fresh from the factory waiting to be bent over like the bought and paid for toy she is!”
“You’re what?!”
Hm. Yeah. That was probably not the best way to tell him that.
When I don’t answer, he raises his voice again, “You’re what?”
“Pregnant.” The word tastes as bad as I’m currently starting to feel.
“Like pregnant, pregnant?”
Why do people keep saying that? Is there another kind of pregnant? Did I miss that definition in the dictionary?
“Like, in the next 6 months I’m gonna look like I’ve stuffed a beach ball in my yoga pants.”
Logan folds his arms across his chest. “And it’s mine?”
My jaw hits the ground.
He did not really just ask me that, did he? Tell me I imagined it. Tell me my hearing is distorted from that fight being so goddamn loud. Tell me I am wrong before I go to jail in Vegas for cutting off the balls of a prized fighter.
When I don’t answer, he takes it upon himself to repeat, “And it’s mine?”
Seething, I snap, “Well, it’s nice to know after I opened my legs for the first time in four years to be another notch on your bedpost that you think you hit some sort of magical slut button inside of me that kills my willpower and turns me into a walking whore.” Logan opens his mouth to fight, and I scream, “Yes, it’s fucking yours!”
I stare back at him as he tries to settle his breathing. His chest rises and falls in a way that scares me.
This is what he gets like when he feels like he’s been backed into a corner. This is what he looks like he when he’s about to throw an unexpected punch.
“I can’t believe you got yourself knocked up to make sure that I had to come back to you for the rest of my life. That’s low, Maxx.”
Hit. Taken.
More irate than I have ever been in my entire life, I put a hand on the door handle. “Yup. Climbed on top of myself and got pregnant so that you had to come back to me for the rest of your life. Well, don’t worry about coming back to me, Logan. Ever. We’re done.” After a long pause, I shake my head. “We’re fucking done.”
“Maxx—”
The door shuts, and I rush toward the elevators determined to get the hell out of his hotel, his way, his fucking life. Quickly, I exit the building, hail a taxi, and head towards the hotel we’re staying at, the entire time holding back tears.
How crazy of us was it to expect his reaction to be any other way?
I pay the driver, and hop out rushing to my room as fast as I rushed from his. When I finally open the door to our room, Dean is strolling out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans, black t-shirt, and grinning from ear to ear. He looks identical to the one person who never fails to break my heart. Thrusting my back against the door, I sink slowly, tears streaming down my face.
Dean scrambles over, falling to my side and asks, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
The sound of the word makes me cry harder as he wraps his arms around me, attempting to shield me from my own sobs. Through muffled tears I manage to say, “We’re going home tonight.”
Chapter 9
Logan
What have I done? What have I fucking done?!
My body slumps onto the bed. I plant my face in my hands, clutching it tight.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t fucking happening.
The entire thing plays through my head all over again. From the minute Maxx walked in until the minute she walked out, a complete disaster. Not once did I even stop and say hello. Or that I missed her. Or that I love her. And on top of that, she’s got my kid growing in her? How the hell did this happen?
No need to be snarky. I’m having a real fucking crisis moment.
After instant replaying the words, the sounds, the motions again and again, I finally get up off my ass and toss on my jeans.
She didn’t mean it. There’s no fucking way Maxx meant what she said.
Dialing her number, I’m not surprised when it goes straight to voicemail. Fuck. Quickly, I dial Erin’s number. No answer. In disbelief, since she would
“You’re what?!”
Hm. Yeah. That was probably not the best way to tell him that.
When I don’t answer, he raises his voice again, “You’re what?”
“Pregnant.” The word tastes as bad as I’m currently starting to feel.
“Like pregnant, pregnant?”
Why do people keep saying that? Is there another kind of pregnant? Did I miss that definition in the dictionary?
“Like, in the next 6 months I’m gonna look like I’ve stuffed a beach ball in my yoga pants.”
Logan folds his arms across his chest. “And it’s mine?”
My jaw hits the ground.
He did not really just ask me that, did he? Tell me I imagined it. Tell me my hearing is distorted from that fight being so goddamn loud. Tell me I am wrong before I go to jail in Vegas for cutting off the balls of a prized fighter.
When I don’t answer, he takes it upon himself to repeat, “And it’s mine?”
Seething, I snap, “Well, it’s nice to know after I opened my legs for the first time in four years to be another notch on your bedpost that you think you hit some sort of magical slut button inside of me that kills my willpower and turns me into a walking whore.” Logan opens his mouth to fight, and I scream, “Yes, it’s fucking yours!”
I stare back at him as he tries to settle his breathing. His chest rises and falls in a way that scares me.
This is what he gets like when he feels like he’s been backed into a corner. This is what he looks like he when he’s about to throw an unexpected punch.
“I can’t believe you got yourself knocked up to make sure that I had to come back to you for the rest of my life. That’s low, Maxx.”
Hit. Taken.
More irate than I have ever been in my entire life, I put a hand on the door handle. “Yup. Climbed on top of myself and got pregnant so that you had to come back to me for the rest of your life. Well, don’t worry about coming back to me, Logan. Ever. We’re done.” After a long pause, I shake my head. “We’re fucking done.”
“Maxx—”
The door shuts, and I rush toward the elevators determined to get the hell out of his hotel, his way, his fucking life. Quickly, I exit the building, hail a taxi, and head towards the hotel we’re staying at, the entire time holding back tears.
How crazy of us was it to expect his reaction to be any other way?
I pay the driver, and hop out rushing to my room as fast as I rushed from his. When I finally open the door to our room, Dean is strolling out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans, black t-shirt, and grinning from ear to ear. He looks identical to the one person who never fails to break my heart. Thrusting my back against the door, I sink slowly, tears streaming down my face.
Dean scrambles over, falling to my side and asks, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
The sound of the word makes me cry harder as he wraps his arms around me, attempting to shield me from my own sobs. Through muffled tears I manage to say, “We’re going home tonight.”
Chapter 9
Logan
What have I done? What have I fucking done?!
My body slumps onto the bed. I plant my face in my hands, clutching it tight.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t fucking happening.
The entire thing plays through my head all over again. From the minute Maxx walked in until the minute she walked out, a complete disaster. Not once did I even stop and say hello. Or that I missed her. Or that I love her. And on top of that, she’s got my kid growing in her? How the hell did this happen?
No need to be snarky. I’m having a real fucking crisis moment.
After instant replaying the words, the sounds, the motions again and again, I finally get up off my ass and toss on my jeans.
She didn’t mean it. There’s no fucking way Maxx meant what she said.
Dialing her number, I’m not surprised when it goes straight to voicemail. Fuck. Quickly, I dial Erin’s number. No answer. In disbelief, since she would
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