* * *
I lock my phone screen and look for the exit closest to the short-term parking garage. On my way out, I stop in the ladies’ restroom and get rid of the diaper. I feel like a winner because it’s clean. As soon as Bethany texts me the parking spot number, I drag my suitcase along, feeling so weak.
The first thing I notice is her naturally bright red hair. Her hair is like Mom’s, and mine is dark like Dad’s. She has the trunk open when I arrive, and puts my suitcase inside before pulling me into her arms.
“Oh my gosh, I missed you so much, little sis! Jeez, have you lost weight? All I feel is bone on your back and ribs on your chest. Please don’t tell me you’re dieting.” She pulls back and studies my face. “Damn girl, you look like shit!”
I nod. “Nice to see you too, Beth. Can we go home now?”
“Of course. I have a few bottles of water in case you haven’t had anything to drink.”
“Great. It’s probably best if I have it when we get to your place,” I say, refusing to risk having to stop on a Colorado freeway to take a dump and throw up at the same time.
After I give her the run down on how horribly wrong my flight went, she has a puzzled look on her face.
“Sounds like the twenty-four-hour flu bug,” she says. “Either that, or you’re pregnant.”
All the air leaves my lungs.
“Don’t joke around like that, Beth. The way I’ve been feeling for the last two weeks. It’s been awful. Please don’t jinx me.”
She glances over at me. “Okay, but when was your last period?”
“Oh that’s easy. It was on...” I grab my phone, unlocking the screen, then open up my electronic notepad. I log the start and end date in here every month like clockwork. “It was on...”
“Go on,” she presses. “When was it?”
I look at the note and scratch my head.
“Hmmm. Today is July seventh, so that means...”
Oh God. The last entry in my notepad is May fifteenth to eighteenth.
“I don’t know how this happened.” I look over at her, already weak, and now, in a fit of panic. “I’m over three weeks late.”
“Oh. Wow.” Bethany check her mirrors and flicks on her right indicator lights. She makes a couple of lane changes, getting off the next exit ramp. A few minutes after, she parks at a big retail superstore. “Give me a few minutes.”
She goes inside and returns within minutes. “Here you go,” she says, then thrusts a plastic bag onto my lap and starts her car.
I don’t need to look inside the thin, flimsy white bag. There are seven or eight pregnancy tests in there, each one a different brand.
“Oh God,” I moan, my body weak.
“The birth control clinic in town is open today, but as you don’t feel well, I’ll set up an appointment for tomorrow morning. You’re going to need some rest after all these tests come back positive.”
“Gee, I’m so glad you have such faith in me, sis.”
“I’m going on instinct. My gut tells me you’re carrying that asshole’s baby. Let’s just get the results and we’ll go from there. Everything will be fine. I’ll take care of it.”
If I’m pregnant, I also don’t have a job, the father isn’t talking to me, Mom and Dad are going to go nuts when they find out, and I’m nowhere close to being ready to be a single mother.
Somehow, I don’t feel so sure of anything.
20
Knox
I lean back in my swivel chair a few days after my underground fight, looking at Foster across my office desk. He’s been here for twenty minutes. He’s just sitting there, distracting my attempts to catch up with work after an extended long weekend.
“Don’t the guys over at that hedge fund company give you real work to do?” I ask as he walks over to the small bar area in one corner of the office.
He opens the built-in minibar and bends forward, checking out what’s inside. “A six-pack of beer, dude? That’s all you put in this deep, big-ass fridge? You can fit a whole case in here.” As he stands he reveals the two beers in his hand with the lids off, and brings one over to me. “I bring in business over there. Investor relations and shit. You know what that means?”
“No.” I take a swig of beer and swallow the perfectly cold liquid, then set the bottle on a coaster at the edge of my desk. “But I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”
“It means that right this second, I’m working.”
“Doing what? Depleting my alcohol stash?”
He shakes his head. “No. But that reminds me. Do you remember that summer Pops cut off your allowance and made you take on a paper route as punishment for disrespecting him?”
I roll my eyes and return my gaze to the emails all waiting for my response. “I remember. I don’t have time to walk down memory lane with your lazy ass.”
“I seem to recall you were the lazy one. You got in so much crap with the neighbors. Throwing those newspapers from your bike into CCTV cameras, breaking automatic gate consoles…shit, and remember those two Rottweilers that Mr. Patinski owned? They ate the paper,” he says and bursts out laughing. “He complained that he didn’t get his paper, and you told him the dogs ate it. Mr. Patinski got your ass fired…from a paper route, dude.”
I cross my arms and wait for him to get his laughter under control. “What are you really doing here, man? I got shit to do.”
“You do realize that you and your grandfather have invested close to thirty mil with us, right? That makes you an investor. And right now, we’re talking and sipping cold ones. We’re relating. See? Investor relations.”
“Fucking slacker.”
“Whatever.” He takes a quick look at his phone, and tucks it back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “On that, you should really think about throwing in another twenty mil. We’re about to look at an international commercial project that’ll have a footprint in seventy major cities. It’s right up your alley.”
“Sounds okay. Email me the details and I’ll get the risk management guys to look it over.”
“Will do.”
My phone buzzes while I check through the numerous corporate emails that I missed since I left the office last Thursday night. As usual, I ignore the phone and keep focused on the computer monitor, replying to the simpler ones, sending others along for review, and approving others where it makes sense to do so. I look up and notice Foster scrolling through my fucking phone.
“Put that shit down,” I tell him, but I see him empty his beer, then places both of his hands on my phone and begins to tap away on it. “What the fuck, man? Leave that alone.”
“I’m fixing something,” he says, and continues to key in a long-ass string of God knows what.
“I don’t need you to fix shit for me.”
His eyes alone move as he looks up from the screen, only glancing at me for a split second. “You fucking do, if you haven’t replied to even one of your girlfriend’s texts.”
“If you want to fix my woman problems so fucking bad, why don’t you just use your own damn phone and talk to her yourself. She’s your friend too.”
“Maybe she was, but not anymore. I tried to cover for your ass after you went off to college. She didn’t like it all that much. Blocked my number and shit.”
“What? What the hell did you tell her to make her block you? And how do you know for sure that she blocked your number?”
“I know because she told me. In a text. It went something like, ‘Foster, this is a courtesy text. I don’t want to hear from you anymore. Trying to cheer me up by showing me dick pics is not just inappropriate. It’s gross. I’m blocking you in my phone the second after this text goes through. Bye.’ But you’re missing the point.”
“You fucking idiot!” I shout. “You sent her dick pics?”
“It wasn’t my dick. It was online stuff from those triple-X rated websites. And for the record, I was simply explaining to her that you’re at college, that at least you didn’t run off to some porn m
ovie set to start starring in X-rated movies like the ones at the link in that text. It was one fucking time, and she blocked me after that.”
“You’re really an idiot, son of a bitch.” I stretch my body over my desk and try to take the phone from him, but he swivels back and continues to type in a message. “Leave it alone, Foster. I’ll beat the shit out of you if you don’t stop what you’re doing and put the phone down now.”
He doesn’t stop. “You’re overdue to get your ass kicked, so sure,” he mutters. “Bring it.”
This idiot is going to make me break half the furniture in here if he keeps this shit up. “Fine. Take the fucking phone. Reply to Isabelle for all I care. Just get the fuck out so I can at least get some work done.”
He gets to his feet, but sets down the phone before turning to leave. “All right, bruh. I’m out. Took care of that drama for you too.”
Snatching up the phone, I unlock the screen to check my texts. I want to know what kind of damage this idiot has done. Except, my secretary’s voice comes over my desk phone intercom at the same time.
“Mr. Steele?” she calls out, her voice frantic.
“What’s up?” I answer.
“A call just came in from Mount Sinai. I’m sorry, sir. It’s your grandfather.”
My body tenses at the mention of Pops. “What happened?” I ask.
“They need you to go in. They said it’s urgent.”
I scoop up my phone and keys, and tell my secretary I’ll be there as soon as I can on my way down the hall to the elevators.
This can’t be the call.
I refuse to believe it.
It’s too fucking soon.
21
Knox
A nurse at the hospital reception desk looks up Pops’ information for me when I arrive at the main intake area. “Morris Steele. He’s been placed in a private room in the emergency ward,” she informs me. “Room one-nineteen. It’s down this hall. Follow the green footsteps all the way around to the back. You can’t miss it.”
I’m confused. “Miss, can you check again? My grandfather should be in the oncology unit, not emergency.”
“There’s no mistake,” she says. “He was admitted for a laceration to the head and a possible concussion, caused by a slip and fall accident of some kind. He’s in room one-nineteen. When you get there, ask the desk nurse there to call the attending physician. They’ll review the status and prognosis with you.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I rush through the hallways, unable to breathe. My chest is heavy, and I can’t think straight. It’s bad enough that Pops has to deal with being terminal. How did he end up falling? The guilt builds up in my chest to overflowing. This is all my fault. I should’ve hired someone to be with him full time. I shouldn’t just take the man’s word that he’s fine. He’s a proud old fool. He’d never admit to being weak or tired. This shit is on me.
“Pops,” I say way too forcefully from his door. I step inside and instantly feel better when I find him looking alert and healthy in his hospital bed. The man is chatting up the nurse checking his vitals. “You scared the hell outta me.”
“Hey kid. Relax. I’m fine.”
“What happened?” I demand once I’m at his side.
“A little mishap. Nothing too serious.”
I wait for the nurse to finish up, and after she leaves, I rest my palm on the side of his face, cupping his jaw. That’s as close as I’ll get to holding onto him. He’ll lose it if I try to hug him. The way he sees it, men don’t need to go that far with the whole being affectionate with other men, not even family. He’s old school, from a long line of pigheaded alpha males who are too stubborn to get with the times. But then again, I’m not much different.
“You scared me, old man.”
He covers my hand with his and gives it a short squeeze before moving my hand away. “Calm down with the PDA. I said I’m fine.” I’m so relieved that he’s his usual self that I ignore his aversion to being held. Lowering to his side, I wrap an arm around his neck and hold on. He pats my back for two seconds. “That’s enough, Knox. Keep it up and I’ll have you banned from coming to see me,” he says, but I know he doesn’t mean it.
“How bad are you hurt? They said something about a concussion and a slip and fall?”
“I just told you it was nothing. I tripped on that damned Persian rug at the foot of my bed. Bumped my head on the edge of that Chesterfield. The thing’s padded. It barely hurt, but the maid heard me and got all panicked. I’m okay. Didn’t break my hip or anything.”
“I’m glad she was around,” I say. “We’re going to have to hire someone.”
“No. We’re not doing to do any such thing,” he grumbles.
“Okay then. I’ll move back into your house, and I’ll work from home so I can keep an eye on you.”
He gives me a mean look. “One little spill and you’re gonna go all soft on me? Fine, dammit. Hire a nurse. Just make sure she’s nice looking.”
“Good. I’ll take care of it.”
He looks around the room for a moment, then returns his gaze to me. “Jesus H Christ. Check your damn messages, boy.”
I smile and put my hand on his shoulder. “I will. Later.”
“No. Do it right now,” he insists. “There’s enough goddamned beeping and buzzing from all these monitors around here to make me have a real medical emergency.”
“Fine,” I tell him, and pull my phone out.
Taking a seat in one of the visitor’s chairs, I unlock the phone and notice there are five messages in my voicemail, but nothing is waiting in my text message inbox. That’s when I remember Foster was fucking around in my phone earlier, and said something about fixing my girlfriend problems.
The first thing I do is open the message history from Isabelle.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, forgetting that Pops is right next to me. “Sorry about that.”
“Watch that language around me, kid. Just because I’m laid up in the hospital doesn’t mean I can’t still wash your mouth out with soap.”
“All right, Pops,” I say distractedly, because all my focus is on the screen.
My hands start to shake, and I scroll all the way up to re-read the messages that came in at the start of the day, as well as the back and forth ones that Foster wrote.
* * *
Isabelle: Hey. Dickhead. This is Bethany. Remember me? I still think you’re an asshole. Anyhow. My sister doesn’t know I’m sending this to you. Pay attention, now. I won’t say this shit twice.
* * *
Isabelle: Here’s what I have to say. Isabelle is pregnant. It’s yours.
* * *
Isabelle: You’re welcome. Don’t ever say I didn’t do anything for you.
* * *
I get to my feet and start pacing. This is not happening. She’s pregnant? We had sex one time, with a condom, and I knocked her up? Shit. I think back to the last two weeks. Her weight loss, the tiredness, lack of appetite, and feeling sick all the time. Jesus. She’s pregnant. And it’s mine?
“What’s going on, son?” Pops asks, pulling my attention away. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m just…never mind, I can handle this,” I tell him and look at the screen again.
The texts that Foster wrote are immediately below, showing up as though I sent it. I’m not just floored by this news. I’m fucking pissed about Foster’s replies.
* * *
Me: Hey Bethany. How are things out in the sticks? By the way, this is not Dickhead. It’s Foster. I’m on Dickhead’s phone.
* * *
Me: Thanks for the news that I’m gonna be a godfather! I’ll pass the message on.
* * *
Me: Also, I’m just gonna suggest this. Knox hasn’t seen your news yet. He’ll be surprised about knocking her up, but once the news sinks in, he’ll be more excited about it than his baby momma. Also, if he was reading this, he’d tell you and Isabelle to fly back here right now or we’ll
spank both your asses until they’re red as fuck.
* * *
Me: I’ll take care of your fine ass, Bethany. Not to worry.
* * *
Isabelle: Foster, you perv. Bethany again. You wouldn’t know what to do with my fine ass if it came with directions. Just saying.
* * *
Me: Hey! Bethany! You wanna bet? Anyway, I doubt Knox will check these messages, so I’m sending my private jet to Denver today. Make sure you’re both on it.
* * *
Isabelle: I’ll take Isabelle to the airport when your plane is ready. She and Knox need to work this out. Text me at 720-555-9202.
* * *
Me: All right. Texting you from my phone now.
* * *
“That idiot,” I shout, forgetting where I am again.
“Knox. What’s this about?” Pops is insistent this time.
“It’s nothing.”
“Like hell it is. What is it?”
“Okay it’s something. I…I just got some news,” I say, not wanting to worry him. “I need to talk to Isabelle about it, is all.”
“Okay, so what the heck are you doing here? Go talk to her. I’m fine. This is minor stuff. They’re just taking precautions, observing me for twenty-four hours.”
“I don’t want to leave you. Not here.”
He sits up straight in his hospital bed and drags the oxygen tubes down from his nose. “I swear to God, if you use my illness as an excuse not to deal with your problems, when I die, I’ll come back with your mom and dad, and we’ll tag team haunting your sorry ass until you have the fear of God in you! Get going. Go get your girl.”
Beauty and her Billionaire Beast Page 13
