Bratva Boss’s Secret Triplets by Bella King
Chapter 8
April
Ithumb through a cheap pregnancy magazine I picked up from the checkout isle of a grocery store as I recline on the couch. The TV is on, but I’m not watching it. I’m tired of reruns, and I don’t have a subscription to any streaming services to give me something new to watch. I’m on a budget, and that budget just got a whole hell of a lot tighter.
Tonight is the first night in a long time that I’ve had to forgo my regular five-dollar bottle of wine. We used to call “five buck chuck” in high school, and it’s a little embarrassing that I still drink it. I guess now’s as good a time as any to quit.
I sip on a cola, pondering the amount of calories in it compared to wine. It’s probably about the same, which is why I should be having water, but I figure I shouldn’t torture myself when I’m pregnant. I’m already starting to crave some strange things, and the occasional soda is the most normal out of the bunch.
I’ve never been pregnant before, so my mind if swirling with the thoughts of what’s going to happen to me. I’ve heard of pregnant women literally eating dirt before, but that was probably on some shitty reality TV show that’s not actually true. Dr. Ryan would’ve told me if he thought I was going to lose my mind.
When I was in high school, one of the girls in my grade got pregnant when she was sixteen. She didn’t know who the father was.
After she found out she was pregnant, she was pulled out of school and we never saw her again. I heard that she died in childbirth, and I know it’s not a rational fear to have in the twenty-first century, but that rumor never left me. I’ll never forget seeing her for the last time clearing out her locker in tears before her parents took her away to homeschool her.
I sigh, adjusting my posture and staring straight past my magazine and the TV screen through the little plastic blinds that barely cover the window. There are huge gaps in them that never close, and I often end up watching the people outside in the parking lot more than the TV.
I’m almost completely zoned out until I hear the deep hum of a car pulling into the building in front of me. It looks familiar, but I know it’s no one that lives here. I can’t put my finger on who the driver is until he steps out into the open, revealing himself to be someone I never thought I’d see again.
Rebel.
What the hell is he doing here?!
I scramble to my feet, flinging the pregnancy magazine under the couch and slamming my cola down so hard on the coffee table that liquid leaps out from the top and splashes down around it. Ignoring the spill, I rush to the door and press my eye into the peephole.
My heart thuds so hard that I have to count to ten slowly while I breath to keep my chest from hurting. Rebel is still outside, surveying the mass of apartment units as though he’s not sure which one to go to. He’s looking for someone, and that person might just be me.
I reach out to the wall and turn the light off, spinning around and dashing to the TV to turn that off to. On the way to the door, I trip against the coffee table, knocking the can of cola resting on top to the floor and soaking the carpet.
That’ll cost me. More bills, and more expenses. I can never get a fucking break.
I press myself against the door like I’m clinging to the old wood to keep from falling. My breath fogs up the peephole, making it harder for me to see Rebel outside. He’s a large man, but he moves so swiftly that it’s difficult to keep sight of him once he gets going.
He disappears from my view for a few moments, and I let out a sigh of relief. He must be going somewhere else and this is just an odd coincidence. I just hope he’s not bringing any more drive by shooting along with him. The last one was traumatic enough.
“Holy shit,” I exclaim, jumping back as a bright green eyes appears directly in front of the peephole.
“Open the door, April,” Rebel’s deep voice says from outside.
“Shit,” I mutter, my heart pounding even harder. I swear he’s going to give me a heart attack. He shouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t be sliding my hand over the door handle and turning the lock to let him in.
It happens automatically. It’s like his words are able to slither over me, coiling around my arms and controlling my actions. The door comes open, and I’m met with the distinct smell of cigar smoke and foreign cologne.
“Good evening,” he says, stepping inside.
I stumble back into the dark apartment, totally stunned by his power and size.
“Do you normally keep the place so dark, or where you hiding from me?” he asks as his fingers find the light switch on the wall beside him.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My throat is dry like I just swallowed sand, and my lungs can barely take in air. I want to tell him to leave after what happened two months ago, but I can’t tell him anything. I’m frozen.
“You weren’t afraid of me the first time we met,” he says with a smirk as he closes the door behind him. “What’s changed?”
“Nothing,” I blurt, eager to cover up even the slightest possibility that something might by awry. I’m not going to let him know about the triplets.
He can’t know.
Ever.
Rebel runs his fingers across the wall as he looks around the room, scanning it as though to check for evidence that I’m lying. He can’t possibly know about my pregnancy. I haven’t spoken to him in two months, and we don’t have any of the same friends.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my throat finally loosening enough to allow a coherent sentence to leave it.
“Checking up on you. I was worried after the shooting,” he says, stepping further into the living room.
“The shooting was two months ago,” I reply. “You could’ve come earlier.”
“I was busy,” he replies. His tone is cold and offhanded, nothing like it was when we first met. He was charming then, but now he seems like he’d rather put poison in my tea and smile as I collapsed in front of him.
“I don’t think you’re here to check on me,” I say as he continues looking around, turning his head like a hawk as he examines every inch of my apartment living room.
“You don’t?” he asks with a cruel chuckle.
“No,” I reply, crossing my arms. “And unless you’re here to pay me for the damage you did to my last apartment, I want you to leave.”
“Money isn’t an issue,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a thick stack of cash secured with tan rubber bands. “What is an issue is whether or not you have any weapons here.”
“Guns?” I ask, taken aback.
He nods.
“Of course not. You think I want to be anywhere near that shit after what happened?”
He squints at me suspiciously, looking me up and down with such intensity that I feel of stir in my lower belly. I shouldn’t be excited by him. He’s dangerous and doesn’t have good intentions, but I still remember the way that I felt when he was on top of me, thrusting hard and breathing shameful things into my ear.
“I’m going to need you to lift your shirt up and show me,” he says, rubbing his finger over the scar on his square chin.
I recoil. “I’m not that easy, Rebel.”
“I recall you being ‘that easy’,” he says with finger quotes, “the last time I saw you, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m checking for a gun.”
I lift the edge of my shirt up as my cheeks turn bright pink. I’m not sure what all of this is about, but I want him out of my apartment. He has me confused and flustered when I was just trying to relax and enjoy my evening alone.
“Spin around,” Rebel commands, twirling his finger in the air.
I spin for him, feeling like an object for his amusement more than a person. This is humiliating, and I don’t understand why he’s doing it. Does he really think that I’m some kind of threat to him?
“Okay, fine,” he says. “Now lift your arms. I’m going to pat you down.”
“Are you a cop or something?” I ask, doubting it with every ounce of my body but hoping that he’ll say yes. That would make this a lot less sinister.
“Not a fucking chance,” he replies, stepping toward me with his hands out.
Dread moves through me like ice water running from my head to my feet. It flows over my arms and legs, leaving goosebumps on my skin and the feeling that this situation is quickly going to spiral out of control. I need to get to a phone and call the police before Rebel does something terrible.
His hands come down on my waist, moving over my hips like he’s dancing to a slow waltz. His expression is no longer playful and arrogant. It’s cold and serious, his green eyes laser focused on my body.
“What’s this about?” I ask, letting out my words like the squeak of air through the pinched end of a balloon.
Rebel doesn’t answer me straight away. He pats down my legs, lingering on my thighs before he stands up straight and takes a step back. “You were at the doctor’s office today. Why?”
My stomach sinks faster than an anchor, pulling the air out of my lungs so that I can’t breathe. My legs are like hot melted sugar, bending and struggling under the weight of my body. I have to lean on the couch armrest to keep myself upright as Rebel glares at me.
“The doctor’s,” I say slowly, trying to think of an excuse that makes sense. “I was visiting my friend.”
“Your friend,” Rebel says. “Does he go by the name of Peter?”
I frown. “No. Why would a man be at the OB-GYN?”
“There are plenty of people who work there who aren’t having babies, April. Don’t play games with me,” he growls. “You were seeing someone. Who was it?”
“Maria,” I say, thinking of my mother’s name on the spot. At least I’ll be able to remember it, should her name come up again.
“Last name,” Rebel demands impatiently.
“Addison,” I reply. I share the same surname, but Rebel shouldn’t know that.
“Maria Addison,” he says, drumming his fingers on his chin.
I nod, eager to get him to believe my story. I still don’t understand what this is about, but as long as he’s happy, I don’t care. I just want to be left alone.
His eyes flicker down to the spilled cola on my carpet, then up to me. He squints again. Something tells me he’s not buying my story, but I’m not going to tell him that I’m pregnant. It seems to be completely off his radar. He’s looking for a man named Peter.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says, turning around quickly and stepping toward the door.
I stand in silence as he throws the door open and barges out into the night, leaving me alone and bewildered. Perhaps it’s time to talk to the police again, but after the way they treated me last time, I’m reluctant to. I’ve paid enough in lawyer fees already.
