“I’m sorry, I just need some help.”
The grin he is having trouble fighting says differently. He isn’t sorry at all. But edged behind the grin is something else. Something I have no desire to face. Is it just my imagination, or is there angry accusation along with the amusement?
I keep my mouth shut and wait for just what he needs help with. If I open my mouth, I might let something slip that I shouldn’t. Or should. Man, my conscience isn’t as cowed as I believed. He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t deserve to know. You don’t owe him anything. He used you and was going to leave.
“You see, I have a bairn on the way, and I’m no’ sure what diaper brand is best,” he continues.
Ah, ha! The man is having a baby! And soon! Told you, Natalie, old girl. The man’s a snake, and he doesn’t need to know what’s going on with his one-night stand on the side.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“But you’re with child.”
OK, there is definite accusation loaded into that statement.
“Your point?” I ask, neither confirming nor denying, but knowing I’m accepting his statement either way. He will take the two words as a resounding YES.
“I am sorry, miss. I doona mean anything by it. Tis just that you’re a pregnant woman, and I’m a clueless male. I thought you might have some compassion for a first time da.”
Again the word sorry with a decided lack of true remorse; as if he is playing a game, using his words as prods to gain a certain response. Just what are you looking for, MacCrae?
“I’m sorry,” yeah, two can play that game, “but I’m in a hurry and was just browsing.”
“How far along are you?”
Four months. “Umm, my boyfriend and I are eight months along.” Ha! Make of that what you will! It’s a lie, but not really, if you think about it. The baby isn’t his and will never be his. Why should it matter what I tell him?
Deep inside, my conscience whispers that he has a right to know. I have an obligation to tell him. I haven’t attempted to find Gavin. I’ve told myself that I only know his first name, and there could be countless Gavins in the surrounding area. But that’s wrong, because his silken voice introducing himself as Gavin MacCrae plays in my dreams and thoughts often.
“Really? Than you must be about tae pop?”
That accent! The lilting tone at the end that makes some statements sound like questions. It is him. That confirms it.
“Mind if I?” His hand reaches out toward my still small belly as he says it: another statement disguised as a question. I take a step backward, pushing my cart out further in front of me to increase the barrier between us. One of his eyebrows lifts. So, I’m not the only one who’s accomplished that. I wonder if our child will have the same ability?
“As I said, I need to get going. My boyfriend worries about us. I mean, he worries about the baby and me.”
“Let me walk with you then; I can help you load your groceries intae your car. You shouldn’t be lifting too much weight, with you being so far along and all.”
“No, really. I’m fine.” I turn to leave the aisle and the lies, but he will not be dismissed.
His hand latches onto my arm, like he means to direct me.
“I insist.” The accent is more pronounced now, but no longer inviting.
The attraction is still there. When he touches me it’s like streaking lightning, but before it was exciting; now it is frightening.
I yank my arm back, trying to be discreet. I don’t want a scene. He ignores me and grabs the handles to my cart. At this point, all I want is to get out. He can keep the groceries and the stupid baby doll.
He walks toward the front checkout. I follow him. It’s either that, or be pulled to the ground. It is then that I notice he is leaving his own buggy behind. It was empty.
Either he was sidetracked when he saw me, and has since forgotten about his buggy and groceries, or he never intended to buy anything. Did he follow me into the store? Now I’m being paranoid.
I wish I did still have a boyfriend. He could come bash this Scottish yahoo’s head in.
Ha! As if Jeff would last two seconds with this highland brute.
“You left your buggy,” I tell his back.
He glances behind to acknowledge my statement, but he doesn’t answer the underlying question, and he doesn’t turn back for the buggy or loosen his grip.
The checkout girl doesn’t bat an eye at the two of us. Can’t the teen see something is off? Well, I may be female, overwhelmed, pregnant, and uncomfortable—the bathroom? Again?—but I am determined to protect myself and my child. My brothers would give me hell if I didn’t.
I turn to the teenager and read the girl’s nametag.
“Christy? This man is harassing me. Please call security.”
MacCrae glares at me and releases my arm, while Christy continues to bag my groceries without ever looking up. A piece of lime green gum flashes out every couple of seconds, as the girl chomps it loudly. That’s when I realize the girl is wearing earbuds and can’t hear a word I’m saying.
MacCrae notices at the same time and grins widely. I shake my head at his stupidity. Does he think this will change anything? All I have to do is scream, and he’ll be hauled off the property by the police officer I saw back in the cereal aisle. Granted, the officer is a scraggly kid, barely old enough to drink, but he has a badge and a gun, and that’s all that matters.
I reach forward to tap the girl on the shoulder, but MacCrae catches hold of my arm once again.
“All I have to do is scream,” I warn him, though I have no idea why.
Why don’t I just scream and get rid of him now?
Because you feel guilty. And I worry that he will figure out my deception and demand rights to my baby. Logically, I know that allowing him to walk out of the store of his own volition won’t be enough of a boon for someone to give up the opportunity to watch their child grow up, but dang it all, he used me. He meant to take my child away with no thoughts to me as a person, as a mother.
“You will no’.”
“I will,” I promise, trying to sound convinced when I am anything but.
The girl is now ringing up the purchase and a total flashes across the screen. I reach into my purse and rummage for my wallet, while MacCrae, stubborn male that he is, stands and looks on. I escape his grasp once again and continue to search for my wallet. Christy the checkout girl holds out a hand for payment, but when I look up I see the girl isn’t even looking at me, instead she’s texting one-handed on a cellphone. Minimum wage doesn’t amount to too much these days.
I plop the cash into the girl’s outstretched hand. She mumbles something around her wad of gum that could be a “Thank you, have a nice day,” as easily as it could be a “Screw you, get away.” I’m leaning toward the latter.
“Thanks! You, too!” I respond pleasantly, again to the latter.
I grab up my bags and turn to face the man who is creating quite a bit of trouble for me, considering this is only our second meeting.
“Good day,” I tell him.
I hope that I come off like Fez from That 70’s Show. If I succeed, he’ll move and I can continue on with life as if this uncomfortable encounter never happened.
“You said guid day?” he asks, a twinkle in his amber eyes. So he recognizes the reference? Score one for the highland heathen. Even if “good” sounds different coming from his lips.…
I don’t bother responding, but walk to the door, clutching my bags in front of my stomach.
“I guess you doona want help with those or someone tae walk you tae your car?”
I keep walking.
“This is no’ over, Natalie. We both know why it will no’ ever be over.”
Just like that, the pretense is gone; the truth out in the open.
I want to continue walking, but the threat rubs me wrong. He doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know my temper, but I want to punish him for pushing it anyway. I turn to face him and see th
at he has begun following me to the automatic doors leading to the parking lot.
That settles it. What’s about to happen is all your fault.
“That was a clear threat against my person.”
“No, twas—”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because I run around the side of his muscled body, straight to the scrawny police officer now stepping into the checkout line. I drop my bags at the cop’s feet and throw my arms around his slender waist. He yelps a little at the impact, and I’m worried we’ll fall, but he places one hand on my shoulder and the other on the counter and steadies himself.
“Please! Please! That man is stalking me! He threatened to follow me and grabbed my arm.”
The cop may be young, but it is obvious he takes his job very seriously. I catch a glimpse of his blue eyes before he pushes my body behind his, his body stiffening. He walks to MacCrae and grabs his arm. It’s almost comical to see the uniformed man’s puny hand against MacCrae’s impressive biceps.
“Excuse me, sir. You’re going to have to accompany me to my vehicle.”
MacCrae balks. He didn’t expect me to do anything to thwart him. I’m tempted to laugh. Don’t mess with mama bear. He sputters, and his eyes swing wide to meet mine. His are filled with the promise of retribution. Let him scheme. He doesn’t know my last name, has no access to Chloe while she’s gone, and the only thing he knows about me is where I prefer to shop. Oddly enough, I’ve just decided to boycott this store for the remainder of my life. Funny, how things work out.
The cop pushes MacCrae forward.
“Don’t look back, sir. The lady doesn’t want to talk to you.”
Ah, the young. The stick thin cop is calling his arrestee sir. How cute. The young man cuffs MacCrae and pushes him forward again. I’m sure he plans on coming back for my story and then will check the security cameras to be sure.
I pick up my bags and rush out the door, taking care to stay behind the cop. Then I throw my bags into my sensible Accord, and jump into the driver’s seat, or at least as much as I can still jump in my condition. I’m not big, but I’m still not as mobile as I used to be. I back out of the lot and resist the urge to honk as I pass the police car with MacCrae cuffed in the back. That’ll teach you to threaten a lady.
Chapter Six
The satisfaction of escaping Gavin’s grasp doesn’t last very long. Meagan’s extra twenty bucks is burning a hole in my pocket. I’ve been hankering for a salad from Wendy’s, yet the thought of stopping the car anywhere, for even a moment, has me scared. I drive straight home instead, bypassing every drive-through calling my name, and ignoring my rumbling stomach’s loud cry for sustenance. The money will have to take a rain check for another day.
How long will the officer hold him before he lets him go? What’s the process for that anyway? If the person who made the complaint isn’t there to fill out a report or offer details on the incident, can they keep the accused in custody? When they look at the security tapes, it’s not like they’ll find enough evidence to charge Gavin with anything. Will they even take him to the station?
Oh, no! When they view the tapes, what if they flash to the parking lot and Gavin sees footage that allows him to get my license plate number? Wait, he won’t be allowed in the room when they view the tapes, will he? I need to brush up on my crime dramas so that I know the procedure for these types of things.
I need someone on the inside to monitor the situation. Doesn’t Josh have a friend who works for the Astoria local police department? I can’t remember, and that could be stress or it could be because I’m grasping at straws. What if I took out a restraining order? The court would grant half custody if it went that far though. But first, there would be paternity tests. My family would be horrified at the possibility that it requires a DNA test to determine the father of my child, despite the fact that I can guarantee that Gavin is indeed the father. The problem isn’t that I don’t know who the father is; the problem lies in the fact that I don’t want the father to be the father. My papa would be so ashamed.
I’m ashamed.
A little kick from inside me, alien and comforting, startles me out of the self-recrimination. That’s the first time Peanut has ever made his presence known in such a way.
It’s incredible. Indescribable.
Come on, baby, talk to Momma one more time.
Again, like the smallest, best miracle ever to be performed, I feel movement from within. Everything else fades from my thoughts. The worry, the fear, and the shame—it all falls to the wayside at the very real presence of my little Liam.
“Yes, you are my little Liam; aren’t you, Peanut?”
As if in approval, the baby shifts again.
Wait till I tell Meagan!
In a joyful state, I do my best not to think of Gavin and all the issues that accompanied his reappearance. Life’s too short not to enjoy the little moments such as your first baby’s first kick.
After putting the groceries away, I pour a glass of chocolate milk, make two sandwiches, and sitting at our little kitchen table, I open up my laptop. I just know the baby is a boy. I’d love to decorate his nursery in greens and blues. The new townhome turned out to be more of a blessing than we even realized at the time.
Four months ago, Meagan and I were living in a two bedroom apartment, sharing a bathroom and praying the fridge would last another day. Now, in our new townhome, there are three bedrooms and two baths, which means the extra bedroom will be transformed from an office into a nursery. We saved for years to be able to afford the place, and now that Meagan will be graduating from nursing school in about two and a half months, it’ll get much easier. She’s already got a job offer on the table. I’ll be able to quit doing extra work on the side to pay the rent, which will leave more time for the baby.
Over the next couple of hours, my time is spent fantasizing about mobiles, duck wall decals, striped crib bedding, and fuzzy monster covered onesies. I’m floating in maternal decorating bliss by the time I hear Meagan’s key turn in the lock.
She stomps through the door, not like her normal self at all. I shut my laptop because whatever account of her date I’m about to hear must be good, and I want to dedicate my full attention to it.
Her Vera Bradley bag goes sailing across our kitchen counter. On second thought, I may want to hide my laptop and take cover.
“I put on mascara for him!” she says, without preamble.
One slim hip is leaning against the counter, while her arms flail out in a, “what gives” gesture. She did dress cute, and her eyelashes do look incredible. She’s wearing a yellow, ribbed Henley and gray skinny jeans tucked into black suede, heeled boots. The yellow of her long sleeved top sets off her blue eyes nicely. She wears a black sequined cardigan on top, to account for the chill of early January.
“You put on mascara to get the mail,” I reason.
“No, you don’t understand. I put on three coats. Of the good stuff. We’re talking fiber lashes.”
“No!”
“Yes,” she says in return.
Her tone is morose and serious. I can understand the feeling. That mascara costs like thirty bucks a tube. We only use it for the best, most important of occasions. Meagan must be feeling down to use it on a date with some guy she barely knows. Maybe my news will pull her out of her funk.
“Well, how was your date?”
I’m obligated to ask this and let her recount the details before I give her my news. She’s been supportive of me, I can return the favor.
“Just perfect, if I wanted to date you. He was twenty-five minutes late.”
“Ouch, OK.”
I do have a tendency for being late, although I manage to get to work on time every day.
“That’s not all. He kept handing out insulting compliments.”
“Wait a second, I don’t do that!”
“No, the similarities end with him being late.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, he’d say something lik
e, ‘You’re so cute and tiny! Do you need help getting into the car?’ or ‘Oh, wow, you’re a nurse? Yeah, there’s no need for a pretty little thing like you to suffer through med school.’ He’s lucky I didn’t have my med bag with me, or I would have injected him with something unsavory.”
“Come on, Meagan. It’s not like you carry viral diseases in your kit.”
“He doesn’t know that! I could have threatened him with West Nile or something. I at least could have made him think I’d passed on the flu. The idiot never would have questioned the threat. No lie. He was that stupid. I thought there was some sort of entrance exam to be a lawyer?”
“Yeah, but he could have cheated.”
“Nepotism. It has to be some form of nepotism. Do you recognize the last name Baham? There has to be some connection to someone in authority for this guy to have a job.”
“You should just marry Alex and be done with it,” I say sagely, before taking another sip of my drink.
“Natalie! Is that chocolate milk?”
“It’s milk. You said drink more milk; this is milk. Chocolate is just an adjective.”
“I’m too depressed to give you the lecture right now. I’m sure you already know what I’d say anyway.”
“Yep, all that stuff about sugar, fat content, complex versus simple carbs, healthy eating habits begin before birth . . . ”
“Close enough,” she sighs.
I take another sip, feeling as if I’ve earned the drink as a reward for my health knowledge.
“Oh, your complaining almost made me forget!” I blurt out.
I’ve got to tell Meagan about Liam’s movement! And quickly, because as if inspired by my excitement, Liam releases a little flurry of kicks against my stomach.
“Hmmph.”
“Oh, shut up, and come here.”
She laughs and comes to sit beside me.
I grab up her hand and press it against my belly, hoping that Liam won’t settle before she can feel it too. It’s not lost on me that this is a moment that should be shared with the father. Eventually, Meagan will find her Mr. Right, tonight’s failure of a date notwithstanding, and she’ll have her own kids to raise. Eventually, I’ll need to become an independent single mother, or let Gavin have contact with his son, if only for the help. But for right now, I’m content to share this moment with my best friend.
Die By Night Page 8
