by Jaci J.
I watch him pack to leave, my heart breaking.
He doesn’t see me, but he feels me.
Looking over his shoulder, he looks me in the eye and I get nothing. No emotion. No regret. He’s not sorry.
“Were you gonna tell me?” I ask him, walking toward him, my arms wrapped around myself. I’m not cold, it’s a shield. I can’t let him do more damage than he already has.
King doesn’t answer me, which is all the answer I need. He wasn’t going to tell me. He was going to leave, disappear without a word, and that is worse than him leaving.
“I must mean a whole fucking lot to you if you weren’t going to say anything,” I quip, looking down at my feet, readying myself to look at his lying face.
“I can’t stay,” he tells me in way of an explanation. His voice is rough and cold, talking to me like he doesn’t know me.
I scoff, head shaking at the shit that just left his mouth. He can’t stay? Then why even come? “You can’t stay?” I laugh, a cold, hurt sound. “You want me but you can’t stay?” Makes a lot of sense. “I don’t fucking get you.” He’s so hot and cold. Up one minute and down the next. All over me one day and gone the next.
He doesn’t even look at me, he just walks away to the edge of the lot, and I follow. He’s not getting away that easily. “Good. Glad you don’t get me.” Good? He’s so blasé, staring off into the woods. No emotion. I’ve spent years dealing with King’s distant demeanor, his cold stare and icy words, but this is a whole new level.
“One minute you’re all caveman ‘woman, mine’ bullshit and the next you’re out of here? I don’t understand you.”
He chuckles darkly, rubbing at his chin. “Not much to understand, Samantha. Not lookin’ to be tied down. Not lookin’ for an old lady.”
“That’s rich,” I mutter sarcastically. “Didn’t seem that way when you were throwing your cut over my shoulders the second another guy looked my way, or knocking Tags out for touching me.”
“I don’t share pussy, and baby, your pussy’s good.”
His words cut me to the bone, and I know that’s what he wants them to do. He wants to kill me with his words.
I’m not sure what it is or why I snap, but I’m so fed up with his uncaring bullshit that I say, “You’re hurt your mom gave up when you were eight, and still, years later, you push away anyone trying to get too close. You’d rather hurt me than get hurt yourself.”
I hit him where it hurts. I may only know the story secondhand, but I know it, and I know it’s his crutch.
And it works. My words hit.
Spinning around so quickly I don’t see it coming, King’s got me shoved up against the side of the club, his face inches from mine. “Me being an eight-year-old reject doesn’t have fuck all to do with you,” he growls, his blue eyes icy, colder than I’ve ever seen them. “You’re fun. Hot as fuck with a tight ass, and an even tighter pussy, but baby, that’s it.”
I laugh. It’s manic and unhinged. I feel my sanity slipping. “That’s why you keep comin’ back, because I have a tight pussy?” He’s fucking insane, lying to himself and to me.
“Pretty much.”
Pushing away from me, he paces, pulling a pack of smokes from his cut. Shaking out a cigarette, he puts it between his lips and lights it, inhaling deeply.
“So that’s it? You’re gone?” I shout, throwing my hands around like a goddamn lunatic.
Nodding, he stares out into the woods, his back to me. “I was always leavin’, Princess,” he tells me, a cloud of smoke circling his head. “Don’t act shocked.”
“Shocked? I’m fucking confused.”
“Shouldn’t be. You know the score.” Shoving a hand in his pocket, he moves farther away, putting space between us. Building distance. Creating miles.
He wants this to end, so there’s nothing I can do or say to make him stay. Begging? Pleading? None of it will work, and I won’t be that girl. He doesn’t want me. “Okay.”
King was never going to stay, and that’s on me for believing differently. I should’ve known better. Should’ve kept him at a distance like I had every other time, but this time I slipped up. I let him get close and it’s my fault.
“This is the last time we do this,” I tell him, meaning it. I’m not for ultimatums and forced hands, but I’m also not interested in repeating the pain, living through the hurt and the shit again. King and I are done. I love him, but it’s not enough.
He just nods, agreeing with the words I’m saying.
“You come back around the club, you stay away from me.”
“I’m not comin’ back.” His words are painful, excruciating and crippling, but they’re real and honest.
“Good.”
I hate that this is how we end this. After all these years and all this time, this is how this shit goes.
“Good,” he growls, stalking toward me. I can’t move, rooted to the gravel, watching him, committing him to memory. Inches from me, King grabs me. With a rough, tattooed hand, he grabs me around the back of my neck and pulls me in, kissing me hard. His lips are soft but demanding, punishing me. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth.
I want to cry. One kiss breaks me—ruins me.
She’s right, and I fucking hate that she is, but it doesn’t change anything. I am who I am. It’s always been just me, and I was always good with it, until her. But I can’t stay, even if I want to. I was always going to leave her, even if it fucking hurts to do it. Leaving is what I do best, and Samantha’s always known that.
But knowing I’ve got fucking issues doesn’t make it any easier to go.
Throwing a leg over my bike, I sit back, watching her as she walks away, her head hanging, blonde hair covering her face. I broke her, and I’ll live with that guilt for the rest of my goddamn life. But it changes nothing, I’m leaving.
Firing up my bike, I take one last look around, knowing I won’t be back. I can’t come back, not after this shit. Might hurt her that I’m leaving now, but coming back would only break her even more, and I can’t live with that shit.
This time isn’t like the other times. Me leaving changes everything. Samantha doesn’t need a fucking screw-up in her life. She needs something I can’t give her—stability, someone willing to stay. I can’t do either.
I watch the princess walk toward the door of the club and stop, turn, and look at me.
Her gorgeous face, with tears in her eyes, is the last fucking thing I see before pulling out of the lot and hitting the highway, ready to put those much-needed miles between us.
Sitting on my bed, my head in my hands and my eyes on the floor, I stare at the white stick between my feet. The fancy white stick with the words ‘pregnant’ in bold, black letters on the little screen, as well as a 3 and a big old plus sign.
I’m pregnant.
An overwhelming urge to throw up hits me and I sprint to the bathroom.
Tears and vomit don’t mix well.
Heaving into the toilet, I let my tears fall freely, letting them stream down my cheeks in rivers. Kneeling on the old and cracked linoleum floor, I hover over the bowl, dry heaving.
How can I be pregnant?
I can’t be pregnant.
King’s been gone for weeks. Weeks. I’m three plus weeks pregnant according to that fucking stick, and if I add that up, plus how long it’s been since the last time we had sex, which might not even be when I got pregnant, I’m at the very least three months along. At least.
Groaning, I sit on the floor near the toilet and wrap my arms around my knees, trying to calm my spinning head and stomach.
I feel like shit, and it’s not just from the morning sickness. It’s everything. I’m pregnant and King’s gone. He’s not coming back. I’m pregnant and alone.
Jesus, that word. Pregnant.
I should’ve known something was off when the smell of coffee made my stomach roll. I couldn’t eat my pizza, the onions making me gag, and I woke up twice last week sick and
dizzy. I chalked it all up to stress and sadness. I’m so fucking stupid.
“Sammy?” Tags knocks on my door, trying the handle. “You ready, babe?”
Jesus.
“Just a sec,” I call back, my voice small, choked up, broken.
God, his voice makes me want to be sick again, and I feel bad about it.
Standing up, I go to the sink and rinse my mouth and do a quick makeup fix. Just staring at my pathetic self, the tears start to well up again.
I feel broken and oh so lost.
I caved, letting Tags back in. Lonely and heartbroken, I gave in. It’d been four weeks, and I just wanted to feel a quarter of what I felt when I was with King. I was desperate for it. Desperate to feeling anything at all, and I knew Tags would give me something.
I started texting him, and then calling him. He came down for the day and I came here tonight to see him.
It’s wrong, but I can’t help myself. I need something. Anything.
Taking a deep breath and wiping at my eyes, I walk out of the bathroom and open the door, leaning on the frame for support, since it’s probably all I’ll be getting.
“You ready?” His excited voice fades when he looks at my face. “You okay?” he asks, touching my cheek, pushing my hair out of my face.
His hand, rough and unfamiliar, makes my stomach hurt.
I nod, moving away from his hand. “Sneezing fit.” I lie, noting my watery red eyes.
He chuckles. “Dusty ass old rooms in this place,” he snorts, talking about the Washington clubhouse and the room I’m currently using.
“Must be.” I force a smile, grabbing my purse from the chair next to the door. “Ready to go?” I need out of this room and out of my head.
He smiles. So handsome. So sweet. So not King. “Whenever you are,” Tags says, taking my hand in his. He’s such a nice guy, and I don’t deserve him, especially not now.
We walk through the club and through the main room. “Daddy!” a little voice shouts, taking off toward Tags. Dallas.
My stomach hurts looking at her, looking at the love she has for her daddy, her little arms wrapped around his neck. My baby won’t have that, and it makes me ill.
“Hey, sweetheart. You bein’ good for Kiki?”
Dallas nods, her curly hair bouncing around. She’s adorable, and if my uterus wasn’t already being used as a home, it might ache for a tenant.
We have a nice dinner at an equally nice restaurant. The food is good, and so is the conversation. Tags is perfect, everything any girl would want. I don’t deserve him, but I smile and listen to him talk because at the very least, it’s what I can give him.
I’m the biggest fucking faker that ever walked this Earth.
All I can think about is King throughout dinner. I think about what he’s doing and where he is. I keep thinking about his baby growing inside of me, and how mad I am at him for leaving me, leaving us, even when I knew deep down he always would. He promised me nothing beyond what he delivered.
And then I start reminding myself of how fucking stupid I was to let the man fuck me, repeatedly, without a condom, and how goddamn naïve I was to believe him when he said he’d stay. I’m twenty-nine, I should’ve been smarter than that.
“Your food good?” Tags asks, watching me watch the condensation slide down my icy glass and pool onto the table in front of me.
“Perfect,” I answer, not looking at him, just staring at my half-eaten plate.
“You sure?” Tags isn’t a stupid man. He knows I’m not right, but he’s a nice guy and doesn’t ask. He doesn’t push, and I’m eternally grateful.
Looking up, he smiles at me. So sincere and heartfelt. “You look sexy as fuck tonight,” he smirks, looking at my low-cut tee and my ample set of tits damn near spilling out of it.
His playful smile makes me laugh, even though I feel like I’m dying inside. “Thanks.”
“But it’d look better on my floor,” he teases, which makes me laugh harder. It feels good to laugh. I want more of it. More distraction. More something.
“Take me back to your room,” I all but plead, setting my cup down and standing up from the table. Done. So done.
Tags looks shocked for all of two seconds before he’s on his feet, tossing a couple of twenties on the table and taking my hand.
“You sure?” He looks back at me, and for the millionth time tonight, I’m reminded that he isn’t King. King wouldn’t have asked, wouldn’t have stopped. King would’ve taken me home and taken whatever he wanted from my body, no questions asked. Tags is not King. No one is King, but King isn’t here and Tags is.
I settle.
“Yes. Take me back to your room.”
Tags kisses me, his lips soft and gentle. His hand is in my hair, holding my head steady. “Jesus, I missed you,” he says, backing me into the room and shutting the door behind him.
Have I missed him? Yes. I’ve missed his consistency. I’ve missed his loyalty. I’ve missed his laugh. “You missed me a lot,” I note, laughing softly when I feel the hard outline of his cock pressed against my belly.
“That was never our problem.” He grinds against me. “My dick was always into you. I was always into you.”
“I can tell.”
It’s not that sex with Tags was bad. He gave me what I wanted and what I needed, but it was never enough. Never right. Never King.
“Off,” he growls, pulling at my shirt and tossing it onto the floor at our feet.
Tags worshiped me, loved my body and appreciated it. He still does, but I wish it was enough. I wish it was more.
Staring at my chest, he pops a breast out of the bra cup, my nipple puckering at the cold air. “Jesus, sweetheart,’ he groans, sucking my ever-growing-soon-to-be-milk-filled boob into his mouth. It feels good, but also wrong. I’m pregnant with King’s baby, but almost naked in Tags’ room, his hands on my pregnant body.
Walking me backward, Tags gets me onto the bed and on my back, going for my jeans. Popping the button and undoing the zipper, he groans. “Lift,” he tells me, his voice strained, pulling my jeans down.
In nothing but my panties, I feel exposed in the worst way, like Tags can see the baby inside of me. Like he can see the lies churning in my stomach. Like he can see King’s marks all over my body.
Crawling down my body, I stop him, grabbing his arm.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
“I’m pregnant.” The words fall out of my mouth like the tears fall from my eyes. “I’m pregnant,” I repeat, choking on a sob. “And it’s King’s.”
Self-destructive wouldn’t even begin to describe the down-fucking-hill decent I’m on. Drinking. Smoking. Using my hands for more than fighting. Shit just isn’t working and I know it, but I don’t fucking care. Death would be the only relief.
Doing a line puts me in a good mood. Taking a shot of whiskey balances it.
“You want another shot, sexy?” some bitch in a bikini asks me, her eyes the size dinner plates. The bitch is as high as a fucking kite. I’m as high as fucking kite.
“Yeah.” I pass her the empty shot glass and walk toward the crude ring set up in a field in the middle of nowhere. At a club, down south near New Orleans, I catch up with some old friends, some Disciples.
“Been a long time, King,” Rowdy says, walking up next to me, slapping me on the back. “You still good at this shit?”
“We’re gonna find out.” I’ve done too many lines and tossed back too many shots, but I’m fired up, ready for a fight. Ready to exercise some of this goddamn anger out of me, and if it’s not Samantha’s body I’m doing it with, then I’ll settle for using my fists.
Jerking my cut and tee off, I chuck them on a chair next to the ring. “You wanna wrap ’em up?” Rowdy asks, looking at my bare hands.
“Fuck no.” I want to hurt. I want to feel something.
He laughs. “Well, all right then. You good?” I’m anything but good, but this asshole doesn’t need to know that. I don’t care, so he wouldn’t ei
ther.
“Good.” I nod, not interested in talking about shit. I’m ready to fight.
Walking up to the ring, I lean down under the ropes, crawling inside. The thing’s a piece of shit, covered in Duct Tape and patches sewn into it. But it’ll fucking work for what it’s meant for.
Some bouncy fucker in the corner looks at me, his eyes widening. “You King?”
I chuckle. “And if I wasn’t?”
He shakes his head, turning away, muttering, “Three grand,” to himself a few times. The motherfucker needs a little encouragement.
He bounces around, rubbing at his fists, shaking them out and cracking his knuckles. He’s scared. He should be.
“Here, baby,” the bitch in the bikini says, arm through the ropes and a drink in her hand for me.
Taking it from her, I shoot it back, handing the shot glass back. “We gonna do this?” I ask the twitchy motherfucker with his back to me.
“Yeah,” he says, squaring up his shoulders and toughening up. “Let’s fuckin’ do this.”
Some old Stone Temple Pilots song plays, and people stand around laughing and watching, cheering and shit. They want a show, so I’ll give ’em one.
Walking to the middle of the ring, I wait for Twitch to do something, and when he doesn’t, I punk him. Giving him a pretend lunge, it sends him a foot in the fucking air, startled. Squirrely little fuck.
“Better start swingin’,” I warn him, advancing. If he doesn’t put his hands up and start swinging, then it’s gonna fucking hurt when I knock him the fuck out.
He takes a couple shots, hitting me once in the chest. Swings at me again and misses. I wait a couple beats before hitting him right between the eyes. The little punk staggers, losing his footing. Jesus, this is too easy.
Taking another quick swing, I lay his ass out with a quick uppercut.
Twitch falls to his back, landing with a thud, out cold.
