Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
I pictured Riley’s silhouette on the other side of it, her hands pressed to the glass.
Not just mine, ours. If she was mine, then I was hers, and I had to show her that. I snatched up the phone and started dialing numbers. By the end of this week I’d have that damn studio, and then I’d have her again.
No questions asked. No doubt in my damn mind. Riley Robinson was my woman, she had been for the past month, and she would be for the rest of our lives.
Chapter 24
Riley
Two entire weeks had passed since I’d walked out on Jax in his office at Club Queen. He hadn’t contacted me once. Which was exactly what I’d wanted, right?
I chewed my bottom lip, nerves burning in my belly. Two weeks since I’d walked out on him. Two days since my period had been due. I brought up the brown paper bag and set it on my knees. Perched on the edge of the bathtub, I caught every one of my movements in Veronica’s bathroom mirror.
Pale face, round eyes, lips thinned and dry from stress. I licked them and swallowed, but my mouth was still dry.
This is not happening. Not like this.
“Knock, knock!” Veronica called out, from the hall. “Nessy’s fast asleep, our popcorn is popping, the TV is on, and I’ve got the box set of Game of Thrones ready to go. If you take much longer in there, I’m going to call the fire department. I’m in serious need of butter and salt.”
God.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I said. “Sorry, Ron, I’ve got a—I think it’s a stomach bug. I’ve been throwing up and—”
“Hey, I said salt and butter, not vomit and poop. I don’t need the details.” A beat passed. “Do you need anything? I could run down to the drugstore and pick up some Pepto-Bismol or something.”
“No, I’m good. I’ll be out soon,” I said.
“All right.” Veronica’s footsteps receded, and I let out a sigh of relief.
God, this was tough.
It’d been bad enough tucking my tail in between my legs and apologizing to her, admitting that I’d fucked up, bad, and it’d been worse knowing that me sleeping on her couch probably made things more awkward for her.
Now this? I looked down at the bag.
I’d gone to the drugstore this afternoon when Ron had gone to fetch Nessy from school. I’d planned on taking the test tomorrow morning when she had a shift at the restaurant, but I couldn’t wait a second longer. The fact that I had the pregnancy test right here—I’d hidden it behind the laundry basket—chewed a hole through my psyche.
I had to know now.
I had to know how bad things were going to get and how fast. If I was pregnant, there was no question in my mind as to what I’d do. Keep it. But everything else was up in the air.
Questions marks multiplied in my mind.
“Stop it,” I muttered. “Just take the test.”
I opened the bag and extracted the box, stripped it off, and read the instructions twice over. And then, I couldn’t stall a second longer. How strange was it that I both wanted to get this done and dreaded doing it all in one?
I shimmied out of my jeans, sat down on the toilet and, well, followed the instructions. I capped the stick after I was done and set it on the side of the bathtub, then flushed, wiped, washed and stared at myself in the mirror again.
“Come on, Riley,” I whispered. “You’re better than this. You’re not afraid. You’re fine. You can do this. It’s just a test. It’s just…” the biggest moment in my entire life.
I timed for exactly three minutes, my heart shimmying up into my throat, pounding out a rhythm that threatened to make me sick. I walked to the edge of the bath and sat down next to the stick. I’d placed it with the digital indicator facing down.
I squeezed my eyes shut, lifted it from the bathtub’s side, turned it over, and felt the plastic screen with my thumb.
“Do it,” I whispered.
I opened my eyes and stared at the screen.
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
Pregnant.
3+.
The set of numbers had to be the weeks. I frowned. Wait a second, how was it possible that I was more than three weeks pregnant? I’d stayed with Jax for four. It’d been two weeks since then.
I counted back in my head, then gasped. It had to have happened one of the first nights. But we’d used a condom both times, and neither of them had broken.
The night he fell asleep inside you.
I’d lain there with him in the bed, his dick growing soft inside me, condom still on. That had to be it—it’d—oh god.
It didn’t matter how it’d happened. I was pregnant with Jax King’s baby. A man who owned strip clubs and picked up women sleeping in their studios. Who cooked a mean lasagna but treated me like I was nothing but his property.