by Eros, Marata
It's soft and dark—noiseless.
Pictures line the walls. Great men gaze dispassionately back at me—inventors, writers, and even a few presidents.
The door anchors the middle of the wall that I approach. I feel their eyes watch me from inside their imperious frames.
Mick's name scrolls in full across the door and I learn his middle name.
Jared Ulysses McKenna.
It makes me wonder what the baby's name will be.
Muffled voices reach me, and I hesitate as my tummy does a little flop.
Thorn had assured me he'd be alone, that he'd be receptive.
With effort, I shore up my weak confidence.
I move my hand from my rioting stomach to the doorknob. The metal grows warm as I hesitate like a chicken. I suck in a huge breath and open the door. I walk inside and stop in my tracks at the scene before me.
Mick stands in the center of his office, a wall of glass overlooking the city.
His city.
Soft music plays as a beautiful woman gyrates in front of him.
Her pendulous breasts sway to the rhythm of a song I don't recognize. Long chestnut hair touches the small of her back, a jeweled g-string bisecting her ass.
She must see his expression. She stops dancing, turning to look at me.
Cat-like green eyes run up and down my body. Dismissing me.
“I...” I stagger backward, almost losing my balance. From the front, I notice the triangle of cloth barely covers her goods.
The mystery girl smirks.
“Wait your turn, skank.”
Skank?
“Christy!” Mick says in a sharp reprimand.
I choose that moment to have a morning sickness bout like never before. I drop to my knees, vomiting on Mick's pristine carpet.
“Faren.” His voice is close.
At the moment, Mick's concern means nothing.
I've just seen him with a half-naked woman days after he dumped me.
When my stomach is empty, I feel a hand on my elbow.
“Oooh! Fucking sick!” the lovely bitch whines.
I'm too overwhelmed to notice. I'm dizzy and revolted.
Shattered.
I look at the mess I've made.
The sight makes me feel a little better. If I had the energy, I'd smile. There's a poetic justice to being sick in the middle of Mick's little soiree.
“Let go of me,” I say, tearing my elbow out of his grasp.
His earnest eyes plead with me. “This is not what it looks like.”
Oh, I'm so sure.
He makes me want to barf again. On him.
Gotta work on my aim. I bark out a laugh that sounds more than a little crazy.
I back away, glancing at the girl again.
I look at Mick.
I flip off the girl, smoothly channeling Kiki.
Another feel good.
I look at Mick as if I can light him on fire from my gaze alone. “I can't believe I misjudged you so.” Angry tears run down my face.
“Faren!” Mick calls after me.
Fat lot of fucking good it does.
I spin back around to face him, and he stops inches from me.
I slap him so hard my wrist feels broken.
It also feels wonderful.
“Bastard.”
He grabs my wrist and cranks my arm behind my back. I feel my body tense, waiting for the beat down. The one that Ronnie always gave me. His death has made old wounds and fears resurface like oil on brackish water.
I think of my peanut.
“Please, don't hurt me.”
I know I smell like puke, and my fear made me stupid—reactive.
He leans forward, nuzzling my neck.
It's so unexpected, I flinch.
He ignores me, burying hot wet pleasure on my throat with his lips. “I will never hurt you.”
Mick releases my wrist and steps away.
Our eyes meet, and the naked woman walks up to lay a possessive hand on his bare forearm.
I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight of her fingers as they curl around his arm. Her ebony nails shout from his skin like beetles.
“Who's this dumb bitch?” she asks.
My spine straightens. I answer Mick, though his comment didn't require a response, “You already have.”
I don't wait.
I vanish again.
This time for good.
~ 11 ~
Thursday
I squeeze Mom's hand.
She squeezes back. “Tell me, Faren.”
My chin dips. I thought the well of my tears had run dry, but one comes. Many others join the first.
When I've had a good bawl, I get out the first words. “I'm pregnant.”
Mom smiles with benevolence. “I know.”
I feel my shock register.
“Mothers know these things.”
“How?” I ask.
She strokes my cheek. “I just do. And… you've been looking a little green around the gills.”
I think that's the understatement of the year, but I say nothing. Her situation is so much more profound than my little bit of pregnancy puke.
“Is it Mick's?”
I give a single, miserable nod.
Her eyes are steady on me. “What is he going to do?”
“He doesn't want me.”
I can't tell her why. She can't know I'm terminal.
My mom's eyebrow lifts, and she gives a small cough. I bend forward with the sippy cup, feeling a sense of double vision that she's actually here now. A surreal doubling of reality and wishfulness collide. Her existence is a hope I'd left behind years ago. My heart soars to have this window of time with my mom.
“I find that hard to believe.” She sweeps her palm at me. “Look at you, my gorgeous girl.”
My face heats, and my bad hand closes around my cheek. “Mom…”
“I know you think I’m prejudiced, darling, but how many model types are running around with a set of smarts wedged between their ears, eh?”
I don't know how to respond to that. I'm a former stripper who can't keep food down, was dumped by her billionaire boyfriend, and has months to live. Things don't seem golden.
“When are you due?”
I do the math and come up with roughly Christmas Day.
“Fantastic!” Mom exclaims. “Just the gift I'm looking for.”
She's too good in her assessments, not judging—all support. It makes me feel like shit for not telling her everything.
It makes me know that I can't.
“I'm not married... I'm going to be a single mom... I've made bad choices,” I mumble. It doesn't matter that it was accidental. At the end of the day, another life is depending on me.
“Faren, look at me.”
I slowly raise my chin.
“My grandchild is not a bad choice. You don't have to be married to be loved.”
I open my mouth to deny Mick loves me. Old Tonka Tit proved it. My worth is so little that he was interviewing strippers in his office.
Her face becomes deadly serious.
“And if a young woman can survive Ron, become a physical therapist, and take care of her mother who’s in a coma? Then I think she can manage to take care of her child. Besides”—she squeezes my knee—“you have me now.”
“Mom...” I want her to concentrate on her recovery, not trying to bail me out of my unlucky circumstances.
“No arguments. Now I have a goal that will see me through the horror of my noodle appendages.”
I sigh. “That's normal.”
“Well, I don't have to like it, do I?”
I shake my head. She's got a solid six months before she'll walk unassisted.
But she will.
“When's Kandace stopping by for a visit?”
Between her studies and poles, she's barely free to breathe.
“Soon.”
The silence is awkward, and I know Mom's going to ask me some tough questio
ns. Call it a hunch.
“So—Mick?”
“Yeah,” I reply, sounding grumpy.
Her eyes grow round. “Will he take care of the baby? Because he certainly possesses the means.”
Yes, he does.
I think about his tender regard for me as he showered kisses like falling flower petals against my stomach.
“Yes. He's going to be a part of all of it. Even though we're not together.”
“How did this happen?” Mom asks.
I laugh. I can't help it.
She does too. “Obviously, I understand the mechanics.” Her dry voice reminds me of better times.
My smile fades. “I was on the pill and borrowed some of Kiki's migraine medication. The combo made me...”
“Fertile Mertile.”
“Ah...”
“Just an expression.” Mom smiles.
“Kind of a weird one!”
Her smile becomes tight around the edges before it fades. “You're looking too thin, Faren.”
“I can't keep anything down but Kiki's jello.”
Mom groans. “No more of that. When I was pregnant with you, I ate graham crackers and milk.”
My lips quirk. Interesting combination.
“You get calcium, and the body's stomach acids are somewhat neutralized by the crackers; they're very neutral.”
A thought strikes me. “Did you have cravings?”
“You're too early for that, but yes.” She cocks her head to the side.
“Corn on the cob and peanut M&Ms.”
I barely make it to the commode.
The remnants of Jello float in the water, and I slap the lid down to hide the sight.
“Faren!”
I sigh, my fingertips gripping the edge of the toilet seat. My bad hand covers my nose and mouth.
“Just a sec.”
*
I delete another text from Mick after I tell him: If it's not about my mom or peanut, I don't want to hear it.
I don't want to hear lies and excuses or feel like I was never special.
I'm having a good day. I got dry toast down in the morning, glorious graham crackers and milk for lunch, and now I'm looking in Kiki's cabinet for more of the gross/manageable Jello.
My cell vibrates on her granite island.
I read the text twice, wondering if it’s a ploy. I decide it isn't.
I unwrap my damp hair from the towel, dab on minimalist makeup, and throw on clothes.
I get mad when I check the mirror before I leave, adding another layer of lipstick. Who cares if I look pretty for Mick?
I do.
I swipe my car keys off the counter to meet with the lawyers, Mick and Thorn.
I don't need the pregnancy to make my stomach churn.
*
“He’ll go to prison,” the first of four lawyers says.
It's a ping-pong match as the second leans forward, his black monochromatic ensemble broken only by a blood-red tie. “Even if that end is assured, we must erase all trace of Mr. McKenna's involvement.”
The third lawyer looks as if he has Irish blood, his carrot hair and piercing green eyes are accentuated by an emerald bow tie.
Who wears those?
“It's a sordid clusterfuck. Sorry, McKenna, just saying it like it is.”
He actually is Irish.
Mick nods. “I know how it looks. However, if Thorn and I—”
“Who?” the fourth mouthpiece asks in a lilt.
“Tyson Simpson,” Irish supplies.
“Ah.” He tilts his head back in understanding.
Mick sighs. “If it hadn't been for Ty and me, then Miss Mitchell would not be sitting here.”
“And she carries your child?” Monochromatic inquires.
My head explodes in flames. I want a bucket of water to put out the raging inferno of embarrassment.
Irish assesses my expression. “Full disclosure, lass.”
Oh Jesus, that somehow makes it so much better.
Not.
Thorn chuckles, shaking his head.
“I don't find anything funny at these proceedings, Simpson.”
Thorn looks at the fourth lawyer. “Yeah? Well, your lack of humor doesn't stop me from thinking this whole thing blows.” His looks at them with a sweeping scorn and gives a grunt of disgust. “This prick Tagger 'might' go to prison? That loose cannon has been gunning for Mick and me for a decade. He was using her stepdad as some kind of informant, and he tried to frame me. Can anyone say rinse and repeat?”
“Thorn—” Mick begins.
Thorn scrubs his head. “Nah, bro, fuck this.”
Irish is the only lawyer who looks unperturbed by the colorful Thorn, who continues, unfettered by convention.
I wish I had an ounce of Thorn, I think wistfully.
Irish's eyes slant down on me. “You said that Tagger 'cornered' you and Miss…” Irish runs a perfectly manicured finger down his notes. He taps once as he reaches Kiki's name. “King?”
I nod.
Mick's face darkens. “When did this happen?”
He wasn't around for my deposition.
“A few days ago.”
“See?” Thorn says, slapping his palm down on the table and I jump. “This prick doesn't feel accountable. He thinks because he's a boy in blue, he'll just get away with it. But no!” His eyes scrutinize everyone there. “He admitted to going after me. He let Bunce go and did the kamikaze and hauled off Faren. Then he got shot by one of the other cops.”
“They're claiming friendly fire,” Monochromatic says.
“Bullshit,” Thorn answers instantly.
“He still might walk. However, he's not locked down very tight until this comes to trial.”
“Clearly,” I mutter. I can't wait until Tagger's out of my life. Just the threat of him popping up tightens my stomach.
He and Jay. The worst complications.
Of course that's when I get a text from Jay.
Jay: I need to see you. Make amends.
Me: No—Mick and I are over. So you can stop worrying about it. Just do your deal with Mick and never text me again.
Jay: I like that you're not with Mick. He's not worthy of you, Faren.
I roll my eyes. Creep.
Me: Stop texting me.
“Faren?”
I look up.
“Are we boring you?” Mick asks, eyeing my phone.
I slip it into my handbag. “No. I'm not bored. I'm excited.” I nod and stand.
Mick's eyebrows rise.
“I'm so excited to be here talking about a crooked cop and how he might skirt justice. So thrilled to be pregnant with a child whose mother isn't who McKenna wants.”
The lawyers look at me as if I've sprouted a second head.
I'm on a roll like a locomotive without a depot.
“I'm so fucking stoked to be dying and still have to make everyone else feel good about it that I can hardly stand myself.”
It's an epic fail. Full fucking disclosure, Faren-style.
I swing my purse strap onto my shoulder.
I look at the lawyers, then at Mick.
Their shocked faces are almost worth it.
“Now, I'm taking my excitement with me.”
“Faren.”
I hear a chair scrape.
I smell his clean sharp scent before I feel his hand on my shoulder.
“Get away from me, Mick. You have your life.”
I turn and look at him over my shoulder.
“And I have what's left of mine.”
I jerk my shoulder out of his grip and slip through the conference door.
It shuts quietly behind me.
~ 12 ~
I swish smocks through the closet, looking for just the right one. I'm not one to complain, but Kiki's guest closet is even smaller than my old apartment’s.
My work scrubs are crammed to the extreme left, and cardboard boxes are stacked floor to ceiling in every corner of the room. A twin bed and tall old dre
sser face each other, and a window absorbs the center of the wall that looks out over Puget Sound.
My mood is shit. The lawyer meeting and ensuing aftertaste feels as if I chugged a diet pop in ten seconds flat.
Just thinking about chugging makes me gulp hard against the gorge that rises.
I take out Spongebob. It fits my snarky mood. I have my CAT scan with Matthews and will have to fill him in on the pregnancy. That’ll be the most fun I've had since this all began. I can hear his irresponsibility lecture now. And I can't really tell him who the father is.
I'm sure it won't be okay for my child's future for people to associate peanut with me. Mick would have to protect he/she from my past as a stripper. Dying. Bunce. I'm all kinds of bad news.
I blow hair from my face.
I don't let pity tears fall but they fill my eyeballs. I hold them wide so the tears gather but remain unshed.
I go through the motions of getting ready, deciding on a braid to keep my hair out of my face and not smelling the perfume from my shampoo is a plus.
I pack my lunch of crackers with my thermos of milk and set off.
I keep working my bad hand and manage to stave off the spasms with alternating applied heat and strength training for the most part.
I use it now to drive the key into my car lock and turn it fluidly. I slide into my car and turn over the engine.
I watch the crystal spin from the rearview mirror.
Shifting into reverse, I follow the arrows out of the parking garage.
I wait my turn as the arm moves up and down, allowing vehicles out.
The other side allows a limo in.
I'd recognize it anywhere.
My eyes meet Henry's for only a second or two, but I see what I need to.
Compassion, understanding.
I turn away, accelerating under the yellow and white arm.
I go to my job by rote alone. I'm on some kind of autopilot. I wonder how Mick feels—is he robotic?
A vision of the bitch stripper fills my mind.
Probably not.
I park and head to the clinic.
I'm not so dead inside that I don't pause before opening the heavy glass door.
The cherry trees have buds in the deepest pink, like gems waiting to burst, and they lift my heart.
