Chapter Thirteen – Angela
Chapter Thirteen
Angela
We returned to the bar late that evening.
He dropped me off and begged off to go do ‘business’ and I’d lost the will to fight, he’d fucked it clean away.
I’d lost count of the times he’d made me come, and then come in me, his cock solidly inside my pussy the entire time.
When he’d finally pulled it out it looked the same—but I knew the weight and girth I’d felt, even if I’d feel foolish trying to explain it away out loud.
I tried not to walk like I’d been riding a horse as I went through the crowded bar back to our bedroom.
Willa was dozing on our communal bed. Being pregnant was taking a lot out of her. I tried to be quiet, but she still woke as I snuggled in.
“Is everything okay?” Her hand reached for mine. “I was so worried.”
“It’s all fine now, I think. He really does love us, Willa. He’s just….” Once Gray and I had started fucking we’d stopped talking. But I knew what his body’d said—that he wanted to make things right.
“I know,” she said, forgiving my lack of words and squeezing my hand. “I know.”
The next morning Gray hadn’t come back yet. I was up before Willa, and went to the bathroom to comb my hair and brush my teeth—and saw where my pill pack sat, open, the half-circle of pills at the bottom of it smiling at me.
Shit. I’d been so worried about Willa—and then so thoroughly fucked—that for two days I hadn’t taken any. And—worse yet—now I had strange cramps.
There was no way. I couldn’t be that unlucky, could I?
But after the way Gray had been yesterday—and how Willa was now—I bit my lip—and then I popped out the two pills I’d missed into the toilet. If I was, I was. And if I wasn’t—I could be.
I spent the next two weeks popping pills out and flushing them.
We—all three of us, and variations thereof—fucked again and again, but it never had the same intensity.
Gray was more attentive now, to both of us, to be sure—but it never felt so completely right.
Although maybe I could blame myself—when my blank week came and my period didn’t—I knew I was acting strange.
I’d always skipped my periods though, taking my pills sequentially, all the better to keep getting laid.
So the only one that knew the difference was me.
I mean, I wanted to tell them, I knew they’d both be happy.
But any time I wanted to, something came up—more business, more problems, or more tattoos to do.
I found out more gossip from the pack members I gave tattoos to each night than from Gray.
Schoolwork got short shrift as I tried to imagine myself pregnant, taking a sweltering bus into campus, or riding at nine months on the back of Gray’s bike.
And then came the Farm night.
“Oh my God, Angie,” Willa said, wincing in pain. Her face was sallow, she hadn’t kept food down in three days. Nikki had brought her over an herbal cocktail of some sort. Willa was sipping on it now when she could, over ice.
I looked over to where Gray sat, lacing his boots up for the ride. I didn’t have to say anything for him to know what I was thinking. “It’ll pass. It always does.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because,” he said, standing, and coming over to me. He kissed my head, and then he kissed hers, and went for the door.
I lay down beside Willa, swallowing my own queasiness down. My mother had always joked she was made of breeding stock, that her pregnancy had been a pain-free joy, and up until this night I’d been inclined to agree. But something felt wrong now, inside me, in a way that I couldn’t describe.
“It’s going to be okay, right Angie?” Willa asked, breathing stomach acid out at me.
“Yeah. Of course.”
An hour later Murphy knocked on the door. Someone always checked in on us on Farm nights. “You two okay?”
“Yeah,” I shouted out.
There was a pause. “You want your shot?”
At the thought of tequila, above and beyond what it might do to my baby, my stomach curdled. “You drink it for me!”
“Suit yourself,” he said back, surely slinking away.
I expected that night to be like all the other Farm nights for Willa—bad but then easing up near dawn.
But that’s not what happened. Around midnight, she started weeping, and after that—
“Oh my God,” I whispered, and then raced out into the bar. “Someone—help me!”
The bar was mostly empty—on Farm nights, we didn’t let outsiders inside. No one seemed particularly moved.
“Willa—she’s having a miscarriage!” I rounded the bar to Murphy. “I need you—we’ve got to take her into the hospital. Now!”
Murphy inhaled deeply, looking sorrowfully at me. “No. We don’t,” he said, his voice low.
“What? Didn’t you hear me? She needs a doctor! She’s going to lose the baby!” I’d left my best friend in a slowly growing pool of blood.
“She’ll either make it, or she won’t,” he said. I looked around for someone, anyone, less insane.
“But,” I sputtered.
“Go back to the room. See if there’s anything you can do to make her more comfortable,” he said, his expression turning stony.
I already knew there was nothing I could do for her—she needed medical attention. “You’re crazy!” I said, and went for the phone behind the bar.
He caught me just as I reached it, hauling me back by my waist. The strange bottle of whatever they kept back there to add to their shots tipped on the shelf and spattered, and some of the liquid hit his hand. He yanked it back as if it burned and shouted, “Goddammit Angie!” dropping me.
My phone was in the bedroom—but if I went back in there—they’d bar me in and wouldn’t let me go for help. I ran for the back patio and the communal car.