Titus: Book Two of the Cantrell Brothers Series

Chapter Forty-Six

Titus had never driven faster in his entire life. Palms sweaty and stomach feeling sick, he drove like a bat out of hell. In the sunset that almost mocked him with its beauty, Titus weaved in and out of cars, trucks, and speeding semis, the sounds of blaring horns following the burn of old, truck tires.

Anna was right beside him, clutching their daughter within shaking arms. Her face was hollow, and he was sure that it reflected exactly what was on his – concern, anxiety, and plain out fear. He had never been more scared in his entire life. Nothing had ever been like this. Not even one situation in his entire life had hit him right in the face with this sense of helplessness.

He didn't know what to do, and neither did she. He had called Dr. Cliveston, without even a reassuring word coming from his mouth. The obstetrician gynecologist, bless his patient heart, had told him just what to do, the man's voice never rising. It had only been this solid sound of confidence, as if this was just a normal day thing, like deciding which flavor lemonade to drink or what movie to watch.

Except this wasn't lemonade or a movie. This was Anna and Ella, the two girls who would possess his heart until he became an old man and died. Dr. Cliveston had seemed to sense that within him, too, for he had just asked him questions and then had told him in an almost happy voice that Titus had to take Anna up to Broxton Memorial Hospital as soon as possible.

As soon as possible was the speed he was going at now. It had been the speed he had been processing things and going at the very moment he had entered the bathroom, giving him only time to put on a shirt and ratty shoes. He was still dressed in the pajama pants that were making him even more uncomfortable.

Anna squeezed his hand then and groaned from right next to him, a low sound that was not of pleasure but of a pain that Titus had no idea how to soothe. He didn't take his eyes off the road, no matter how much he needed sight to guarantee the welfare of his wife and baby girl. He just squeezed her hand and felt as she squeezed right back.

“Titus,” Anna said.

He took the appropriate exit off the interstate, stammering, “Y-yeah?”

“What'd the doctor say?” she asked, half groaning at the end.

“Everything's going to be just fine.” He managed a smile that he hoped reassured, taking a sharp right.

“Is Ella going to be okay?”

Titus nodded. “Yes. We just might be seeing our daughter a little earlier than planned, is all. Nothing to worry about.”

“It sounded like you wanted to kill him,” she told him.

Not knowing what to say to that for he had indeed wanted to strangle the doctor through the phone, he just drove. He slammed his fist on the horn as they were forced to stop at a red light, letting out all this helplessness into the people ahead of him.

As soon as red turned to green, Titus was forced to wait, but once there was space for the truck, he began the endless in and out weaving, decelerating only as the sterile red lights of Broxton Memorial's Emergency Room were staring him straight in the face.

Wind whipped through his hair as he got out of the truck and ran to the hospital. He all but took down the automatic glass doors when they wouldn't get out of his way fast enough. Adrenaline and terror rushing through his veins, he was just about to scream at the nurses behind the desk when a cold hand was placed on his shoulder. Two men dressed in white walked past him immediately, a wheelchair in between them.

“Titus,” that same, old voice belong to Dr. Cliveston said from behind him.

He didn't even turn around, only asking, “What?”