Take Me, Outlaw(64)
“Let Growler go and stay away from the Reapers, G. Or next time, we'll see if you bleed marinara. Capiche?”
I released him and let him fall to the sidewalk wheezing. Before the security guards could come to a stop, I darted away, zigging and zagging until I'd blended into the crowd. I drifted to the nearest exit casually and left, wondering what would come next—and knowing that whatever it was, it wouldn't be good.
Chapter Fourteen
Lauren
“Pregnant?”
Dr. Chadha nodded placidly. “Yes. About six weeks along, I would say.”
I shut my eyes and pressed my palms over my eyelids as the words flapped around in my skull like bats. Six weeks since the night at the Devil's Nest. And it had been at least three weeks since Jared and I had had sex when he broke up with me. Guess that doesn't exactly make the “Who's the father?” question multiple-choice.
Shit. One of the condoms must have broken.
I lowered my hands and saw Dr. Chadha raise her eyebrows at me. “Surely, this cannot be entirely surprising for you? After all, you did ask for the test. You must have suspected.”
Had I, really? The vomiting had continued, generally in the mornings. That's usually a sign for a woman to buy a pregnancy test, and when it had come up positive, well, the only thing left to do after that was make an appointment for a quick blood test just to be sure. But no, in spite of all that, somehow, I had still managed to convince myself that all of this would somehow turn out to be a false alarm.
Me, pregnant? I had always used condoms, especially since my body tended to react badly to most forms of birth control. And the couple of times I had a brief scare, it had turned out to be nothing, until somehow, I had come to believe that pregnancies were things that happened to other women. It just wasn't something I tended to devote a lot of thought to.
And besides...
“I didn't miss a period!” I blurted out. “I don't understand. I can't be pregnant if I still had my period. That doesn't make sense.”
“Unfortunately, it does,” Dr. Chada answered. “Was your last period lighter than usual?”
I nodded. “But I'm not on the pill, so my periods are usually pretty inconsistent. Sometimes they're light, sometimes they're heavy, sometimes earlier, sometimes later...”
“I'm afraid your last period was not a period at all,” she replied. “When a woman initially becomes impregnated, she sometimes experiences what is known as implantation bleeding. It's a sign that the fertilized egg has successfully implanted itself in the uterine wall. It can easily be mistaken for a period, especially if the menstrual cycle is somewhat unpredictable to begin with.”
“Can you...check it again?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Dr. Chadha looked sympathetic, but still shook her head. “I have already double- and triple-checked, Ms. Sparks. I am quite certain that you are pregnant. I am sorry if this news is troubling for you. I have several pamphlets and articles I can share with you regarding your options, if you wish.”
Options. The word clanged against my ears. I knew what it meant, but couldn't bring myself to face it.
“No, thank you,” I said, gathering my purse together with trembling hands.
“If you wish, I can give you the contact information for a therapist, so that you can discuss any feelings of—”
“No, I, um, appreciate your help, but...I'll, uh...I'll be fine. Thank you. Goodbye.”
I almost ran out of the office, and when I got outside, I started to cry. If this were Jared's baby, that would have been bad enough—the thought of trying to have that conversation made me nauseous. Whether he wanted to keep the baby or get rid of it, I couldn't bear to see those awful scarlet blotches on his face and neck again as he squirmed at the news and tried to lawyer his way through it.
But Nic? Jesus, that's so much worse. He's a biker, and probably an outlaw. I was supposed to be a fun one-night stand, not some creepy chick who shows up almost two months later saying, “Surprise, you're gonna be a daddy!” Even if he stuck around—which he definitely wouldn't, don't be ridiculous—he'd probably end up endangering the baby with his criminal lifestyle. The first time the kid sees his “father” will probably be behind plexiglass on visiting day. Is that what I'd want for a child?
Well, I'd never stopped to think about what I would want for a child. Or whether I ever wanted a child at all, for that matter. And now the choice had dropped on top of me with the weight of a piano, and I could feel it crushing the life out of me.
I'd known a couple of girls in college who'd gotten abortions. Kathleen had handled it well, and even when it awkwardly came up during a drunken late-night conversation over a year later, she'd claimed that she had no regrets at all. She'd been completely convinced that it was the right thing to do, and that she simply hadn't been ready to have a child. At the time, I had admired her logical approach and her certainty.
But on the other hand, there was Beth, my other friend who accidentally got knocked up in sophomore year. Her boyfriend had been an insensitive pig, and when she told him she was pregnant, he bullied her into having an abortion without caring how she felt about it. After it was over, Beth ended up having a nervous breakdown and leaving college.
I still admired Kathleen's resolve to this day, but I didn't know if I was enough like her to go through what she had and come out unscathed. I did know that I was too terrified of ending up like Beth to do this if I wasn't 100% sure I could live with it, and I just didn't believe I could ever reach that level of certainty.
But most of all, now that I knew it was inside of me, I was certain I could feel it growing. If this was just a collection of bothersome cells to get rid of, then how come I already felt like it was a person? Why was I already considering which gender it would be, and what kind of future I could give it?
A future without a father. You're not just thinking about raising a child for the first time in your life. You are thinking about raising it entirely on your own. You're a barely-employed actor, and you're barely in your twenties. Wouldn't it be selfish to decide to raise a baby under those conditions?
I desperately wanted to take these thoughts to heart, but I couldn't. I knew that to me, “selfish” would be aborting a life simply because the thought of being a parent was frightening and uncertain for me. In that moment, I realized that even if I could work up the courage to make an appointment at a clinic, I wouldn't be able to go through with it.
For better or worse, I was going to have this baby. And Nic could never know.
Chapter Fifteen
Growler
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
I could barely remember where I was or how I'd gotten there. Fuck, I could barely remember who I was. I'd lost a lot of...well, everything, pretty much. Tommy kept the blood transfusions coming whenever he chopped off something new, but it seemed like he still kept the flow light enough to keep me weak. Having only one arm left kept me off balance, too.
But I could remember one thing, goddamn it, and I clung to it every time Tommy left the room. I could remember to keep slamming my weight—what was left of it—from side to side, over and over, while sitting in my chair.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
At least I didn't have to worry much about popping any stitches. To minimize blood loss, Tommy had chosen to keep cauterizing most of the wounds with that motherfucking red-hot poker. I had almost gotten used to the sound of my own skin frying, and the sight of my own body parts being held by someone else across the room.
I had even gotten used to the fact that Bard and the others wouldn't be coming to my rescue. I had clung to that hope for the first couple of weeks, but after six, it was clear that I was on my own. I didn't blame them. I knew they probably just couldn't find me, and I also knew they'd be doing everything they could to either track me down and break me out or make these sons of bitches pay for what they'd done to me. But either way, I'd almost certainly die in this fucking room.
I remembered being groggy and thinking they were trying to get information from me, even though no one had asked me anything. “You're not gettin' anything from me,” I had slurred. Those were the last real words I would ever speak, as it turned out.
Tommy laughed behind his surgical mask. “Hey, paisan, we've already gotten a lot from you! Hell, we've cut off enough parts to build a whole other biker, if we wanted to!” And with that, he reached into my mouth with a metal clamp, grabbed my tongue with it, and used a scalpel to saw through it. That was some bad pain, and I think I might have passed out toward the end.
Still, I could handle pain. I'd been doing it all my life.
Trying to break free of the layers of duct tape would have been useless, even at full strength. But after shifting my weight enough times to try to get the blood flowing to my numb ass cheeks again, I realized that this wooden chair wasn't too sturdy. It was old, it had been sat on many times—by Giovanni, probably, or his equally-fat relatives—and the nails holding it together were loose and squeaky.
Even missing about 25 percent of my body, I knew I had enough weight to loosen it up even more if I kept working at it. And even though Tommy had done a number on my upper body, I still had both of my legs, which meant I had a chance to run for it if I could get free. I still had an arm to deal out some punishment with, too.