A panicked jolt slices through me. I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s difficult when my heart is hammering at the sound of Woods’ name.
“Then,” he continues, his fingers tapping on the window separating us. “My good pal Steve Morrison up and shoots himself. According to the news, he swallowed a bullet while sitting in front of a box of articles about your boyfriend. Now that…I find very interesting. One coincidence—” He shrugs casually. “One I believe. But two?” He shakes his head. “Two is no longer a coincidence—it’s a fucking pattern. And I haven’t even gotten to Greg yet. How his wife left him the same day someone—according to his secretary—came in and busted down his office door. And again, according to his hot little assistant, left with a man that fit Link’s description.”
It takes all my effort not to react in the way I know he’s expecting. I do my damndest to remain calm. “If you’re insinuating Link or I had anything to do with that, you’re even crazier than I thought.”
He smirks as if I said precisely what he was hoping for.
“Aaron was a bad guy. Got himself caught up in all the wrong things. He had plenty of enemies. And Steve’s been suicidal for years. Maybe Link had nothing to do with any of it.” He pauses, leering gaze flicking over me blatantly. “Or maybe he did.”
He folds his hands over his stomach, thumbs circling each other as if he’s growing bored. “But… What would happen if someone started poking around, digging into your boyfriend’s whereabouts?” His smile grows slowly, wider and wider. He’s enjoying himself.
“Do you think, if they go back and take fingerprints off Steve’s gun, they’ll find one matching Link’s?”
He shrugs again, but that eerie grin stays in place. He sits forward, moving close in the way he did when he first sat down. “You know what I think?”
I don’t answer. I know what he thinks. He’s made it pretty clear.
“I think he killed Aaron. Maybe Steve too. I think he got to Greg. I think he got off on it. I can’t blame him; I know how good it can feel to hurt someone. I think Link did it all in the name of his dearly departed girlfriend. And I think you know all about it.”
I can’t stop trembling. I swallow down the fear and try to find my voice. “What do you want?”
His eyes burn with delight as the words leave my lips.
“I’ve got a message I’d like you to pass on. Actually, it’s more…of a question. You’re going to take that sweet little ass of yours home and relay it to him word for fucking word. Because if you don’t, I’m going to do a little talking of my own. Starting with my theory about who killed Aaron.”
I shake my head in harsh jerks. “No. You have no proof of anything. I won’t let you fuck with Link like you’re trying to fuck with me. I won’t do it.”
“I don’t need proof. All I need is reasonable doubt. If they can’t pin this shit on me, they need to find someone else to take the fall. With all of Link’s little happenstances, I think it will raise enough doubt that they’ll have no choice but to look into him.”
He sighs loudly, as if he’s tiring of talking to me.
“Suit yourself. I’d love for your boyfriend to end up in prison with me.”
Twenty-Three
Link
“Wait,” Rocky says, stunned. “You bought me a car?”
I open the driver’s side door, guiding her inside. “You need it. Your car runs like shit. It isn’t safe.”
She looks around, taking in her surroundings. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
It’s a Honda Accord. Silver. Brand new. It’s not a luxury car by any means, but it’s one of the top listed family sedans out there that was still in my price range. It’s a nice vehicle. Reliable.
“No,” she says adamantly.
“What?” I heard her, but I can’t fathom how she wouldn’t want a car that runs well.
“I said no. I’m not accepting this. It’s…too much.”
There was a time she thought taking a couple bags of groceries was too much. I thought we were long past that. Obviously not. I understand she’s fiercely independent—it’s another one of those traits I admire in her—and a car is a lot, but so much has changed. She needs to think about the big picture.
“I thought we were going to look at that house?” she adds, voice quiet. “Did you change your mind?”
“No. Hell no. We’re still looking at the house. Tomorrow, after the doctor appointment. I had enough money in savings to buy this and still put a nice down payment on the house—if we decide we want it.”
She shakes her head, refusing to look at me. “I still can’t take this. I just—I can’t.”
“You’re going to keep driving your car? What about after the baby is born?”
“Would you stop? Just stop. Okay? That’s months away. I haven’t even gone to my first appointment yet and you’re deciding our whole damn future. Just. Stop. You’re smothering me.”
Fuck.
Ouch.
I step back, allowing her to get out of the car. I shut the door, pocketing the keys. This is out of character for her. This is out of character for me. But shit changes. We both need to get used to it.
“I’m not trying to smother you,” I say softly. “I just want to know you’ll be well taken care of if I go to prison.”
“You’re not going to prison. Don’t talk that way.”
I sigh heavily. “We don’t need to talk about it, but I have to acknowledge the possibility, and I have to plan for it. I need to. You don’t want the car? Fine. Don’t take the damn car. But I’m not taking it back. It will just sit here, unused. And when your car breaks down—and it will—you can either use this or walk.” I turn away, heading for her apartment. “I’ll leave the keys on the hook.”
Inside, I add the ring to the other set of keys already hanging there and poke my head into the fridge. I need to make dinner. I need to teach her how to make dinner. Her lack of cooking ability never once bothered me until now. She doesn’t take care of herself, but that shit needs to stop. I swing the door shut, frustration coiling in my muscles.
“Why are you so angry?”
“It’s not just about you anymore,” I murmur. “You don’t want a reliable car. You can’t cook yourself a healthy meal. You sleep with a gun in the nightstand drawer. What happens after the baby comes? Are you still going to drive around in that death trap? Feed our child cereal every night? Let it play with a gun?”
“Stop talking like you won’t be here.” She drags her fingers through her hair not hiding her agitation. “Just stop. JUST STOP. Just stop.” Her voice gives out, moisture filling her eyes. The tears spill over, sliding down her cheeks and wrapping around her chin before dotting her t-shirt.
I’m motionless for a heartbeat. She went from annoyed to angry to—I don’t even know what the hell she is right now—but she’s crying and I can’t stand to see her fucking cry. I grab her, hauling her into my chest. I won’t falsely reassure her. Though I know that’s what she wants, it’s not what she needs.
“I wish I could make everything perfect, and fuck if I’m not trying, but the bitter truth is, I can’t. I don’t want to go away. I want to be here. I’m going to do everything I can to be, but you have got to be prepared for both outcomes.”
She nods against me, her tears soaking my shirt. “I know how to cook.”
“What?”
“I’m Italian. I know how to cook. Anything and everything pasta. I just don’t like to do it. But I can. And I will. If I have to, I will. I can do a lot of things if I have to.”
Of course she can. She’s strong. So damn strong. She’s been through more than anyone should ever go through, but she’s a fighter, always coming through it.
“And I like the car, but I don’t feel right about just taking it, and I can’t afford to buy it off you. Can I make a deal with you?” She lifts her head, watery eyes meeting mine. “What if you take the new car, and I’ll take your old car and make payments to you. It can
come right out of my check. Your car is a hell of a lot better than mine, so it’s a step up. And after the baby is born, I’ll use the Honda whenever I take the baby out. Deal?”
It’s a good compromise and better than nothing, but I’m not keeping a dime from her. I’ll give her a raise or stick the payments right into an account for the baby.
“Deal.”
***
I’m calm for the first time in days. I don’t know if it’s because we’re finally sitting in the doctor’s office, minutes from seeing a professional and putting my mind at ease. Or maybe because we worked out the car situation. It could be because we’re going to see the house in a few hours. It doesn’t matter. I enjoy the feeling, aware it’s likely to be short-lived.
“I’m craving something, I think,” Rocky says, thumbing through a magazine she picked up off the table beside her in the waiting room. “Is it too soon to have cravings?” She stops on an image of baked chicken. “I think I want chicken. It’s not too cold to grill, is it?”
“I’ll break out the George Foreman.”
“And what about the pie?”
“What pie?”
“That mint and chocolate pie you had the other night. Where did you get that?”
I look away. I’ve never really lied to Rocky before. It’s not our way. I’ve hidden things, but I’ve never right out lied to her face before. We’re bitterly honest with each other, but I’m not mentioning Garrett. I’m not telling her I sit outside of his job, watching him. And I’m definitely not telling her I talked to him—threatened him. That’s my secret. She doesn’t need that burden.
“Jay-Jay’s Café. But I think it might have been something special. We can swing by the store and get you some mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
She crinkles her nose as if not thrilled, but a nurse steps through the door, clipboard in hand, and calls her name.
I follow behind her, standing back as she gets weighed. She’s then given a cup and directed to the bathroom. The nurse smiles at me while we wait, one of those awkward polite lifts of the lips.
Next, we’re led to an exam room and after taking her vitals, the nurse instructs her to remove everything below the waist and cover up with the paper blanket waiting for her on the table. I know we’re here for other reasons, but I can’t help watching as Rocky strips herself down to just a shirt. She shifts her eyes, catching me staring—not that I attempted to hide it—as she climbs onto the table. The blanket crinkles loudly in the otherwise quiet room. It can’t be comfortable. Of course, that table and stir-ups don’t appear to be too cozy either. She’s also going to have a doctor poking and prodding her. You’d think the covers and exam table would be more welcoming to compensate.
Rocky’s feet sway back and forth as we wait. She’s nervous, I realize. I feel like I should be too, but oddly, I’m wholly composed for once, while she appears ready to bolt.
There’s a tap on the door, and then it opens, revealing a petite older woman. “Hi Rocky,” she says. She notices me in the corner and holds out her hand. “Hello there. I’m Dr. Ortiz.”
I shake her hand, noting how cold it is. I feel bad for Rocky all over again. “Linken Elliot,” I say.
She swings back to Rocky. “Am I free to speak openly in front of him?”
She presses her lips together and nods.
Dr. Ortiz crosses her arms—file in hand—over her slender middle. “Well, your test came back positive. You’re pregnant. Congratulations.”
We already knew that, but having it made official by an obstetrician causes my heart to hammer in my chest, finally breaking apart my serenity. We’re having a baby.
That same ambush of emotions attacks out of nowhere. It’s a heavy feeling, being so happy and sad at the same time.
“How did this happen?” Rocky asks. “I’m on the pill. I thought antibiotics couldn’t really interfere.”
She glances at Rocky’s chart. “It’s unlikely, but it’s a possibility. Are you taking anything else? Over the counter or otherwise?”
Rocky shakes her head. “The only other thing I take is an herbal supplement to help with my anxiety and…mood.”
“Which one? I don’t see it here.”
“It’s called St. John’s Wort. I get it in the vitamin section.”
“Well, that will do it. You’re on an estrogen-based pill. St. John’s Wort increases the breakdown of that estrogen. Accompanied with an antibiotic…well.” She shrugs. “It was a lost cause. Always talk to me before you start anything new, even if it’s a vitamin. I also recommend you stop taking it immediately. It can increase the possibility of birth defects.”
Rocky’s eyes dart over to mine, guilt shadowing her gaze.
Birth defects? I didn’t even consider that. More and more I lose that peace that filled me just minutes ago. There’s so much to worry about. It never stops.
“I’d say at your age, and with your health, if you stop taking it now, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about,” the doctor continues. “Most issues occur in the second and third trimester. We can discuss other safer options to care for your anxiety and mood issues. And I assume you’ve stopped your birth control?”
Rocky nods stiffly. “Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to do an exam, and we can do an internal ultrasound to help determine how far along you are. I’ll send you over to the hospital for the standard blood work when we’re through.” She smiles. “Don’t worry, this appointment is the worst one. After this, they are much less intrusive.”
I take Rocky’s hand, bringing it to my lips. We’re going to be parents. The moment doesn’t feel real.
Twenty-Four
Rocky
I love the house the moment we pull up. I want to let myself enjoy the moment, but I can’t. Not when I’m secretly carrying Bates message around in my head. It could change everything between Link and me. No, that’s not right. It will change Link, negating all the progress he’s made.
My eyes trail over the light blue bungalow as I pick at the Band-Aid on my inner elbow. It itches, and I want to take it off, but I don’t want to meet the realtor looking like I just had a needle in my arm—though I did.
Everything felt hazy and far away up until the doctor verified the pregnancy. I can’t pretend it’s not a big deal anymore. In less than eight months, I’m going to be responsible for another human being. That’s huge. Being a parent is without a doubt the most important thing I am ever going to do. I’m scared. Worried I’ll screw up horribly. There’s so much that can go wrong. So, so much. And I can’t trust in this future Link is trying to create.
Standing in front of this house, it feels like a step in the right direction. But I can’t allow myself to want it. No matter what, I know Link will take care of his child. But I’m afraid I could easily lose him to the darkness I know hides inside him.
He places his hand on the dip of my back, just above my ass, fingertips sliding into my pocket as he ushers me to the door.
A guy around our age is scrolling through his cell while he waits for us on the porch. The realtor, I assume.
“Hey, man, how’s it going?” he greets, pocketing his phone as we approach. The guys shake hands before he turns to me. “Is this the girlfriend?”
I have to stop myself from glancing at Link for a cue. I’m not sure how to answer that question. It should be a simple response—we discussed this days ago. We’re together. But a lot has changed since then. Like the fact I’m carrying a message I have yet to pass on.
I give a noncommittal answer. “I’m Rocky. Nice to meet you.”
Link’s fingers slide upward, making little circles on my back. It’s either a simple acknowledgement of what I said or it’s a question. Hell, it might just be an act of anxiety, like the always-present tick in his jaw. I finally give in and peer up at him. His face remains impassive, giving me little to go on.
Do girlfriends lie to their boyfriends and hide jail visits? Probably not.
“Joel Jonas—not to
be confused with Joe Jonas, though it happens all the time.” I shake myself from my thoughts, gaze flicking over Joel. Now that he points it out, he kind of has a whole Jonas Brothers vibe, which is kind of funny with the name. I sneak a peek at Link. His lips lift at the corners and I know he sees it too.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Joel adds.
“Thank you,” I utter. I’m a little surprised Link told him, but I guess a realtor needs to know these things in order to match us with a home that will meet our needs.
“If you’re ready?” Joel prompts, opening the front door.
We begin in the front room. I automatically look for the things I will need to change to ensure it’s secure. It’s a reflex. I’ve done a lot over the years to guarantee my current place is as safe as it can be.
Next, I look for anything and everything wrong with the place. If I self-sabotage, then it won’t hurt as badly when it all blows up.
The large windows lining one side of the wall, though gorgeous, are a little worrisome. I don’t like the idea of people being able to see in. It can easily be fixed by covering them with blinds and curtains. There’s so much glass, though, and glass can easily be broken.
I notice the room needs a new coat of paint. Other than that, I can’t find a single other thing wrong, aesthetically or security-wise, so far. There’s a stone fireplace that I can already envision using on cold evenings and the wooden floors are old, but someone took very good care of the rich dark wood.
It makes my heart ache.
We move into the dining room and I realize this house appears to be a big circle, most of the rooms leading right into the next. Link is less interested in the dining area, slipping into the kitchen almost immediately. Whoever lived here last enjoyed cooking. It’s clear with just one look. No detail was overlooked in making this space gorgeous and functional.
Grit (Dirty #6) Page 10
