Russian Boss’s Secret Baby by Bella King
Ch 17
MIA
It started a few weeks ago. I’d wake up at my usual time, make some coffee, and drift around my apartment until I’m awake enough to help my dad with his meds. Around 8 AM, though, I would start to feel this awful nausea building under my liver, the same kind of sickness I experience when I drink too much tequila and am afraid of throwing up all over the back seat of my taxi.
At first, I thought maybe it was an ulcer. It would make sense, what with all the stresses of working for a very high-profile mob boss from Russia of all places. From the little I’ve seen of the Russian mafia, they make the Italian mafia look innocent in comparison.
There’s no holding back, ever.
I had been letting the job get to me, too. I started smoking cigarettes again about three weeks after I started working for Slate. It’s disgusting, and I feel disgusting, but I needed some kind of quick relief from the stress of almost being forced to witness an execution with high potential for another.
I don’t care what Slate says, he loved making me watch him kill that man. He wanted to corrupt me, to steal the innocence from my soul.
I’ve tried to take something that would mitigate the nausea if it was an ulcer, and nothing worked. I cut out certain foods, quit drinking, tried getting to sleep earlier, and no matter what I did, I would always wake up with the same awful nausea every goddamn morning.
And, well, I started looking a bit different.
What used to be a mostly flat stomach started to protrude bit by bit, pressing on the closures of all my pants and causing my dresses to lay over my body in an unusual way. Of course, I didn’t want to believe that I could be pregnant.
In a way, I never believed I could get pregnant, not for any illness or deformity, but because it just didn’t seem like a real thing that I was capable of enduring.
The nausea and changes in my body are, unfortunately, consistent with pregnancy, and I must face the reality of that fact sooner or later. I haven’t taken a test yet. I never feel right trying to do it at home.
I knew Slate and his goons would be gone today, so I brought a few tests with me to take here while they can’t ask where I am. The tests themselves are neutral, benevolent, even, but in my mind, they cast off a taunting aura, forcing me to acknowledge them whenever I need to reach into my bag for something.
Hi, remember us? We’re going to tell you how fucked your life is! Take your time, we’ll be here whenever you need us.
I walk into the huge kitchen of Slate’s mansion to make myself a small cup of coffee before I start my day, just like I always do. When I get to the coffee pot, I stop and consider if I should be doing this.
If I proceed, does that mean I’m choosing to potentially harm my unborn child? If I don’t proceed, does that mean I’m conceding to the fact that I am pregnant?
The simple task of making myself a cup of coffee has become existential. The mug in my hands trembles as I grip it too tightly, stuck in between a stupid and mundane task that has rendered me immobile with fear.
More aggressively than I anticipated, I slam the mug on the granite countertop, and it crumbles to pieces. It’s just a white mug, nothing sentimental or important about it, but I am reduced to tears and stifled sobs immediately.
Well, looks like it’s time for me to try and take that test.
And I’m afraid I already know the answer.
In my head, I had pictured taking the test in the bathroom just down the hall from my office on the first floor, but right now, I feel like I want to go to the most isolated bathroom in the house – the upstairs master bathroom. It’s cozier, feels less angular and cold.
As I make my way upstairs, I know that the master bedroom is right across from the office that conceals the sex dungeon, which feels ironic and almost a little hysterical if I weren’t so fucking nervous.
In my anxious state, everything I love about this house bothers me. The light pouring through the huge beautiful windows is flat and unfeeling instead of warm. The artwork on the walls almost seems menacing, the abstract faces and characters judging me from afar as the little harlot.
In the bathroom, I listen closely to ensure that I hadn’t missed anybody extra while I was casing the house for people who might catch me. I hear nothing, and I tear the first test out of it’s little blue box.
The instructions fall out, and I could roll my eyes. The universe is mocking me.
Now, just in case you were stupid enough to let a guy that you don’t know cum inside you, here’s a ten-page booklet explaining how a pregnancy test works. Cheers!
I sit down and pull my panties off, placing the tip of the test against my skin to ensure nothing gets missed. It’s too cold in here! I’m too nervous! Why the fuck can’t I piss on this test? It should be the most natural thing I could possibly do.
After two or three minutes of lecturing myself on how I got into this mess, I’m finally able to make myself pee enough to, hopefully, get accurate results. I got two tests just in case, but most of me feels like I probably won’t need the second one. It’s just a confirmation at this point. I’d be more confused if I wasn’t pregnant.
The little digital screen on the test blinks at me menacingly as I wait for the results. A large knot forms in my stomach where my dignity used to live. The three-minute waiting period could be long enough for me to plan an efficient suicide right here in this bathroom, if the waiting itself doesn’t kill me.
As my mind drifts to visions of purple, worm-like stretch marks crawling all over my abdomen, I hear the downstairs door open abruptly, slamming into the wall.
What’s going on down there?
I haphazardly hide the tests in the cabinet closest to me, almost certain I would be misunderstanding the source of the noise and can return to them later.
I quickly put myself back together, wash my hands, and exit the room as quickly as possible. Even just being asked why I was in the master bedroom would be embarrassing, and given my current mind-state, I don’t think I could sell a lie to save my life.
I creep down the stairs, only getting about halfway until I see Slate strangling the ever-loving fuck out of Eli.
Why Eli?
“You want to try and do what I do, you fucking maggot?” Slate shouts in Eli’s face as he draws him up by the front of his shirt. “You want to be the one in charge? Well fine, here’s your fucking initiation since you want it so badly,” Slate continues, dropping Eli to the floor like a box of rocks.
He begins kicking him in the ribs repeatedly, small groans escaping from Eli. “Just like we do in Mother Russia,” Slate continues taunting Eli as he kicks him. It’s apparent that Slate is drunk on power and is losing his resolve to hold back.
Oh my god… I’m probably pregnant with this lunatic’s baby!
