Chapter 22
Tori
The guys still aren’t back from their meeting with my father, and I’m sick with worry—literally.
This is the third time this morning I’ve thrown up.
When I finally feel like there’s nothing left in me and I’ve stopped dry retching, I stand up on shaky legs and leave the cubicle, the sound of the flush roaring in my ears.
My hands shake as I wash them, and I focus on counting to stop myself from fainting.
I’m totally replete, yet the nausea won’t subside.
The chemical citrus smell of the soap over the public bathroom stench brings on a new wave of stomach churning, and I fear I’ll have to rush back into the cubicle again.
I try not to breathe as I wash the suds off and leave the room, hoping that when I’m back in the bar I’ll feel better.
Shelly comes up to me, brow furrowed with concern. “You okay, hon? You don’t look too good.” I haven’t told her that I’m sick, I knew she’d send me home, and I wanted the distraction of work. But I can’t hide it any longer.
I shake my head. “I keep throwing up, and I feel so nauseous. It must be nerves, worrying about the guys, or maybe something I ate…”
“Or you might be pregnant,” one of the club bunnies, Sam, quips as she strolls past, unable to stop herself from eavesdropping.
She grins like she’s joking as she walks away, but my stomach drops.
Shelly chastises her, telling her to mind her own business and quit listening to other people’s conversations.
When she turns to face me, her concern grows deeper as she notices the horrified expression on my face as I frantically try to work out when my last period was.
I’ve never been regular, but it was too long ago.
Like almost two months.
Shit.
“Cover for us for a sec, Tori’s sick, so I’m gonna help her upstairs. I’ll be right back,” Shelly shouts out to the rest of the team, not waiting for confirmation before ushering me out of the bar and upstairs.
Once inside, she gets me to sit on the couch and makes us both a glass of sweet iced tea before sitting down next to me. “I’m guessing Sam got you worried?” she says gently.
I nod numbly. “I’m a few weeks late. More than a few weeks. I thought it was because of the stress. Then I started taking the pill, and maybe that messed with it, but now…”
“Okay, so you’re on contraception, and it only takes a week or so to work. Do you remember to take it every day at the same time?” Shelly’s tone is careful and measured, yet with the demeanor of a nurse, not judging, just carefully collecting the facts.
I grimace, feeling embarrassed and ashamed to admit, “I may have forgotten a few times…” More than a few. There’s been so much going on, and I’m not used to taking daily medication. “But surely, I’m still protected, right? The doctor didn’t say that would be a problem.”
Shelly frowns. “They should have told you. Even if you miss one, it increases the risk of you still being able to fall pregnant.”
“Oh god,” I groan. The guys trusted me, and I assured them I was protected and that this wouldn’t happen. I lean forward, head between my knees as another surge of nausea overwhelms me.
Shelly rubs my back. “It’s okay, don’t worry. You still don’t know anything for sure. Is this the first time you’ve been sick? Have you got any other symptoms?”
“No, I’ve been feeling sick a lot recently, and I’m exhausted a lot, plus my breasts feel tender, isn’t that a symptom?
I just thought it was because of stress—and all the sex,” I admit with a small, humorless chuckle.
I then add, “I’ve also put on weight, but I figured that was because I don’t have my father insulting me whenever I eat.
“Okay, well, you need to take a test to be sure. There’s no use panicking or worrying until you’ve done that. I’ll nip out now and get you some, okay, Hon?”
I could weep. I feel so grateful to Shelly for taking charge of the situation and helping me without judgment or telling me off for being so foolish and reckless.
I thank her as she busies herself, getting me comfortable on the couch, insisting on making me a sandwich, covering me in a fluffy blanket, and putting on some cheesy TV show to distract me.
“I’ll be right back,” she assures me before leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I try to remain calm and not let myself assume I’m pregnant until I’ve taken the test, but it’s hard not to.
I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.
I’ve been here for almost three months, but sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday they pulled up in the back alley behind Raging Bulls clubhouse.
What will the guys say if I am? What will I do?
I don’t even know who the father is. It could realistically be any of them.
Do the guys even want children? It isn’t something we’ve discussed yet.
It’s too soon, too complicated. It’s difficult enough navigating a polyamorous relationship without throwing in the responsibilities of parenthood.
Would my having one of their children reignite the jealousy and resentment that they had with Bella?
My thoughts ping pong between this and worry about the guys and the meeting.
This couldn’t have come at a worse time.
The guys all but know this meeting is likely going to end with war officially declared; the last thing they need to worry about is a pregnant girlfriend.
They assured me they would be safe, that, as per neutral-territory rules, everyone comes unarmed and can’t fight, but I don’t trust my father to honor that.
He has no honor. It died with Mom. All that’s left in his heart is hatred and greed. If he hurts them, I’ll kill him.
But even if they come back safe and sound, I know war will be inevitable. If my father finds out I’m pregnant, he’ll stop at nothing to get his hands on my baby and me.
For all those reasons and more, I shouldn’t want a child. And yet… if I am pregnant, and I’m becoming more certain that I am with every agonizing minute that ticks past, I know I want to keep the baby. I couldn’t destroy something that’s half me, half of one of the men I love.
***
By the time Shelly returns with several tests, I’m convinced that I must be pregnant.
My hands won’t stop trembling, and my stomach feels tight and hollow all at once, like I’ve swallowed a fistful of nerves.
I grab the packets, thanking her and rushing into the bathroom, waving away her apologies for taking so long.
The hallway feels too bright, too loud, every sound amplified.
The hum of the old refrigerator downstairs, the drip of the leaking faucet, the distant rumble of a motorcycle outside that makes my heart stutter, thinking of them.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me!” she adds.
I nod even though she can’t see me and lock the bathroom door with shaking fingers.
I turn on the tap in the sink, the sound of the water will drown out my peeing, for some strange reason, the intimacy of Shelly hearing me pee feels more vulnerable than her already knowing what I’m in here for.
I tear the packaging with my teeth, too impatient to find something more suitable to open it with, and the plastic rips harshly between my molars.
I pull out the first test, trembling, and quickly read the instructions before taking it.
The paper crinkles in my unsteady grip, the words blurring for a second as my vision swims. I blink hard, forcing myself to focus. I have to do this right.
I pace the bathroom anxiously while I wait.
After a moment, I decide I may as well take one of the others while I’m at it, just to be sure.
The tiles are cold beneath my bare feet as I resume my pacing after taking the second test. I press a palm against my lower stomach without thinking, imagining the life that might be inside.
My heart twists at the possibility of a baby that would be mine and Flint’s and Hunter’s and Cyrus’s.
The four of us tangled together in love and chaos.
I imagine what it would be like to raise a child with them, the thought blooms warm and golden in my chest. I want this.
But, just as quickly, fear follows. I think of the war that is looming between the Ghost Riders and the Raging Bulls, of what this child represents.
Already, I feel a surge of maternal protectiveness for this hypothetical baby.
Could we protect something so fragile in the middle of so much violence?
The next five minutes are painfully slow.
Time seems to warp and stretch endlessly, even as I count in my head; the numbers on my phone screen are sluggish, refusing to keep pace with my rushed counts.
I watch the seconds change like they’re fighting me, each tick louder than the last. My pulse thrums in my ears, and I try to calm myself by pretending my men are here, how they might react if they were sharing this moment.
I imagine Flint’s steady hands on my shoulders, Hunter’s teasing grin softening with awe, Cyrus looking at me with fierce devotion in his eyes.
Would they be scared? Would they be happy?
Will they want this baby as much as I now know I do?
“All good in there?” Shelly calls from behind the door.
Her voice makes me jump. I’d almost forgotten she was here.
“Yes,” I squeak back as the time is finally up, and rush over to look at the results.
My breath catches, lodging painfully in my chest, and I squeeze my eyes shut, suddenly afraid to look.
I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white, bracing myself for either outcome.
For the crushing disappointment I might feel if I’m wrong, or worse, will I feel relief?
Will a positive result change my feelings?
Will I suddenly crumble under the enormity of it?
Will I regret and resent a child for coming into my life at such an inconvenient time? Will I be a bad mom?
I take a deep breath, calming myself, building my courage.
Just take it one step at a time. You can’t decide anything, you can’t do anything, until you know for sure, I tell myself.
I open my eyes, meeting my face in the mirror.
Is a mother staring back at me? Finally, I look down at the two tests, lying side by side, their results ready and unmistakable.
They couldn’t be clearer. The first one has two very solid red lines; the second is even more certain. Its answer is written in plain English, just one word.
Pregnant.