Chapter 19
Gail
T he silence in the car is suffocating as we drive away from Dr. Patel’s office. Soren’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. Mickey stares straight ahead, eyes hard as steel. Neither of them speaks a word to me, the unwanted elephant in the backseat.
I curl my arms around my stomach, pretending I can feel the tiny flicker of life inside me. Fet. But from the icy chill radiating off the guys in the front, you’d think it was a death sentence instead of a new beginning. My eyes flick up to the rearview mirror, catching Mickey’s gaze for a split second before he looks away. I swallow the lump in my throat. “So, what now?” My voice sounds small, even to my own ears.
Soren exhales sharply through his nose. “Now we apparently have to fucking babysit you until we find out if you’ve spread your legs for anyone else.”
“Screw you,” I mutter under my breath. There’s no real heat behind my words because truthfully, I’m glad for them. Keeping up this back-and-forth stops me from thinking about the man at the doctor’s.
Mickey’s eyes flash to mine in the mirror again, narrowing. “You got something to say, Gail? Because now would be a great fucking time.”
I bite my lip, shaking my head. Arguing won’t get us anywhere right now, not with tempers running this high. I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur by as Soren drives.
After a stretch of tense quiet, broken only by the low rumble of the engine, the car slows and turns unexpectedly. I frown as I recognize my street. “Why are we—”
“To get your stuff,” Soren interrupts gruffly as he parks in front of my apartment building. “You should be happy, since this is what you’ve been fucking bitching about.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?” I don’t even know why I’m bothering to argue since the owner—or who I presume to be the owner—of Cupid’s laid down the law, and even if the guys are dicks, I’d rather be with them than whatever would happen to me if I allowed the owner to look after me.
Look after me… I want to scoff at the notion that I need looking after like a kid that can’t be trusted not to shove his or her fingers into a light socket.
Mickey twists in his seat to look at me, eyes flinty. “No. We won’t fucking excuse you. You heard what was said, so why even fight it?”
“I never said I wanted to go with you,” I sniff, trying to sound put out. The truth is that I can’t remember if I said it or just thought it.
Soren shrugs. “We can turn around right now if you’d rather—”
“No!” I shout. “It’s… fine. I’ll…” Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself.
“Not that it matters what you want,” Mickey unhelpfully adds. “The decision is ours. We said you’re ours, so that’s the way it is.”
I glare at both of them, anger and humiliation heating my cheeks. But beneath it all, I can’t deny the small thrill that zips through me at the possessive edge to their words. Goddamn pregnancy hormones.
“Fine,” I snap, shoving the car door open. “Give me ten minutes.” I don’t wait for a response before slamming it shut behind me and stomping toward my building’s entrance.
Of course, I don’t even make it to the door before I hear them following me, their feet stomping a trail of anger behind them. But instead of acknowledging them, I ignore them all the way up the stairs and until we stand in front of my door.
Smirking, Mickey unlocks the door with the key he’s clearly snatched from my bag. I do my best to continuously ignore both assholes as I enter and head straight for my bedroom, pulling out two duffle bags from my closet. I lay it all out on my bed before throwing clothes and toiletries haphazardly in, not really paying attention to what I’m packing.
I love the anger I’m feeling, it’s keeping me preoccupied as I imagine all the ways I want to hurt the bastards. Especially Mickey for going through my things, keeping my phone, and fucking unlocking my door as though I need his permission to enter my own home.
When I’m done, I zip up the bags and shoulder them with a sigh, taking one last look around. I have a sinking feeling it’ll be awhile before I see this place again. If ever. Ugh, no. I can’t think like that. Instead of succumbing to my morose thoughts, I enter the kitchen and open cupboards, gathering my favorite snacks before also packing those.
“What are you doing?” I almost jump as Soren’s voice slices through the silence. Turning my head, I see him casually leaning against the door frame. “You shouldn’t eat any of that,” he scoffs, eyeing my snacks with disdain.
“Don’t!” I warn, shooting daggers from my eyes. “I’ll eat my chocolate if I want to. I’ll eat the cookies if I want to. You don’t get a fucking say.” My tone is as clipped as my sentences.
“You can’t just eat whatever you want to,” he argues, reaching out as though he’s going to take my snacks from me.
Without meaning to, I hiss at him—fucking hiss like a cornered feline—and slap his hand away, and much to my dismay, he smirks, clearly finding my reaction amusing.
“Let her eat whatever she wants,” Mickey drawls as he joins us in the kitchen. “It’s not our fucking baby, so why should we care?”
For the first time, the words don’t offend or hurt me. I let them roll off my back, imagining their stunned faces when the truth comes out with a little help from a paternity test. Oh, I’ll make them eat their words then.
The thought has me grinning as I place my snacks in one of the duffle bags, refusing to let either of them carry it as we leave my apartment. I don’t even allow them to throw it in the trunk, nope; the bag is staying with me.
When we’re back on the road, Mickey meets my eyes in the mirror again, gaze flinty. “Satisfied now?” he asks in a low tone that my stupid body reacts to immediately. My nipples pebble, and my pussy flutters with want.
I just nod, not trusting my voice. He faces forward and starts up a conversation with Soren, ignoring me completely. It’s probably a blessing with the way my body is acting. I rest my head back and close my eyes, mentally steeling myself. I have a feeling this is going to be a very long drive to my new gilded prison. A prison of my own making.
The worst part is, even through the anger and uncertainty swirling inside me, I can’t tamp down that tiny traitorous voice whispering that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be heading right now than into the arms of these two infuriatingly impossible men.
Lord help me, I’m so screwed up.
After what feels like an eternity, the car pulls to a stop in front of a gorgeous, modern-looking house—Soren’s house. Since it was dark when they brought me here before, this is the first time I get a proper look at it.
The house is sleek, modern two-story with smooth concrete, dark steel, and expansive glass windows. The flat roof and sharp angles create a bold, geometric look, while a dark wood front door adds warmth. Minimalist landscaping and a simple driveway complete the clean, sophisticated exterior.
As soon as the car is parked, Mickey practically yanks me out of the car, and before I can blink, he’s nudging me up the steps and ushering me inside. When I almost stumble, he makes a sound of annoyance and takes the duffle bag I’m clutching from me, throwing it over the shoulder he’s already carrying the other bag on. Then he stomps up the stairs, and I follow him, already knowing what’s coming.
“Make yourself at home, Gail,” he says, throwing the bags on the floor. “We’ll… umm… be downstairs.” He clears his throat and leaves me alone, quietly shutting the door behind him.
“Wait!” I call out before the door shuts completely. He doesn’t open it again, but he does stop the movement. “Thanks for letting me have my snacks.” I wanted to thank him for standing up for me, for bringing me back here, yet my brain somehow substituted that with snacks. It’ll do.
The chuckle coming from him is unexpected. “No problem. But if I were you, I wouldn’t let Soren see you eat that shit.” With those words, he closes the door.
I let out a shaky breath, exhaling the air I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Well, here I am. Apparently the property of Mickey Davis and Soren Taylor. Who would’ve thought?
Since I still feel yucky from my vomit fest at the doctor’s, I quickly gather what I need from one of the bags before locking myself in the bathroom, eager to get clean. And now that I have my pregnancy-friendly shower products, I can finally clean myself properly. I bask in the hot water as it pelts my skin for longer than I need to, but damn, it feels amazing.
After I’ve scrubbed myself raw, I emerge from the shower, wrapping the large towel around my body, finding a smaller one for my freshly washed hair. As I brush my teeth, I take a quick look in the mirror. I’m a mess, but what else is new?
Taking my time, I go through the ritual of adding oil to my hair before brushing the dual-colored locks into submission.
I also lather my entire body in the oil recommended by Mom32 on the blogs, swearing it prevents stretch marks. I know that’s not true since I already have a couple on my tits. Unlike most women, I don’t mind them, though. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not pretty, it’s just not enough to send me into a tailspin.
With a heavy sigh, I open the door and step out into the bedroom. Then I take my time unpacking before pulling on my favorite sweater, a dark blue and form fitting one that’s so comfy it should be illegal. Not feeling like wearing jeans, I choose a pair of black leggings that hug my ass and thighs like a glove.
After I’ve unpacked everything and munched down half the cookies, I get restless. The only entertainment in this room is the flatscreen TV, and while it’s awesome to have hundreds, if not thousands, of channels to choose between, I don’t want to lie in bed and watch anything.
I want to go for a walk; I want to hang out with Luce or Jamie. I want to… be around other people. But since neither of those options are realistic, I guess I’ll settle for… wait a second! It hits me that I never heard Mickey lock the door.
Moving on my tip-toes, I quietly make my way over to the door, and when I place my hand on the handle, my heart races like I’m doing something forbidden. As I push down the handle, the door swings open, and I feel like doing a celebratory dance. I’m not locked in. Oh, is that why Mickey told me where he and Soren would be? Are they expecting me to join them?
Before I can make a conscious decision, my feet carry me over to the stairs, and I descend them with a pep in my freaking step. I find Mickey and Soren in the living room; it looks like they’re in the middle of a heated conversation.
“Keeping her here is the best option for all of us,” Soren says, impatience tainting his words, making it sound like he’s tired of repeating himself. “I did what I had to.”
Huh? What did Soren do?
“You mean keeping her under surveillance,” Mickey corrects. “Babysitting her.”
Soren exhales loudly, cupping the back of his head with both hands. “What’s the alternative, Mick? We don’t trust her. At least this way we can keep an eye on her.”
“She could still be lying…” He cuts off when Soren scoffs.
“Really? You don’t think she would have come clean by now? Look, it might only have been days, but I believe her.”
He believes me? The words make a smile play with the corners of my lips, raising them ever so slightly.
“Whatever,” Mickey grumbles non-committedly.
“And you do too,” Soren clarifies. “I know you do.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, eager to hear more. But the damn floorboard creaks, so before I can find out if Mickey really does believe me, they both look up at the same time.
Mickey has amusement in his eyes, Soren narrows his as though he definitely wasn’t expecting to see me. Huh.
“Umm, hey,” I say, awkwardly waving at them.
Mickey snorts, waving back.
“So I guess you want her down here?” Soren says, looking pointedly at Mickey, who just shrugs.
“Want is a strong word,” he retorts. “But locking her up won’t work in the long run. We need a better plan now that we are responsible for her.”
My mind takes me back to the hallway, to the warning from the stranger. He made it clear that Soren and Mickey are responsible for me, which means… “I have a life to live,” I say, opting for reasoning with them. “I can’t just stay here all the time. Luce and my family will worry, and—”
“Yeah,” Soren agrees.
Mickey shakes his head and huffs like he’s had enough. “You two just aren’t getting it,” he barks. “There’s no talking about this. No pleading or reasoning.” He turns his head to look straight at me. “That guy is the owner, in case you didn’t know.”
“Yeah, I—” He doesn’t let me finish saying that I’d already worked that out.
“The fact he’s taking a personal interest is bad. So fucking bad.”
Soren clears his throat. “I know,” he says grimly.
Apparently, I’m the only one who doesn’t know it, which isn’t entirely true. From the demeanor of the guy, I knew he wasn’t there to swap cookie recipes or braid my hair. But I don’t know what it means to have his attention, so I ask, “What is he going to do? What did Dr. Patel want to talk to you about when I was sent outside?”
“It means our asses are on the line if you’ve lied,” Soren answers.
“And that we can’t afford to let you go until…” Pausing, he points at my stomach, “that thing has come out.” Mickey adds, not sounding happier than I feel about the prospect of having me around twenty-four-seven.
We spend the rest of the day going in circles; me asking them to elaborate on something that doesn’t need it. Them giving me exasperated slash angry answers. In short, it’s not productive. If I’m honest, that’s probably my fault. I’m the one who keeps asking the same questions while hoping for different answers.
Right now, the guys are in the kitchen cooking something that smells so delicious it has my stomach growling and my mouth watering. As I watch them from the couch, I want to go out there and help them, insert myself into their domestic rituals. But I don’t, I just keep observing from afar.
Tearing my gaze away from them, I pick up the small 3D picture of Fet they gave me before they started cooking. The more I look at it, the more I fall in love with the blob that lives in my body. For the first time, everything feels completely real, and like I’m on the right path in life. I might not have gotten onto this path in the best way. Hell, I haven’t gone about a lot of things in the best way possible. But I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.
I look back at the guys, watching them as they navigate the cooking and each other with an ease I’m almost jealous of. The way they are with each other is part of the draw they’ve held for me since I met them. It’s not a game, it’s not about Soren or Mickey. They’re a package deal on the ice, privately, and… well, I suspect that’ll reach into fatherhood.
Since the situation we find ourselves in is my doing, my fault, I’m the one who has to make it up to them; the one who has to regain their trust. It’s not that I’ve forgotten what they’ve done to me, I definitely don’t forgive them for it. But I can understand it.
When Soren calls my name and tells me dinner’s ready, I get up and stretch before joining them at the kitchen table. It’s round and not too big, which makes it more intimate as we sit here together. I keep looking at them, trying to be discreet as they help themselves to the food. As soon as they’re done, Mickey takes my plate and fills it up before handing it back to me.
“Thank you,” I say dutifully. Then I take a bite, and oh my God it’s delicious. Rich flavors explode on my tongue, making me moan with appreciation. “What is this deliciousness?”
Rolling his eyes, Mickey shoves some food into his mouth, which makes Soren laugh. “It’s lemon garlic shrimp pasta with spinach. It’s healthy and good for both you and the baby.”
“Fet,” I correct without meaning to.
“Fet?” he asks, scrunching up his nose.
“Fetus felt too impersonal, so I went with a shortened version.” I try to explain why that’s the name I’ve come up with, and that I’ve, against all odds, grown fond of it.
Much to my surprise, it’s Mickey who speaks next. “I like it,” he says, grimacing as though it hurts him to admit that.
We continue eating in silence, and while they each have a beer to wash it down with, I stick to water. Though I kinda wish I could have some tequila with Luce. Damn, I miss our tequila nights.
Once we’re done, I get up first, clearing the plates while Soren takes care of the leftovers. He’s very meticulous about finding the right container to put it in, and I can’t help noticing each one is labeled. It’s clearly very important to use the right one, as the one marked for chicken goes back inside the cupboard. How very… pragmatic.
When we’re almost done, and Soren tells me to go sit down, I jump up on the kitchen counter, refusing to leave the kitchen until I say what’s on my mind. “What do you guys want me to do?”
The question was meant to break the cycle of us going over the same things, but what I’m getting is two shocked expressions and one shattered cup as Mickey drops it. “About what?” Soren asks, quick to get a small broom and dustpan, sweeping the shattered glass up in no time.
“Do you want me to follow you around like a lost puppy? Lock me up again? What’s the game plan here?”
Mickey gets a new cup and sets about making himself a cup of tea. It smells nice, so nice I’m about to ask for a cup when he hands me his. “Do you take anything in it?” he asks, his gruff tone so at odds with the kind gesture I can barely contain the laughter bubbling in my chest.
“Milk,” I answer automatically. “But I can get it myself.”
I go to jump down from the counter, but Soren steadies me by gripping my hips, holding me in place. “Don’t come down until we’re sure there isn’t more glass on the floor.”
Frowning, I discreetly move my hand under my sweater and pinch the skin on my stomach. The way they’re acting is so… strange. I have to make sure I haven’t fallen asleep and ended up in some kind of weird dream world.
“Yeah,” Mickey says, answering my question after pouring some milk into my tea. “You’ll have to follow us around. We still have games to play, so we can’t stay at the house with you every day.” I’m oddly relieved his tone tells me how much he hates the idea of me being everywhere. But if he sounded happy about it, I’d have to rethink the part about being asleep.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, centering myself. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll do it, but—”
“No buts,” Soren growls. “This is the way it has to be.”
“I get that,” I snap, even though I’m not sure I do. “But I need my phone. My family and Luce need to be able to contact me. I can’t just fall off the face of the earth.”
Soren nods thoughtfully. “Supervised phone time,” he agrees. “And you need to tell Lucia that you’ve moved in with us.”
Shit… shit… shit… how the hell am I meant to do that? I can’t just say I’ve moved in without giving at least some answers. I try to tell them that, but neither of them seem to care too much about what they call ‘your problem, not ours’.
“Fine,” I almost growl when they still won’t budge and let me go to Luce’s house tomorrow. “Contact Sawyer and have him make sure Luce goes to practice with him tomorrow. I’ll talk to her at the arena.”
That they at least agree to, and I finish my cup of tea in silence. Thoughts keep swirling around in my head, and each one is more desperate than the last. By the time I’m ready for bed, I’m still no closer to figuring out what I’m going to say, or how I’m going to say it. In the end, I decide that’s a problem for tomorrow, and after telling them goodnight, I head upstairs and get ready for bed.
I don’t know if I drift off or simply get lost in my own head, but the next thing I’m aware of is the mattress dipping beside me. I stiffen, breath catching, as a familiar muscular arm snakes around my waist.
“Shh, it’s just me,” Mickey’s deep voice rumbles in my ear and I suppress a shiver.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, not turning to face him.
His hand splays across my stomach, large and possessive. “Told you, you have to stay real close, sweetheart.”