Chapter 21 Patton
twenty-one
patton
The Eyes of a Serial Killer
At first, the tips of my ears feel hot, the collar of my Henley feels like a noose, and my knuckles feel like they’ll break with how hard I’m fisting my hands.
That fucker Michael has his hands on my wife.
My. Fucking. Wife.
I swear on everything holy as I stalk toward them that I will tear the limbs off the asshole who fucking dares to touch what’s mine.
Mine.
My breaths feel ragged as I come to a stop in front of them, taking in the scene.
Nisha’s face is flush against his chest, his hand stroking down her back while the other keeps her head secured.
He’s murmuring shit—sweet nothings, probably—his lips moving against her hair.
As if he has any fucking right to hold her and talk to her that way.
Instinct compels me to grab the fucker by the throat and haul him against the nearest wall, punching his perfect nose out of shape.
Instead, I clear my throat. Loudly. With a warning that hangs in the air.
They both freeze like deer in headlights before turning to face me. The look on Nisha’s face, a progression from shock to panic to guilt, barrels into my chest.
I know my ex-wife, and she isn’t one to panic quickly. Sure, she might have a few nervous tics that compel her to organize every cupboard and drawer, but those are also the times she thinks, plans, and prepares.
So, given the look that just passed over her face, paired with the fact that she hasn’t answered my texts or calls, I know something is wrong. And let’s not forget she still looks guilty as she detaches herself from Michael’s arms.
Michael’s eyes widen in surprise as he takes me in. And just when Nisha’s mouth opens, probably to explain, her cat appears out of nowhere with something in his mouth.
Over the past few weeks, the weird little fucker has grown on me. And not only because he’s always bringing me shit, like he’s trying to court me with gifts, but because he’s . . . kind of cute in his own big-eyed, hairless alien sort of way.
A couple of weeks ago, he brought me Johnny Depp’s wallet. Thankfully, Johnny and I know each other, and he took the whole thing lightly, so it wasn’t too awkward, but yeah, it could have been worse.
With his tail standing straight up in the air like an antenna, Beaver’s eyes stay on me as he prowls forward. Coming to a stop, he drops the item at my feet and sits back on his hind legs like he’s waiting for applause.
A gasp leaves Nisha’s lips as my eyes take in the item, narrowing when my brain registers what it is.
A . . . pregnancy test.
Mixed with the sound of blood rushing through my ears, I hear Michael mumble a “Holy shit,” as I bend down to retrieve the stick.
“Patton.” Nisha’s voice sounds far away as my brain tries to come to terms with what I’m looking at.
Two pink lines stare back at me, clear as the early September afternoon outside. For a moment, my lungs can’t remember how to operate.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think . . .
Is this . . .? Is this for real?
The emotion that slams into me is so intense, so substantial, that it physically moves me. I take a step back, my other hand running through my hair. Pure joy and elation, mixed with a hint of terror and shock, makes my legs feel weak, like I’m standing on stilts.
She’s pregnant.
She’s fucking pregnant with my baby.
Again.
I look up, having momentarily forgotten that I’m still standing in front of them, to find both Nisha and the asshole next to her staring at me with varying degrees of bewilderment.
Michael’s eyes flit from the pregnancy test in my hand to Nisha’s face, some unspoken exchange passing between them, raising my hackles.
Wait . . . why did he give her that look?
Is . . . oh, God.
Is the baby not mine?
We haven’t really talked about exclusivity, but I didn’t think we needed to. She’s the only woman I’ve been with in years, but maybe that’s not the case for her?
With the test still clutched in my hand and my eyes locked on my ex-wife, I speak with deadly calm despite the thunderous way my heart is hammering and the million directions my thoughts are spinning. “Is it mine?”
Something like hurt flits across Nisha’s face before it hardens and a dangerous glint flashes in her eyes. It’s the same one that generally precedes a roundhouse-kick to the head when she’s on the mat.
She takes a step forward, her mouth opening to respond when Michael speaks.
“Blimey, are you . . . are you Patton Pierce?” His head swivels between me to Nisha and then back again like it’s trying to unscrew itself. “Nisha, is he Patton Pierce?”
Neither of us answers, locked in an eye-war.
Michael uses the time to continue being a motormouth.
“Wow. I honestly can’t believe it. I’m Micah, by the way.
And, clearly, there’s a lot to unpack here”—his eyes dart between the test in my hand to both Nisha’s and my face—“but I’m a huge fan.
You’re actually shorter than I expected .
. . not that you’re short! Just, you look seven-foot-tall in your movies.
And your work on Pilots of the Pacific was—”
“Answer the question, Nisha,” I say, ignoring the idiot. My jaw is granite as I look down at my ex-wife. “Is. It. Mine?”
Her eyes spit fire, the pointed ends of her eyeliner looking like weapons. “Whose else would it be, you arrogant dick?”
My gaze flicks to Michael—Micah, whatever—giving her my answer.
She takes the test from my hands, slipping it inside the pocket of her black dress. The low-cut V-neck shows off just a sliver of the tops of her breasts, and even though I’m pissed and confused and still reeling from this pregnancy bombshell, my body reacts to her like it always does.
“Are you suggesting I cheated on you?” Her finger jabs between my ribs, her deathly glare telling me she won’t hesitate to pierce my chest if needed. “That I could be carrying his baby while I’ve been sleeping with you?” She flicks a thumb behind him. “How fucking dare you.”
Christ, even furious, she’s the hottest, most captivating woman I’ve ever seen.
“You’ve been sleeping with him? Also, don’t sound so disgusted, love,” Micah says in an offended tone. “We did have quite the romp—”
My hand fists his collar before he’s even finished his sentence, my snarl causing his hands to rise in surrender.
The sudden movement causes Beaver to hiss at the asshole, his body arching, canines exposed and eyes murderous. But then, he goes so still, you’d think he was frozen. And that vision in itself is really fucking creepy.
Micah’s gaze flicks from Beaver to me. “Whoa. Now, hold on a second. Firstly, Nisha, your cat is weird as fuck. Secondly, Patton, mate, I understand you’re famous and all, but I’m an fifth dan black belt in taekwondo. I don’t want to hurt—”
In one quick sweep with my feet, I have him sprawled out on his back, my hand around his throat. Micah’s breath whooshes out of him in a strained “Oof” as he stares up in wide-eyed shock.
I lean down to his ear, my voice deadly. “And I’m a sixth dan, Michael. Say one more thing about my wife . . . hell, dare to touch her or even think about her, and—”
“It’s Micah. And what do you mean, your wife?”
Someone places a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see that it’s one of the guys from my security detail. I’d asked them to wait in the reception area, but they must have heard the commotion. “Sir, we can take it from here.”
I shake my head, and he releases me.
Sarina and Piper stand behind him, both gawking at the scene in front of them. They must have come out of their suites, having heard the commotion, too.
We’ve been talking a bit more lately. Last week, the girls even came to the stadium to watch me film, right along with Troy and Dev. I won’t say we’re as close as we were in high school, but with time, I could see us all getting there again.
“What in the Great British Bake Off is happening here?” Piper squeaks, taking in the scene.
“Looks like Patton is introducing himself to Micah,” Sarina quips.
“Patton Luca Pierce.” Nisha’s shrill voice pulls me out of my haze. “Let him go. This is my place of business, not a back-alley fight club. Thank God we don’t have other clients here right now.”
“What do you mean, your wife?” Micah blurts again from his position on the floor, sending a stunned look toward Nisha. “You’re married?”
Nisha releases a frustrated breath. “Oh, for God’s sake! I’m this loon’s ex-wife, and probably soon-to-be ex-girlfriend, too, if he doesn’t get his head out of his ass.”
Girlfriend?
I’m not opposed to the word—as ass-backwards as it is—but beggars can’t be choosers. If she’s finally acknowledging a relationship between us, giving us a label other than exes after seven years, then I’ll fucking take it.
Her glare turns to me. “And yes, Micah and I”—she waves her hand as if that’s enough to explain it—“‘dated’ a couple of years ago, but it never went anywhere. You know why? Because I wasn’t over you, you jealous prick!”
My heart hammers as I rise to my feet, closing the distance between us.
For the sake of my fucking sanity, I shove aside her admission of “dating” the douchebag on the floor.
As furious as I am that he ever had his hands on her, I’m not angry with her.
We were divorced—as much as I hated that we were, that was the fact—and therefore, she had a right to be with whoever she wanted.
It still doesn’t make me want to murder him any less, though.
“And this baby,” she says, her hand resting on her stomach, “is yours. I want to throat-punch you for even thinking it was anyone else’s when I’ve spent the past five weeks with you.”
I place my hand over hers, the other diving into her hair and pulling on it so she’s forced to look up at me. “It’s mine?”
“Yes, you idiot.”
My chest constricts as her words wrap around my insides, taking root in abandoned places.
It’s mine. The child she’s carrying is mine.
The thought sends another jolt of primal possessiveness through me.