by Liz Crowe
He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He heard Melody’s mother muttering something in Spanish nearby. He caught the words “sperms” and “boss man” and “stupid,” the last one more than once. When he looked up, she was gone.
He got into his Jeep, turned the key and put it in gear. Then he sat, stunned on so many levels he felt as if someone had just run over him with a semi, then backed up and done it again. His hands shook as he gripped the wheel tighter, coming to terms with all he’d learned in the last few hours. His sister—not only alive, if not exactly well, here, working for Melody after she’d found her, without telling him a word about it. And Melody—pregnant. Carrying his child. Bun in the oven. Knocked up…somehow.
He ground his teeth and fought with his inner self. He should go to her. But she didn’t want him around. They had to talk. He should go and get his swimmers tested. If he’d been playing with fire for almost seventeen years, he really ought to be aware of that fact. It had been a step he’d skipped, since at that time, in his immature mind, he honestly believed he’d never have sex again. Not if the possible results were the screaming, bleeding horror show that had finally ended, after three days, in an emergency C-section. His head was pounding. His mouth bone dry. The beers he’d drunk made his esophagus burn as the memories of those days Sheila had been in agonizing labor hit him square in the gut.
He peeled out of the parking lot and was outside her building within a few minutes. But the longer he sat, the more he knew that she had to come to him with this. He’d come to her the last time. If she wanted to have his baby, then he would, of course, support that.
But a long-buried part of him was rising up, waving its arms and saying “Stop! Halt! No! You said no more kids. You say what you mean, Hettinger. Now you have to mean what you say. Let her come to you with this. Then, you’ll sort it out together.”
He groaned and pressed his forehead to the steering wheel for a few minutes. Then he put the Jeep in reverse, and headed home.
You’re a shit head, Hettinger.
No. She wants space. I’ll give her some. Then we will talk. I’m sure of it.
But he also knew that she wouldn’t come to him. And that he’d just made one of the worst decisions of his life. He drank four more beers in his empty loft, then passed out with his nose pressed into her pillow.
Chapter Twenty
I knew I was pregnant the night it happened.
But one of my best, or worst, abilities is how I can pretend otherwise, ignore the painfully obvious, hope it will vanish on its own thanks to the sheer force of my will.
But I knew.
Any woman who loves a man the way I love Trent Hettinger would know. I think I knew the moment it happened.
It was the night of his horrible confessions to me, about his past. When I learned about Kayla, and how awful his life was as a little boy and young man. When we reunited, bittersweet at first, because I felt I needed to do something to comfort him, to show him how much he was loved. Then later, again, when he took over and showed me how much he wanted me back.
And how.
As I sat in my dark, chilly apartment, sipping cold water with slices of lemon for the nausea—something my nosy, yet observant mother had told me to do when she’d sent me home—I blushed and shivered and sensed myself getting aroused by the memory of that night. He’d carried me to my bed after our first go-round and a brief nap. I’d been sleepy, groggy, exhausted after weeks spent ignoring him and convincing myself it was what I wanted.
He’d lain me down and kissed me from the tips of my toes to my fingers, then down the opposite way on the other side, giving ample attention to my most sensitive parts. As I’d been panting and eager, begging him for release, he’d used the blindfold on me, forcing me to be silent and listen to only his words.
He’d said the dirtiest things to me—shocking me as I’d been expecting romance. But he’d not touched me as he spoke. He’d only whispered, first in one ear, then the other. He’d told me what he wanted to do to me. What he expected me to do to him. At one point, I’d gotten so worked up I wanted to touch myself.
“No touching, bella,” he’d reminded me as I felt the warmth of my own sex against my fingertips. “I’m want to see if I can make you come with only this.” He’d blown a puff of breath on my ear. “I want to watch you get off from the sound of my voice.”
I had. And it had been the oddest, yet most erotic thing I’d ever experienced. Some of the things he’d said still rolled around in my head at strange times. He’d never done it again, but I knew it for what it was—proof that he had the sort of power of me that I was happy to relinquish.
As I’d lain on my bed, crying out with pleasure when he’d finally given in and bit down on my earlobe which is what finally sent me over the edge without a single touch anywhere else, he’d rolled me on top of him and shoved into me with a loud groan. I remember looking down at him, staring into his eyes, taking in everything I loved about his face, his neck, the perfect roundness of his head, the smooth skin of his scalp and coming again, or maybe I just kept coming.
But he’d reveled in it, using his voice to tease me even further. He pinched my nipples as he encouraged me to yell or scream or anything I wanted. There was something in the room with us then. Something primal and urgent and raw that I loved.
He’d rolled us over, pinning my arms up over my head and pounding into me so hard it hurt. But I loved it, I welcomed it, and when he’d come inside me then, I knew what had just happened.
I put the water glass down and raced for the bathroom for the millionth time that day. I had nothing left in my stomach but water, but it made its reappearance, leaving me shaking and weak, sitting on the floor gripping the toilet.
Trent had no interest in any more children. He’d made that abundantly clear to me. And at the time, I’d had no beef with that. I’d never really considered myself the motherly type, although my nature tended toward nurture. I never got gooey-eyed over babies, that I could recall anyway. I never wanted to hold one, much less carry one in my body. Right now, of course, I wanted to die from misery. The nausea that had clamped own of me from out of the blue that morning had not released its grip, not once.
I’d run to the bar to get out of his way, so he could work and not make me confess what it was. Not that he’d think anything of the sort, of course. He’d had the operation. But I’d looked it up on my laptop in my office between bouts of throwing my guts up. It happened. It wasn’t likely but it wasn’t impossible or unheard of, either.
I’d managed to ignore the lack of my period for a month, chalking it up to stress. Which was patently ridiculous. My cycles were as regular as clockwork, rarely varying in timing or intensity. The only thing I’d noticed that was different or obviously indicative of any hormonal shift was a serious ramp up of my libido.
I mean, I was horny before. Once Trent had freed me of the old, scared, asexual Melody costume I’d been wearing for self-protection, he had woken a monster. But one I could handle. I could do my work during the day without being overcome with heavy, inappropriate rushes of raw lust. The most innocuous thoughts about him—what I might fix for dinner, or if he’d remembered to pick up more wine—would send me spinning, leaving me panting and wondering if I could get away with masturbating in the bathroom.
I felt heavy with need, full, ripe like a fresh summer tomato. It was simultaneously irritating and exhilarating. Trent had no complaints of course. He was delighted. The night before I’d woken up with my next, most obvious symptom he had dropped over after several hours of rough play, ending with a loud climax for him and yet more skin-crawling need for me saying “uncle”.
We’d laughed it off.
But I had known then. And by noon today I had no doubts.
Another confounded tear slipped down my cheek. I got up, flushed away what little I’d managed to lose, and shuffled back into the main room. My bed was a mess. Clothes were strewn everywhere. The shower wa
s growing things in the corners and the kitchen would horrify my tidy-minded employees.
With a burst of energy, I got to work and didn’t stop for a couple of hours when I looked around and smelled bleach and the pleasant violet-scented floor cleaner I recalled from my growing up years. My stomach was rumbling, which distracted me briefly from the low-lying, ever-present nausea. It was nearly nine o’clock, which surprised me, since I hadn’t heard from Trent yet.
Hoping he was spending some time talking with Kayla, I gave myself yet another mental pat on the back for tracking her down. It hadn’t been that hard once I did a little digging using her name and last known location in Kalamazoo. Say what you will about the maid mafia, the network of Hispanic cleaning staff is vast and tight knit. I’d put her description out on the vines and within days had her triangulated.
As an adult, she’d not made it any farther than Detroit, gotten busted for prostitution, held for a while and released thanks to the overcrowded court system. She made her way back to the west side of the state, she claimed, so she could check on her little brother. Keeping her distance and getting clean had kept her busy. But she’d found a job cleaning rooms at two different crappy hotels. I’d gotten her two jobs—my old diner one and behind the bar at Fitz Pub under the strict promise that she’d stay clean. The first sign of tweaking or anything else and I would cut her loose.
It had only been two weeks, but so far, so good. I’d wanted to take her straight to Trent, unwilling to hide anything from him ever again. But she’d insisted we wait. That she’d go to him when she was ready.
Today had come early in that plan, I figured. But I hadn’t expected him on Sunday and so had scheduled her for times when we were rarely around. I peered into the sorry depths of my fridge, cursing myself for playing house with Trent for the last month. I’d have to wean myself off that soon enough, since Taylor would be back.
A cramp hit me low in the belly, forcing me to bend over and take deep breaths. It faded as quickly as it appeared, leaving me reeling and dizzy. I shut the fridge and leaned against it, willing myself not pregnant.
That didn’t work. I put my hand on my stomach, trying to sort through the stew of emotions. My mother had figured me out within seconds, of course. Given me a brief lecture, then asked when the wedding was going to occur. Which had not helped one bit.
I grabbed my phone and sent Evelyn a text. I had, of course, forgiven her for not telling me that Trent was coming over that night. She’d not shown much improvement, personal-life wise, but at least she and Ross ignored each other at work. Not great, but better than loud fighting.
She didn’t reply right away. I grabbed a box of plain crackers and plunked myself on the couch, holding the box, a tissue and my phone, feeling sorry for myself.
Fucking Trent and his fucking superman sperms. This was not supposed to happen. Neither of us wanted it. I winced when another mild cramp came and went, leaving me free of nausea long enough to get up and find a can of tomato soup. But once it was heated and ready, the smell of it made me gag. I wanted Trent so badly right then I could practically feel his arms around me. But I resisted it. He needed time with Kayla. I’d drop this little bombshell on him later. A lot later.
Not much later, chica. The little shrimp won’t stay that size for long.
And that’s if I even decided to keep it.
I shivered at the thought. It was a baby. I’d always believed that, even though I would never impose my views on any other woman’s body or life.
Groaning, I choked down a few more crackers, drank more water and dropped to sleep on the couch, fully dressed, the TV blaring away into the room. I woke in a tangle of blankets, sweaty all over. When I sat up, the nausea caught up with me, slamming against the back of my throat and forcing me to half run, half crawl to the toilet again.
I took a long, hot shower, and checked the time. It was already seven, an hour after I usually woke on work days. I also noted that Trent had not sent me a single text or called. With a sigh, I dried my hair, skipped makeup since the smell of it made me dizzy, got dressed and headed for the pub. I was determined to get on with my life. Women get pregnant every day, hell, every hour. They go to work and do what has to be done. It’s not an illness. It’s a condition and one that some women would give anything to have.
I was sitting in my car, puffing out breaths to keep from throwing up before I even got into the building, when my phone buzzed with a call. I knocked it into the floor in my eagerness. But it was Evelyn.
“Hey,” she said. “You at the brewery yet?”
“Yes.” I gathered up my stuff, determined not to let my disappointment show. “What’s up? You here yet?” She was usually one of the first ones to arrive during the week, powering up the various coffee machines and setting out bagels, fruit and yogurt in all three of the break rooms.
“No. I’m not feeling good today.”
“Oh.” I unlocked the front door of the pub instead of going through the old brewery. I could already tell that the strong smells in there were going to be unfathomable to me for a while. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”
I did the coffee making and took delivery of donuts and other stuff from the deli down the street, setting them out in the break rooms and trying to not look as pregnant as I felt. Once that was done and I’d chatted with Amy, Evelyn’s assistant, for a while over a donut that seemed to quell my nausea for the time being, I headed for my office. I was implementing a new entertainment schedule next month, once the summer was officially over, and had some calls to make and graphics to order.
At noon, with still no peep from Trent, a thrill of aggravation shot down my spine. Hormones, certainly, but more than that. He was never this stand-offish. He must really be pissed about me keeping the fact of Kayla’s existence from him.
At five-thirty, that thrill had turned into a flat-out fury, filling my chest, throat and head. I’d managed to eat a few peanuts, and was now craving, of all things, eggplant parmesan. Without thinking, I put my hand on my still flat stomach then took it off, pressing both of my palms on the desk, sweating my way through a wave of dizziness.
“Oh, jefe,” Walt, my head chef, said, sticking his head around the doorway. “Evelyn is out here, asking for you.”
“Thanks, Walt.” I ran a hand over my lips, wondering if I would ever not feel sick again. This was so all-encompassing, enveloping me in a way any other stomach illness never had. It scared me a little, to tell the truth.
“You all right? Need some more water? My Melinda claims that you should put cucumbers over your closed eyelids and lay in a totally dark room for this.” He waved his hand up and down, vaguely indicating my general condition.
“You ever think she says that so you’ll leave her alone in a dark room for a while?” I eased myself up, hoping the latest surge of nausea would fade.
“I wouldn’t put it past her.” He chuckled, then grabbed my arm when I stumbled, nearly falling off my own stupid shoes. “Whoa, there. You sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine. Thanks.” I straightened my back and attempted to regain my dignity as we walked out into the pre-dinner kitchen.
“No problem. I need to go over the kitchen staff schedule with you real quick.”
I nodded and focused as hard as I could on the grid he put on the counter but the names and numbers swam in front of my eyes. Finally, I leaned away from the counter. “I’m sorry, Walt. I’m sure you have a handle on this. It’s why I hired you after all. I need to sit down.”
“Here, let me help you.”
“No, no, I’m not fragile. I’m just…” I sighed and bit back tears.
“Señora Josefina told me,” he said, his voice low. “I didn’t say anything to anyone else but the guys who were here yesterday figured it out, I think.”
“Crap.” I leaned forward, my elbows on the stainless-steel surface, which helped alleviate some of the dizziness.
“I sure wish he’d taken it better.” He was patting
my shoulder with his giant mitt of a hand. “Señora Jo was right pissed off when she got back in here. She’s kinda scary when she’s pissed off.”
I blinked, trying to make my sluggish brain comprehend this odd conversational curveball. But even as I denied it, I was taking it in, processing, and realizing that the reason I was being ignored today was not due to his general unhappiness over how I’d handled the Kayla thing.
I was being ignored because I was pregnant. My meddling mother had told him. And he’d spent the last full day in radio silence.
My heart seemed to sink straight down to my shoes. Walt’s patting was irritating me now, but I didn’t want to be rude so I stood. “Evelyn’s here, you say?”
“Yep. And she looks about as good as you do.”
“Okay. Fine. Good. Thanks, Walt.” I slapped a saccharine smile on my face to reassure him, then turned on my heel and headed for the bar. I saw her leaning forward, nursing a soda. In the weeks since I’d last seen her she had lost weight, which made her cheekbones stand out, and her eyes seemed to glow in their deep-set sockets.
“Hi,” I said, pouring myself a ginger ale—my fifth one that day since it did calm the raging need to puke everywhere.
“Hi.” She sipped but didn’t meet my eyes. “I’m pregnant.”
I choked on my soda.
“Oh,” I said, wiping my streaming eyes with a napkin. “Great. Me too.”
She narrowed her eyes. I nodded and held up the ginger ale. “And if one can die of morning sickness, I will do it.” I sipped. She sipped. We stared at each other.
