“I agree. Perhaps the author needs to reword a few lines just to give a little more background as to how she was forced to become an escort.”

We talk more and jot down notes, ready for our meeting with the author tomorrow. For the majority of our meeting, we don’t argue. But of course, all good things must come to an end.

“I have to admit, this single mom stuff is tough on this character. Glad I ain’t a woman.”

I swallow the massive lump restricting my ability to breathe and fumble with the button on my blouse. This is your opening—go ahead, do it! Yet I continue sitting in silence, chickening out once again. I am such a coward.

“Life hands you lemons, you gotta make lemonade somehow.”

“If life hands you lemons, you grab some tequila and have a party,” he cheers.

“See, that’s the difference between you and me. Tequila and partying is a thing of the past. When you grow up one day, you’ll realize it wasn’t worth all the hangovers.”

He leans in, too close for my comfort. “Funny, Malone, you seem to enjoy tequila and partying that night at the bar.”

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t drink. You always regret your actions the next day,” I say, staring at him.

He appears offended, pulling back immediately. Straightening his tie and adjusting his glasses, he clears his throat. “You are such a bitch sometimes, Malone.”

“Just like you are a jerk—all the time.”

He shuts down his laptop and storms out of the room without a word. I breathe a sigh of relief. This is too hard. It isn’t worth forming a friendship when soon he will hate me to the point he’ll wish I never existed.

 

Avoiding Marcus was harder than I anticipated. The rational part of my brain knew it was best that I tell Haden before Marcus. It seemed like the right thing to do, but Marcus was desperate, horny, and not afraid of letting me know that. I couldn’t pull the Aunt Flo card out because he gave me alternatives, and seriously what is it with young guys and their thirst for some Back-Door Betty action?

My clothing had started to feel restrictive, and I was fairly certain I could see a small bump. Still small enough to pass it off as bloating. I couldn’t button my pants so I stuck to wearing skirts and loose-fitting blouses. On top of the stress of telling Haden and Marcus, I had my parents to deal with.

To soften the blow, telling my sister Gemma would give me a taste of what was about to come. She was over the moon and wanted all the juicy tidbits about Baby Daddy. Then came a whole speech about how much she was going to spoil her niece/nephew. We talked about the right way to tell Mom and Dad, and agreed it was best over the phone followed by a visit.

My nerves were shot to hell about making that phone call, but I couldn’t hide it forever. Plus I really needed my mom and her parental advice right now.

As predicted, my parents were deeply disappointed, especially because they loved Jason so much and spent an hour telling me that I should have fallen pregnant with him. It wasn’t a ‘rewind and let’s try again’ situation. The damage was done. Mom, of course, was extra disappointed that Haden was younger than me. It was frowned upon in her generation and that lecture took another hour. By the end of the phone call, I was emotionally spent. As soon as we hung up, my mom called me right back and started panicking.

“Are you taking your prenatal vitamins?”

“Make sure you don’t eat blue cheese and cold meats.”

“Don’t sleep on your stomach. You might squash the baby!”

I could have listened all day to her. There was nothing more comforting at that moment than some motherly advice. I told her that I would clear my schedule next month and fly to Virginia to spend a few days with them before I got too big. She seemed more at ease by the end and even gloated about being a grandmother and knitting booties.

With that ticked off my list, I knew I had no choice but to tell Haden.

The perfect opportunity presented itself on Friday night, a week later. I suggested that we work on finalizing some details on Fallen Baby and asked the Jerk to come to my apartment. Hoping he didn’t get the wrong idea, I ordered a ton of take-out. The old ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ saying. Not that I wanted to get to his heart, I just wanted to remain alive by the end of the conversation.

He turns up at seven on the dot, dressed in light jeans and a white tee. The Chucks on his feet make me think he won’t be going out clubbing, especially since he is also wearing a baseball cap. I blame the hormones again for noticing how delicious he looks. I haven’t bothered to dress up. I’m wearing a loosely fitted tank top and drawstring shorts. It’s pretty much the only thing that fits right now, plus it is scorching hot outside. Being pregnant in the summer has not made me a happy camper. Thank God for A/C.

Walking barefoot back to my sofa, I ask him to take a seat before offering him a drink.

“Nice place you got here. You moving?” he asks, spotting the bare walls and stacked boxes.

“Yeah, soon. This was ours, but we decided to sell. Had a few offers and I think we’re closing soon.”

“Ours?”

“Mine and Jason’s. We bought it two years ago.”

“Right. Have you found a place?”

“I’ve been to inspect a few. Not much in my price range. I wish I could afford to buy this place but a part of me thinks it’ll be good to move on.”

That seems to be the extent of our forced conversation so I grab my laptop and go through my bullet points, all the while finding the courage to start the inevitable. Throughout the conversation, my head is repeating what I’m about to say over and over again until the point that he waits for me to respond and I have no idea what he just asked.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?”

“You seem distracted. I asked if the author planned a sequel.”

“Uh…not at this stage.”

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll bite. Why are you acting weird?”

“Weird? Okay…” I take a long breath. “This...is very...I need to ask you a question.”

He sits back into the sofa. With a composed yet undermining stare, he waits patiently if not eagerly for me to speak. I become a little distracted, imagining myself sitting on top of him, riding his beautiful pierced dick, and then…fuck these damn hormones! Focus!

“That night in the alley—”

“You said we weren’t to talk about that,” he is quick to remind me.

“I know I said that but I have to ask you something and I don’t want you reading more into it.”

“What are you going on about, Malone?”

Here goes, my eggs all in one basket—literally.

“Did you...” God, how do I ask this? “Did you...you know, finish?”

“Finish?”

“Finish...do the deed. Shoot your load.”

There is a wicked grin on his face, and rubbing his barely-existent beard in an annoying yet smoldering manner, he has me stumbling on my thoughts.

“Let me get this straight, Malone. You’re asking me if I came?”

Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, I feel so juvenile, nodding to suppress the sheer embarrassment.

“I’m curious as to why you’re only asking me this now?”

“Because I just need to know.”

With his arm draped along the back of the sofa, he inches closer, intimidating me with a persistent stare. He doesn’t realize I’m in the prime of the pregnancy, loaded with hormones, ready to pounce and beg him to fuck me because I am so damn horny I can’t even think straight.

“It’s a personal question, and you’re demanding an answer without explaining why you need to know.”

“Cut the bullshit, Jerk. I think we passed personal when you decided to screw me in the alley.”