help her. “The…good…kind of…dangerous.”

      Amusement curved his mouth even as she clutched at his hand again, squeezing his fingers hard. “There’s a good kind?”

      “Yes…like you.” With his black hair and bright blue eyes, half naked, he made her think of some kind of tortured, poetic hero. “Dangerous…the kind who…lives…on the edge.” She blew out a long, cleansing breath, knowing another contraction was about to smash into her. She talked quickly, wanting to get it all out before she couldn’t. “Makes a woman’s heart flutter. That’s my problem. I’m attracted to the window dressing—only to find out that the sale’s been over…for months.”

      The pain was making her delirious, O’Rourke decided. Maybe this wasn’t such a piece of cake as he’d hoped. Stories he’d heard from his mother about two-day-long labors came back to him.

      He looked past the woman’s head toward the front of the van. Maybe there was time to drive her to some hospital after all.

      Kitt grabbed his attention and his arm, digging in her nails and crying out.

      And then again, maybe not, he amended.

      “I’m breaking,” she screamed to him. “I’m…breaking…in half…. Someone’s…taking one leg…and pulling it…one way…and…the other’s…snapping…off.”

      He’d heard his mother describe it that way. It was when his brother Donovan had made his appearance in the world. Donovan had come in at just under twelve pounds. His father’s chest had stayed puffed up for a week despite his mother’s choice words about the experience.

      “Nobody’s pulling either leg, Kitt,” he told her as gently as he could while still keeping his voice raised so that she could hear him. “It’s your body telling you it’s almost time.”

      “Almost time?” she echoed incredulously, able to focus on his face for a second. “My body’s…in…overtime! I’ve been…in…agony since before…I…left…the house.”

      He didn’t doubt it. She looked like a strong woman, despite her small frame. Good breeding stock, his grandmother would have probably called her. He figured maybe he should put what she was going through in perspective for Kitt. “Women have been known to be in labor for thirty-six hours.”

      That’s not what she wanted to hear at a time like this, when she felt like a ceremonial wishbone. “If I’m going to die,” she ground out between tightly clenched teeth, “you’re…going with me.”

      He