I stare at the fifty-four steps that will make or break today. My ankles were already swollen the size of fat sausages and my lower back was literally killing me. The walk around the grocery store was horrible, seeing as its Valentine's day and all the couples were making me sick. I huff out a quick breath and pull my natural-brunette colors hair up into a messy twist held up with one of my clips.

The blue was bleached out and the brown had slowly grown back - I just fastened the pace by dying the blonde to my original color. It had been years since I had my natural hair color - and I felt so different.

Once my hair was out of my face, I grab the heaviest grocery bag first - full of can food - and begin the trek up the fifty-four steps. My pregnant belly causes it hard to see the steps under my feet and I'm being slow as I pull myself up to the second floor of the apartment building. I hadn't realized, when I first got the place, that this would be a oncoming problem. Half way up, a steady stream of kicks is going on my bladder and I'm forced to stop and soothingly rub at the spots I'm being kicked.

"C'mon baby, don't be like that to momma," I say softly, taking deep breaths and waiting for the kicking to stop. My doctor said that this would be a common thing once I hit my third trimester. And here I am, eight months in and looking like I'm about to burst. Finally the kicking stops, and I take a few more deep breaths before finishing the last of the steps as quick as I can and get to my apartment. I've still got a car full of groceries, and I know its going to take me well over half an hour to even get them into my apartment. Putting them up is an entirely different story.

I'm at my door of apartment, 67C Monroe Suites, and reaching for my keys in my pocket that I notice the door ajar. My lungs stop taking in oxygen. Of the six months I've been here, nothing like this has ever happened. I keep a spare key between two bricks that you can't see, and I've only had to move it once because I locked my keys in my car.

I push the door open slowly and find the front room empty. My fingers go for the space between the two bricks, and the key is missing; my eye brows furrow. I walk in slowly and quietly set the bag of food on the table beside the door. I grab for the baseball bat I keep by the door, and raise it, ready to strike.

The door to my bedroom is closed, and the bathroom is opened. That only leaves the little kitchen I have - and I can hear rustling coming from behind the wall that separates the rest of the apartment from the kitchen.

I place one hand on my protruding belly, trying to sooth myself and the kicks on my womb. They're really starting to hurt me, and now I've got to piss like a horse. Stepping around the corner and into the kitchen, I find a feminine body half way in my fridge. All I can see is an ass in tight jeans and hips that tell me its a woman.

I take a deep breath before warming myself up, ready to swing.

"What the fuck are you doing in my home?" I say, my voice at the utmost level of intimidating. I'm eight months pregnant and like hell am I going to lose them now because of some homeless bum who can't get a job.

There's a gasp, and then a groan followed when she hits her head on the top of the fridge. I hear a few mumbled curses and suddenly a bright head of pink hair is seen. My eyes widen.

Shit.

"Goddamn, Reg, way to scare the fuck outta me-"

She turns and her glare turns into one of pure shock.

"Holy fuck. Please tell me that's a basketball under your shirt."

I don't know whether to be glad its Nicki, or be utterly afraid.

"What are you doing here, Nicki?" I ask, dropping the bat and sitting down in the nearest chair.

"I'm here to check up on my best friend! Now what the fuck is that?!" She practically yells, and I send her a harsh glare when the kicks start again.

"It's a fucking basketball, Nicki," I hiss, pulling up my shirt to show the tattooed and stretched skin of my belly. I rub at the few spots that are being kicked the most. Fuck, I can't wait to give birth.

Nicki is speechless before me, her finger still pointed at my bare belly. But soon, her arm falls back to her side and she's just standing still. I can't help but whisper to the kicking baby, hoping he'll stop soon.

"Is this why you won't visit me?" She asks, walking over and sitting down in the other chair at my little table. I haven't forgotten about my groceries, but I know I won't be able to make that trek again anytime soon.

"Half the reason," I mumble, still trying to sooth the kicks to my belly. "I've been busy at work."

Since graduation from the University of Texas, I've been working a minimum wage job as an editor for a music video-filming company. All the money I make goes to bills or the minimum amount of food I can buy. The rest goes to clothes and diapers and the crib I've been saving up for.

"Oh, okay." She says, and her eyes won't leave my bare belly. I take her hand and put it on the side of my belly, letting her feel the kick that I receive. Nicki gasps but doesn't pull away. "That's amazing."

I chuckle. "Yeah, well, when you get those at two am and the need to piss like crazy after it, you kind of stop thinking of it as 'amazing'."

"It was a strong too."

Suddenly, from the hormonal mood swings that I'm going through, my expression goes from content to down right depressed. Just like their dad.

Nicki notices my change in mood and instantly starts to freak out. She's asking what is wrong and I don't know how to explain without just saying it bluntly.

"Remember that night at the concert before graduation?" I ask, and she's blinks before nodding. "While the guys distracted you backstage, Jimmy and I went back to the bus and-- well, you know."

Nicki's eyes widen and I can see her trying to take in the information.

"So you mean-?" I nod, not letting her finish the sentence.

Jimmy is the dad, we both say in our minds, and I bite my lip.

"When are you due?" she asks, and my hands go back to rubbing my belly even though the kicks have stopped.

"The doctor said March fifth, but it's a wait-and-see kind of thing right now."

There's another silence before I move to get up.

"I've got groceries in the car, can you come help me?" Nicki nods and soon we're going back down the stairs. I'm slower than her, but there's a reasonable answer. By the time I'm at my car, she's got her arms filled with five or six bags full of food. I grab the eggs and few things of fruit I've gotten before going back up the stairs. There aren't any kicks this time, thank the lord, and I'm half way up when Nicki is jogging back down to get the last two bags.

By the time I've gotten to the top of the stairs, Nicki is right behind me. I walk into my apartment and put the bags down on the table. She tells me to sit down and rest, letting me tell her where everything goes. I sigh, and mumble a quick thanks before grabbing a bottle of water and take a seat.

I'm sweating slightly and my knees are starting to hurt now.

"The chips go in the top right cabinet by the microwave," I tell her, finishing up the rest of the putting-away-food. Nicki takes her seat again and pulls my feet into her lap. Slipping off my arch-supporting shoes, she instantly massages the soles of my feet and I'm moaning from the release of pressure on my feet.

"Goddamn," I whisper, lulling my head back as I relax. I had forgotten how well of a massage Nicki could give.

"Thought of any names?" she asks, pulling me from my daze. I pick my head up and look at her before realizing what she's asked. Nicki looks at me, waiting for an answer.

"Owen James and Sullivan Elwin."

She nods and goes back to her massage. "Those are nice names. I wouldn't be able to decide either."

I bite my lip and chew on it.

"Actually..." Nicki looks up, her fingers still massaging the sole of my foot. "Those are their names."

Her fingers stop, and her eyebrows have gone up into her hair line.

"Their?" she squeaks, and I nod, still chewing on my lip. Her fingers are digging into my foot and I hiss at the uncomfortable pressure. I'm able to pull my foot away and put it back on the floor.

Twin boys.

I can practically screaming in her head that I'm having twin boys and their father is the legendary Jimmy Sullivan.

"I need a fucking drink." She says, and I know the next few days that she's here are going to be hard.