The Surprise (Secret Baby Bad Boy Romance)

by Faye, Amy

  No messages. That’s good. If there’s nothing to respond to, then there’s not going to be any way to notice I haven’t responded. By the time that Luke gets home, he’s going to find me long since gone, and I don’t believe he’d follow me if he really thought I wanted to leave.

  I don’t have a suitcase. I have a handful of grocery bags that I ball up my clothes into, until it’s so much weight that I can practically feel my arms threatening to fall off.

  For a moment, I want to bring the dress he gave me. But that wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be fair to him, and it wouldn’t be fair to me. I have to make this a clean break, and that means leaving behind anything that’s going to connect me to this life.

  Deep breath. I ask myself if I’m serious about this. I can leave any time. There’s nothing stopping me. I’m alone most of the day, most days. There’s no reason I can’t leave again later. I can always give it another few days.

  Or I can give it a few days and realize that I don’t have the guts to do it, not any more. The strength I can feel sapping out of me, the ability to just suffer through the pain, might not be enough any more. I might finally be unable to tell myself ‘no’ when I want something.

  My eyes close, almost of their own volition. There’s a lot of trouble that I’ve got to go through. A lot of worry that I’ve got to put myself through. And when I come out the other side, maybe I’ll be able to make someone understand why I had to do it. Maybe I’ll be able to make myself understand.

  I take a step towards the door. Outside, a car engine roars. The garage starts to open. I try to take another step, and my feet refuse to move. I think about going back. The feeling of relief that floods me tells me that I need to keep moving towards the door. Towards freedom.

  The temptation is too much. I turn around, dump the clothes out again and sort them into the dresser, half-heartedly folded before being stacked into the drawers. I lay down on the bed and pull the dress into my arms.

  The fabric feels good against my skin. It smells gently of sex, like the whole room tends to. I press my face into it as I hear Luke’s boots walking across the floor downstairs, as I hear him starting to approach the steps.

  “Kate?”

  I’m not going to cry. I’m going to keep control of myself.

  “I’m up here,” I call down. It’s just routine. I have to stick with routine, and not let myself get distracted.

  His steps come up the stairs slowly. Slow enough to give me a thousand years to think about my decisions and how bad they are. I need to get out of here. I need to start thinking independently. I need to start being tough and solitary and smart again.

  But the truth is, all I want is for him to call me a dirty slut again and keep me here until I’m too over-sexed to care what’s changed. Until I’m too dumb to think about what’s going to be coming along on the horizon.

  The door to my bedroom opens, and I don’t need to take my face out of the soft, smooth fabric of my new dress to know that Luke is standing there, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and straight back that seems to give him an extra inch on top of his already large frame.

  “Is everything okay?”

  I can’t stop seeing everything that’s going to go wrong. Everything that’s going to tear us apart. Every weakness that I’m going to develop between now and then, that’s going to turn me into the kind of woman who is ruined when he leaves.

  “Everything is fine,” I say, turning off my feelings as much as I can. I may be growing weaker by the day, as I grow to think of Lucas as someone who’s in charge, someone who I can lean on.

  But I’m not so weak that I’m going to let him see me crying.

  Nine

  Luke

  I’ve got where I am today by not being an idiot. It might be easy to pretend, but most of the time, I don’t. It’s much, much easier to just be who I am, and sometimes that means not acting like a God damned fool.

  In this case, though, I think maybe I’d be better off just letting sleeping dogs lie. There’s no reason that I need to let Kate know that I’ve seen her upset. There’s no reason because then I have to accept it as my problem.

  Kate Ashley isn’t supposed to be my problem. She’s supposed to be a check worth ten thousand dollars. I’m still quite a ways away from getting ten thousand dollars worth of use out of her, even if I ignore the mounting costs.

  I don’t know why I need to keep reiterating that in my mind. As if I have something else to think about. The fact is, I don’t. I shouldn’t and I don’t. I’m not stupid enough to catch feelings.

  “You want something to eat? I can call out for a pizza or something.”

  “If that’s what you want,” she says. There’s a quaver in her voice that I ignore. If I want to be I can actually be perfectly good at ignoring whatever is upsetting her.

  “Sounds good to me. You know, you still haven’t given me a list of anything you want in the house.”

  “I’m fine,” she says. It’s probably a lie. I can see it in her eyes. Something’s upsetting her. I just can’t figure out what it is. And I’m not going to ask her, because asking her means admitting I noticed. Admitting that I noticed means admitting that I was concerned about it.

  Since I’m not concerned about it, or at least doing my level best to imitate not being concerned about it until I can figure out what would make me possibly think about being concerned, that whole train of thought cuts off early and leaves me standing there holding the bag.

  I walk out and leave her to whatever her thoughts are. She’s got to deal with her own problems. Same as everyone else. Eventually, she’ll have to pull her own weight around here, and I’m not in a position to just charitably hope that she can cope with it.

  We’re both stuck with each other. I let out a long breath. If we’d met in slightly different circumstances, then maybe there would be more to it than that. Maybe she’d be a good woman. A good girlfriend. A good lover.

  But she’s not. As disturbing as the concept sounds, she’s basically property at this point, as horrifying as that sounds, and I’m not going to sit here and treat her like some kind of doll I can put up on the shelf. She’s a woman, and that means plenty of things.

  First, of course, it means that I need to think about her needs, at least enough to try to meet some of them.

  But second, it means that I can expect certain things of her. She’s capable of dealing with shit. If something came up that she couldn’t deal with, she could come to me.

  If she doesn’t like it, she can leave. I pull the phone out of my pocket and press the speed dial for number eight. It’s a new addition, so I have to take care to keep using it until it’s second nature. We’ve been having a lot of pizza lately.

  Kate comes down a minute later to join me. It’s a little bit unusual, but I’m not going to question it. She’s got free reign of the house, these days, and I’m not going to take that away from her now.

  “How can I help you?” The voice on the other end of the line is a young woman. I don’t recognize her, but I usually don’t eat this early, either. But I’m starving, so I’m not about to wait around for the regular guy to come in.

  I start giving my order. It’s the same every time. Large pizza, half pepperoni, half everything. They used to call it a garbage can when I was a kid. Maybe they still do. But here, they don’t call it that. Got looked at like a crazy person for trying to order one. Or maybe I’m just going to the wrong place.

  But I’m only halfway paying attention to that conversation anyways. There’s other things going on that I’m more concerned about. Kate’s standing in front of me like she wants to say something. I raise my eyebrows, hoping that she gets the idea that I want her to tell me whatever it is.

  Instead, she sits down on the couch next to me. Well, ‘next to’ isn’t totally right. She’s on the other side, but there’s nobody in the space between us, so I guess that’s sort of ‘next to.’

  The order finishes up. I’ll pay cash,
same as I always do. The price is the same as it always is. I hang up the phone and slip it back into my pocket.

  “Something wrong?”

  Kate lets out a long breath, like something is. But she shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

  I’ve just about had it with the theatrics here. I’m not trying to be a bastard, here, but if she’s not going to tell me what the fuck is wrong then I’m not going to worry about it. Call me whatever you like.

  “What did you do today? Anything interesting?”

  I don’t want to talk about work, but there has to be something to talk about. Something interesting, at least. But one can only hope. Between the two of us, there’s usually something, but it takes a while to figure out what it is going to be most days.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she says. I never get an answer to the question. I think she sleeps most of the day, to be honest. But I’m not about to say that to her face.

  But usually, there’s a certain air to her response. A lightness, maybe. Today, it’s not there. She sounds like she genuinely doesn’t want to talk about the thing she actually did, rather than not wanting to talk about the things she didn’t do.

  “You going to be alright?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says, sourly. Sadly.

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She shifts uncomfortably. I pull my phone back out. In a little while, the pizza guy will get here. We’ll pay him. I’ll set it down, turn on a movie or something.

  I could figure out a way to pass the time. We spend our time doing pretty consistent things. Well, one thing, pretty consistently. But the mood is all wrong. I wish it wasn’t, because it’s another hint that I’m taking this too seriously.

  Her mood isn’t really supposed to enter into it. Oh, sure. I take it into account. But since her mood is usually randy, I don’t have to worry too much about making sure that I’ve considered her feelings all that much.

  And of course, even then, it’s just a matter of formality. She’s nothing to me, except a ten thousand dollar check. I wouldn’t think twice about cashing the check and using the money.

  But using her makes me feel queasy. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing but in either case, I don’t want to think about what it means.

  Eventually, I’m going to get my money, and she’s going to go off to whatever her life is without me in it. I’m never going to have to see Bill again, hopefully, and there’s not going to be any trouble whatsoever.

  I lay my head back, close my eyes, and make a concerted effort not to notice Kate’s mood. The doorbell rings, I get up.

  Kate doesn’t. That’s a little bit unusual, too. What’s wrong? I force myself to stop before I say it. It feels like that’s been my whole day since I got home. Not talking about whatever is on her mind.

  That’s a problem for me. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t bother to give it a second thought. But now for some reason I’m getting all emotional about it? Horse shit.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out. A movie will do me a world of good. Pay the guy more tip than he likely deserves. It’s not worth waiting for him to make change, and I’m not in the mood to do mental math today.

  A movie will do us both a world of good. It’ll give me something to get my mind off her, and it’ll give her something to stop sighing about. At least, I won’t be able to hear her sighing over the noise, and that’s a step up, at least.

  Because I can’t let myself think or feel a damn thing about what’s actually upsetting her. The minute I do that is the minute I lose.

  Ten

  Kate

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m not stupid enough to think that the answer is ‘nothing.’ Something’s setting me off. I just don’t know what it is. Something that’s been making me tired, making me moody, making me feel sick.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that I was about to start my period. The trouble being… well… I frown at the thought. The trouble being that it’s still not here. The trouble being that I’m not about to start my period. I’m about to have just come off it. But I’m not.

  Deep breath. What the fuck did I get myself into with this? There are about a hundred things I should have done better. Ways I should’ve been smarter. And instead, I’m sitting here realizing that I’m probably…

  I don’t even think the word. It’s something else. Maybe it’s the steady diet of pizza and not drinking enough water. It’s thrown my hormones off so much that my body’s just thrown up its hands and refused to accept it.

  Maybe it was just exceptionally light, and I missed it. I mean… it would have to be real light to even come close to being able to not notice, even for a couple of hours.

  But it’s possible, right?

  I lay my head back. I need to go to the store. I need to get a test, so I can prove, once and for all, that I’ve got nothing to worry about. But I don’t.

  Because I need to get the hell out of here altogether. That’s the real answer.

  Once I’m away from here, I can stop worrying so darn much about whether or not I’ve got anything to worry about. I can deal with all that stuff. What I can’t deal with is trying to raise a little child in a house like this, where I’m living like a slave.

  There’s just no way. That’s not how I’m going to live my life.

  Deep breath. Okay, so maybe it is. I don’t know. But I know that I’m not going to give a whole lot of thought to it any more. Because there’s a thousand other things that I’m not interested in thinking about.

  I’m not interested in thinking about what does and doesn’t please Luke. Of course, it’s only half of what runs through my mind these days. Every other thought, it’s Luke this, or Luke that. I have half a mind to take a cold shower and give a hard think to how I can get myself straightened out.

  But first, the first step, no matter how much I don’t want it to be, is to go to the pharmacy, pick up a few tests, and make sure that I’ve got nothing to worry about.

  I push myself out of bed. Pad over to the phone. I’m not sure whether I should feel better or worse about the fact that I’m not annoyed by having to cross the room for it any more. It’s the new normal, as if I’d never kept it by the side of my bed for easy access before.

  It’s earlier than I thought. Only two o’clock, and I’ve been moping for the better part of an hour. There’s something to be said for that. One day, I might just wake up before lunchtime.

  The walk to the pharmacy isn’t short. A half-mile, and I don’t have any walking shoes. Why would I need any? By the time I finally walk through the sliding doors, I’m desperate for a seat. None in ready, convenient access. I frown and go to the back.

  The pharmacy proper is surrounded by seats. An old woman sits in one of them, looking sternly into nothing. Like she’s wrapped so tight that she doesn’t even know what calm is any more.

  Is that how I’m going to be? Is that what I’m going to be like as a mother? Panicky? Restrained? Angry?

  I rub my feet. Is that what I’m like now? I’m nervous all the time. Tired in the extreme, always wanting to sleep and then when I wake up from sleep, I’m as tired as when I went to bed. Just want to have a lie down, but I’ve got to make another half-mile.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  I look up. “Yes? Me?”

  “Can we help you with anything?”

  “Oh, uh…” I look at the old woman, and suddenly I realize that I’m not in any sort of mood to explain myself to these people. I can’t, even if I wanted to. I’m not going to talk to anyone about whether or not I’m pregnant. I’m not going to talk to anyone about worrying whether or not I’m pregnant.

  Because then the next question is, ‘Good news?’ and I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.

  Yeah, it’s good news. I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I’ve always wanted to bring a child into the world and treat it with all the love and care that I can muster,
to show that child every ounce of care that my parents never showed me.

  But instead, I’m going to be bringing it into a world where Dad is always away, and Mom is essentially his chattel. I’m not sure which one is worse.

  Even worse would be if the test was negative. What would that even mean? I don’t think I’m really ready to even think about it. I’ve been fucking him for almost a month now, and he’s never been too keen on finishing outside.

  What are the odds, really, that he’s been cumming inside me almost every day, and I’ve never once had a slip? One in three? Two? But that means that even in the best case, it’s one in three chance that he did plant a seed. And considering my missed period…

  The woman smiles at me professionally, but she’s watching me. Like I’m some kind of vagrant. Then again, I haven’t changed my shirt in two days, and I’m just sitting here covered in sweat and rubbing my feet, so I guess that’s not a totally inaccurate picture, if you don’t know any better. And how, exactly, would she know better?

  That’s right. She wouldn’t.

  I let out a long breath. “Thanks,” I say, as if she’d done something for me. She hadn’t. I go through the aisles until I find the pregnancy tests. I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to have the questioning stares, but I also knew it wouldn’t be hard to find.

  Two of them. One that looks like a good choice, and a second from a different brand, just in case there was some kind of manufacturing defect in the first. I’ve got an allowance in my pocket that I’ve never spent a penny of, and never really asked for again, but now it’s going to come in handy.

  The trip home is easier than the trip out. My feet hurt more, of course; I’m going to have pancake-sized blisters in the morning, if I’m not careful.

  But on the other hand, it’s the way home. The way to finding out once and for all how much worrying I ought to be doing.