by Emerson Rose
“Troy. Come here,” she shouts, and I turn my head to the side. The ocean breeze blows my hair away from my face, and I see poor Troy standing on the edge of the bonfire, where he’s frozen mid-stride. He must have been coming to see about Savannah and stopped when he saw me getting sick. Now, he’s being summoned closer to the scene, and it’s clear that he would rather turn and walk through the blazing fire than come any closer.
“It’s okay. Don’t make him come. He’s freaking out.”
“I need help getting you to the car so I can take you home.”
“I can drive myself. I don’t want you to have to leave the party because of me.” She bends over and gives me a don’t be a moron look.
“We’re taking you home. You can’t drive, and I’m going to buy a pregnancy test at the drugstore so we can make sure you’re not carrying a prince or princess in there.” Her eyes move to my belly and back to my face.
“Stop saying that,” I yell, but she ignores me and takes my arm to help me toward Troy.
“We’re taking her home,” she says, trudging through the sand past Troy with me leaning heavily against her. Troy mumbles a weak protest, and Savannah whips her head around, smacking me in the face with the ends of her wild blonde hair. I can only imagine the look she’s giving him, because even with his obvious barf phobia, he’s jogging to catch up with us.
I manage not to throw up in Savannah’s Durango. The nausea is only mildly annoying by the time we’re home. My house is empty and still as she helps me to bed. She says she’ll be right back. She’s going to the closest twenty-four hour Walgreens for a home pregnancy test.
I don’t want her to. I don’t even want to entertain the idea that I could be . . . I can’t even think it, although it has been a faint whisper in the back of my mind the entire time I’ve been sick. I cannot be that girl, the dumb girl who gets knocked up before college and drops out, giving up on her dreams. But what if I am? Oh God, my life will be over. My parents will disown me, I’ll lose my scholarship to Juilliard, my dream of playing with The New York Philharmonic Orchestra will go up in smoke—sixteen years of blood, sweat and tears over.
My heart is pounding, and I’m shaking uncontrollably when I hop up, fling my comforter back, and race to my bathroom. I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face over and over until the vanity counter is covered in pools and the mirror is speckled with drops of water.
I look up into my terrified eyes. I thought this was over. I was starting to accept that the thing with King was just a huge mistake, probably one of many in my young adult life. But if I’m pregnant, it’s much more than just a mistake. It’s a barrier to my future as big and wide as the Grand Canyon, expansive and impossible to cross and dangerous as hell.
It’s one thing to get pregnant with some kid my own age, but to get pregnant with a dangerous drug lord who has more enemies than I can imagine . . .
“NO. I am not pregnant, and that’s final,” I yell aloud to no one but myself.
I grab a towel and wipe my face and mop the counter and mirror. When I’m done, I go back to my room, turn on the lights, straighten the bed linens, and get out my violin.
I don’t even hear Savannah when she returns. I’m exactly where I want to be, lost in the music, where no one can steal my dreams or crush my heart, where real life won't rear its ugly head and wreak havoc on my future with an unexpected baby.
She gently touches my shoulder, and I jump a foot off the ground and drop my lifeline to sanity—my bow.
She holds up a box containing two pregnancy tests and bites her lip. I squeeze my eyes closed until I see multicolored sparkles behind my lids. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to know. She carefully removes the violin from my tight grip and leads me to the bathroom, where my fate will be proven revealed and sealed.
Chapter 20
King
“King . . . do you have a minute?” Sebastián stands just inside my office door, looking paler than I’ve ever seen him.
“Yeah, sure. You okay, old man?” I lean back in my chair, and the leather upholstery strains against my weight while a knot forms in my gut. Something doesn’t feel right. His usual confident stride is stiff and full of tension when he crosses my office. I watch as he carefully lowers himself into the chair across from me, crossing his legs and dragging his hand down his face, sighing.
“No, King, I’m not. I have something to tell you, and I’m not sure how to do it.”
“You’re kind of worrying me, man. What’s going on? Somebody die or something?”
“I received a phone call this morning, and I’ve spent most of the day confirming the information given to me. I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but now that I know it’s true, it’s necessary.
“Necessary to worry me about what, Sebastián?” He’s a straightforward guy who doesn’t usually beat around the bush. I’ve always liked that about him, but right now, Sebastián is making me nervous. He won’t meet my eyes as he rubs his palms on his thighs.
“It’s about Miss Bennett,” he says, meeting my eyes.
“Holland?” I haven’t spoken her name for weeks, and when I do, a familiar ache begins in my chest again. I’m on my feet in seconds, pushing my chair back against the wall so hard that I hear the faint crack of plaster crumbling onto the floor. Sebastián is up too, backing away from me, holding his hands out in front of him. I told him to keep her safe. There were supposed to be eyes on her twenty-four seven. If something’s happened to her, so help me . . .
“Yes, King. She’s fine, she hasn’t been hurt, she’s fine. Calm down.”
I’m toe to toe with him now, and my vision has gone blurry and red.
“You come in here all cryptic and freaked out, tell me this is about Holland, and expect me to calm down. What the fuck is going on?” I roar.
He steps back and behind a wing back chair for protection from the potential blowback. He isn’t afraid, but he did watch me suffer when Holland was cut from my life, so he knows that any news about her could make me lose my shit. Sebastián is just being cautious.
“Her mother contacted me,” he says, inching around the chair away from me.
“Her mother? Why on earth would her mother be calling you?” I follow him around the chair.
“King . . .” We are playing ring around the chair at this point, and my blood is pounding in my temples.
“Sebastián, you’d better spit it out before I fucking strangle it out of you.” My words vibrate from my lips. My entire body is shaking.
“She says Holland is pregnant and that you’re the father, King. She’s threatening to go to the authorities if you don’t speak to Holland and get her to have an abortion.”
Time stands still. I stare into Sebastián’s eyes. His words travel through my ears and into my brain, where they are slowly absorbed. The connecter between audible and processed thoughts seems to have gone on vacation, though, and the words ‘Holland is pregnant’ are stranded at the train station, unable to be understood.
“She’s very adamant that her daughter is going to Juilliard this fall, and she wants you to pay her tuition and encourage Holland to have an abortion in exchange for her silence about your business.”
The only words that have been allowed onto the train platform in my brain are Holland, pregnant, abortion and Juilliard. The rest of them disintegrate in the air between us, unimportant and insignificant.
She wasn’t on birth control. Why did she lie? She was drunk and she said she never drinks. Why didn’t I think about that? Oh God, she was probably a virgin. Things are beginning to make sense—the pain, the look of surprise on her face, the speckles of blood. Fuck, how did I let this happen?
I’m on autopilot as I stalk out of the apartment and through the empty club down to the parking garage. Sebastián stumbles out of the elevator a few moments after me, yelling something about blackmail and flying off the handle. I slam the door of the Rover, blocking out Sebastián’s warnings, and jam the vo
ice command button before I pull out of my spot. I cruise past a very distraught Sebastián and watch him yell and wave his arms all over like one of those air dancer blow-up characters outside the car dealerships. I keep my eyes straight ahead, but when I look in the rearview mirror, he’s sprinting toward a car to follow me. That’s all right with me. I might need some backup.
“Phone.” I say, and a pleasant robotic female voice asks if I’d like to dial by number or name.
“Name.” The hands-free device beeps, and a lump forms in my throat when I speak her name for the second time in weeks.
“Holland Bennett.” I’m surprised Sebastián didn’t remove her from my auto dial list.
“Dialing Holland Bennett,” says the disembodied voice.
I have no idea what I’m going to say, I just need to speak to her. I need to know if it’s true. I need to hear her say it with my own ears . . . we’re having a baby. Oh my God, a baby.
I’ve become a master at repressing my desire for Holland. There was no hope, no way to fix this. I buried it deep in that garden of temptation, and I’ve stayed far, far away from it.
And now . . . now there may be a life growing inside of her, a life that we created, a life that will permanently tie us together forever . . . the thought is mind blowing.
Every muscle in my body burns and twitches when I think of holding her in my arms again. My heart aches to tell her how much I need her. Surprisingly, I have no doubts about whether or not I want her to have our baby. If she is indeed pregnant, I do. I need her to know that I’ll be there for her every step of the way, that I’ll take care of her and keep her safe. If she will have me—fuck that. She will have me. I’m not taking no for an answer. This is my child too.
I drag my hand through my hair and punch the steering wheel. Goddamn it, Sebastián had better have his facts straight. If there’s no baby and I go barging back into her life . . . no, he wouldn’t tell me something like this if he weren’t sure, and he was sure.
Speeding and weaving in and out of traffic, his words begin to sort themselves out in my mind. Her mother wants to blackmail me? Really? She has no idea who she’s dealing with. I have the law in my back pocket all over the world, but much more so here in Houston and Miami, where I need insiders to keep the flow of drugs moving smoothly across the border from Mexico and into the ports of Miami. Nobody is going to blackmail King Romero, and nobody will be fucking murdering my child. As far as paying for Holland to go to Juilliard, fuck yeah, I would have done that anyway if they had asked. I don’t take kindly to threats, and Holland’s mom is about to find that out the hard way.
“No answer.” The feminine robotic voice says. I didn’t really expect her to answer. Her mother is probably monitoring her calls, waiting to see what I’m going to do. What am I going to do?
Glancing in my rearview mirror, I see Sebastián floating through traffic, following me at a discrete distance in my Bugatti. He would choose that car. He loves it, and I never let him drive it.
“Call Sebastián,” I say, and instantly we are connected.
“I see you. Hang back in case I need you. I’m going to her friend’s house across the street, Savannah, remember?”
“Yes, sir, how could I forget?” If I know Sebastián—and I do—he’s rolling his eyes when he sighs into the phone. Savannah caused quite a fuss that first night in the club while trying to find Holland, and Sebastián was the one who had to deal with her bossy, overbearing, sassy mouth.
Sebastián is a very dominant man. The only person in this world that he takes orders from is me. He’s assertive and powerful. The people under him in my organization fear him, and rightly so. When he gives an order, they know it’s not just their job on the line. It’s their life if it’s not carried out to his liking.
I was proud of him for keeping his cool while dealing with the intoxicated, demanding girl who was insisting that her best friend had been roofied and kidnapped.
Fifteen long ass minutes later, I’m pulling into Savannah’s driveway, trying to decide whether to barge in or call first. The adrenaline bubbling up inside me makes the decision, and I jump out and head up the shallow flight of steps in front of her modest middle-class home. I ring the bell and turn to face Holland’s house directly across the street. It’s similar to Savannah’s except the lawn is manicured and the house is maintained better. A train whistles in the distance, and just when I’m about to bang on the door, it swings open and the air around me seems to go missing.
“Holland,” I whisper. My voice has abandoned me. She’s even more beautiful than I remembered, if that’s even possible. Her eyes widen and she clutches the doorframe as she staggers back, and her hand flies protectively to her abdomen. That one natural, instinctual reaction is all I needed . . . we’re having a baby. Being this close to Holland again jump starts my heart and calms my soul. No one else affects me this way. She’s my home, and I’ve been away far too long.
“King . . . what are you doing here?” Her voice is quiet and timid, almost afraid.
“I think you know very well why I’m here.” I raise my hand to caress her cheek, but she turns away. I gently take her chin and turn it back, but she bows her head, unwilling to meet my eyes.
“Holland, you can’t push me away. This is something we have to face together, no matter what the world says about our age or our careers, no matter what you think of me and what I am. This child, our child, is more important than any of that.” I step into her space and place my hand over hers on her belly. “I’m not leaving you alone in this. Can I come inside so we can talk? If you say no, I’ll pick you up and take you somewhere else anyway, so . . .”
“Well in that case, yes, I guess you’d better come in.” She steps aside to let me pass. As I move past her, I take her hand in mine and lead her into the living room, where Savannah is watching television in her swimsuit.
“Holy shit.” She drops the bag of chips she was eating onto the couch, and her mouth hangs open with a few chips still visible.
“Nice to see you too, Savannah. Can we have some privacy?” I know it’s rude to ask her to leave the room in her own house, but I don’t care. I need to be alone with Holland.
“You’re asking me to leave my own living room so you can make my best friend feel like shit?” she yells, unfolding her legs from underneath her to scoot to the edge of the couch. ‘Mama bear’ looks like she’s preparing to launch off the couch and attack me—a man five times her body mass. She’s annoying as fuck, but I have to admit that I love her fierce loyalty and protectiveness.
“Hold on, firecracker.” I hold up my hand.
“I’m here to help and offer support, and you have to admit that we have some things to talk about.” She’s on her feet now, with her hands clenched into little fists at her sides. We both look at Holland for direction, and when I glance back at Savannah, she’s looking at our hands. She raises her brows high before returning her eyes to Holland, but she doesn’t pull away or drop my hand.
“Are you okay with this? I mean do you want me to leave? I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone with him, Holland. He’s a drug deal—”
“That’s enough,” I say, cutting her off.
“I’m not here to discuss how I earn my living.” I face Holland and take her other hand, placing them together in mine. “I just want to talk, that’s all.” She nods, and Savannah huffs off, stomping down the hall and leaving us alone.
“Just yell if he upsets you. I’ve got Daddy’s shotgun back here, and I know how to use it,” she yells over her shoulder.
Fuck. Savannah and a shotgun. Just what I need today.
“Don’t worry, I don’t think she really knows how to shoot it,” Holland says, shaking her head.
“I heard that, and yes I do,” Savannah yells and slams a door somewhere down the hall.
“She’s all bark and no bite.” One corner of her mouth lifts in a small smile and she shrugs.
“I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” Her voice is muffled against the jacket of my suit, and as much as I don’t want to, I release my hold on her. As soon as I do, she takes two big steps away and begins wringing her hands. I fucking hate seeing her unnerved because of me.
“For leaving without saying goodbye, for putting you in this position, for not suspecting, for not knowing. My eyes slide down her long, delicate neck, past her perfect breasts, and rest on her abdomen.
“You couldn’t know. I didn’t even know. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Can we sit down?”
She nods, and I move to the couch where there is plenty of room for her to sit next to me, but she takes the overstuffed chair across from me instead.
“So no birth control, huh?” Her head drops into her hands, and I see a big tear fall from behind the veil of her hair and splat on the hardwood floor between her feet. I want to go to her and kiss her tears away and comfort her, but she’s made it clear that she needs distance.
“My doctor said I had endometriosis. I didn’t think . . .”
“How long have you known?”
“A week.”
“Look at me, Holland.”
She sniffs loudly, and I look around for a box of tissue. I spot one on an end table and hand her the whole box.
She lifts her head, meeting my eyes, and my heart cracks down the center into two pitiful pieces when I see the tears streaming down her face. I’ve never seen her cry, and I vow in this moment to do whatever it takes to keep from ever seeing it again.
