Used by Marlee Wray

Chapter 7

Laurel

He texts the next day, and the days after. Back in Boston, I’m constantly tempted to drive to Coynston to see him, but force myself to stay put. He’s a dangerous and complicated person, and my family and I are better off and safer if I stay in Boston.

Unfortunately, I find myself waiting for his messages like they’re the season finale of a favorite show. When he doesn’t text until eleven one night, I’m frustrated.

Trick: How’s it going?

The text is so generic and unlike him, I half wonder if the FBI is impersonating him.

Laurel: Fine. What kept you busy today?

Trick: My crue. How was your day? Any news you want to tell me?

I chew on my lower lip. I’m supposed to take a pregnancy test and let him know the results, but so far I haven’t.

Laurel: No. For that, I’d call.

Trick: [thumbs-up emoji]

When he doesn’t send additional texts after the thumbs up, annoyance returns.

That texting with him has become the highlight of my day is a problem. I wish I wasn’t hanging on, waiting for him to reach out and disappointed when the interaction with him is limited, especially since I know that his attention could dry up any time. I find myself wondering what he’s doing in Coynston and who he’s doing it with. Are other women draped over the upstairs couch at Slattery’s? I don’t want to become that jealous girl again, the one in high school who was so preoccupied with keeping the attention of a beautiful but emotionally unavailable guy.

The morning after the brief, late evening text exchange, he sends me a shot of the Creamsicle-colored sunrise, and it’s impossible not to enjoy it.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I respond.

Laurel: beautiful

Trick: yeah, but not the first thing i wanted to see when i woke up. Send a selfie.

I rail against the fluttery feeling that gives me. My fingers hover over the keys, wondering what I’m doing to myself by continuing to communicate with him.

Laurel: i don’t take them

Trick: shame

A half hour passes, and I text again.

Laurel: How are you?

Trick: good. even better if u send a pic

Smiling because I can’t help it,I wonder what’s with him. That text is both like him and unlike him. It’s like him because when he wants something he gets it by relentless pursuit. But also unlike him since grownup Trick generally isn’t romantic, especially by text. He’s the one who once said everything is a game. Is he playing me?

I take a picture of my face with the side of my index finger pressed to my lips as if encouraging him to keep it a secret. Sending it, I hold my breath.

Trick: those eyes are one in a million

Staring at the phone for too long, I’m lost in the memory of staring into his eyes while lying in his bed. My body really misses his. I’d trade just about anything for another night in his apartment.

I’m in trouble and know it. I type the words yours too, but then delete them.

Laurel: have a good day

* * *

Laurel

Two weeks and five days after being in his place, I wake up with nausea and throw up for the first hour I’m awake. The feeling goes away until the next day when being sick lasts three hours. I buy a pregnancy test. But I don’t take it.

The next day, I wait all day for his text, feeling anxious and alone about what I assume is morning sickness. It’s hard not to reach out, but I hold back. He’ll tell me to take a test, but I’m having trouble facing it.

When he reaches out, he’s back to his wise-cracking ways, which in most ways is a relief. I’m glad to hear from him and glad he doesn’t mention a pregnancy test again. Maybe he assumes everything’s fine since I haven’t said differently?

Three weeks and two days after I stayed at his place, he doesn’t text all day. By five-thirty, I can’t stand the waiting and send a generic text greeting. No response.

Then about fifteen minutes later the doorbell rings, and he’s the one on the step. He wears a suit, which makes me wonder if he’s come from a wedding or a wake. Not that I care, because it’s so good to see him I almost can’t think straight.

Opening the door wider, I find he’s got a bouquet of expensive flowers, orchids and a yellow-green flowering vine that dangles from the spray. In his other hand he has takeout.

He wears a stern expression that reminds me of the night of the poker game and twists my belly into knots.

“Invite me in, Laurel.” By his expression and tone, he doesn’t seem to be in a very good mood.

“Hey,” I say softly. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, he raises the packages with an air of impatience.

I’ve been thinking about him all day, but inexplicably because I’m nervous and upset I say, “I wish you’d texted. It’s not the best time.”

“Why’s that?”

Ignoring my presence in the doorway, he opens the screen door with the bouquet hand and steps forward, forcing me to step back so he can come in.

Once he’s inside he sets the stuff on the coffee table and closes the door. When he reaches inside his suit coat, I see a gun holster. Despite knowing he always carries a gun, it startles me and I stiffen.

“When did you take the test? Could it have been too soon?” From his pocket, he produces a pregnancy test.

Frowning, I turn, not ready to have the conversation.

From behind me, his hand catches my arm and stops me. The grip’s not rough, but it’s firm. “I asked a question, Laurel.”

“If I’m pregnant, it’s my baby and my problem,” I blurt, not turning to face him. “I’ll take the test when I’m ready.”

His silence causes me to glance over my shoulder.

One brow rises. “Are you saying you haven’t taken any tests?”

“Whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. You don’t have to worry.”

Trick’s eyes scan my living room, stopping on a glass of ginger ale that’s fallen flat.

“What are you drinking?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. Stalking to it, he then raises the glass and inhales. His brows crease in confusion.

Did he think it was wine?

He takes a sip. “Ginger ale?” He walks farther into my place, glancing around, then comes back to me. Taking my arm, he walks me toward the bathroom.

The building’s old, and the floors creak accusingly as I walk across the aged planks. Trick pushes me inside gently and stands in the bathroom doorway. Opening the box, he takes out the plastic test wand and holds it out to me.

As I stare at him, my hand grips the sink, waiting for him to step back and close the door. He doesn’t. Is he serious?

“I can’t. Not with you standing there.”

The corner of his mouth curves up. “I’ve had my mouth on everything between your legs. Pee on the stick.”

“I can’t.”

Flicking the sink’s faucet on, Trick glances at the old mirror, giving an extra moment to the crack in the corner. The rented house is old and definitely not up to his slick and modern decorating standards. Leaning back, he rests against the doorframe and stares at the other side. He’s not watching me directly, but I know he can still see me out of the corner of his eye.

He loosens his tie. “I can wait.”

“Why are you wearing a suit? Did someone die?”

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“Hardly ever see a picture of you in one.”

After a beat Trick says, “Had to go to court. Lawyer vetoed my World of Warcraft t-shirt.”

My eyes widen, suddenly very concerned. “Don’t make me pull it out of you one sentence at a time. Tell me what happened.”

He turns his head, and his gaze sweeps over me. “The federal prosecutor pulled me into Grand Jury proceedings.”

“Oh, my God.”

A brow rises. “It wasn’t about me directly. Do you understand how a Grand Jury works?”

I shake my head and realize I’ve moved closer to him.

“A Grand Jury decides if there’s enough evidence to go forward with criminal charges. I wasn’t the defendant. They wanted to hear testimony from me.”

“Oh. Did you—did it go all right?”

A flash of a smile appears and is gone just as quickly. “As prosecution witnesses go, I suck. Couldn’t remember a damn thing about the night in question.”

“Who’s being investigated?”

“No one who matters.”

“So that’s over?”

“For me it is.”

Cocking my head, I look pointedly at his royal blue silk tie for a moment. “All in a day’s work, is it?”

He smiles, and he’s so beautiful it makes me ache. “Nah. Testifying is all risk, no reward. Not my usual jam. Food’s getting cold, Laurelyn. Take the test.”

Touching his jaw, I turn his face so he’s staring again at the door jamb. But even that tiny connection is electric. It’s why I tell myself to just stop stalling and get the test over with. I unzip my jeans and push them and my underwear down.

Thoughts thunder through my mind as the stick is positioned between my thighs. I shouldn’t let him stand in the doorway with his sculpted body dressed in what is certainly an obscenely expensive suit. His authoritative and intrusive behavior shouldn’t go unchecked. If I don’t push back, going forward he could think it’s all right for him to be this way whenever he wants. Which it won’t be.

When I speak, my voice is barely heard over the running water. “Why are you here, Trick?”

“To find out whether or not we made another human.”

Swallowing the excessive saliva that forms at hearing the words out loud, I stare at the burgundy and gold stripes of the shower curtain. What am I going to do if I’m pregnant with Scott Patrick’s baby?

“Why do you care so much? Are you going to suggest I get an abortion?”

“No, and you better not suggest it either.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good, so we know where we stand on that. Take the test.”

“I don’t need help peeing. You can leave me alone.”

“You had three and a half weeks to take the test alone. When I show up, we do things my way.”

That sends a shiver through me as I remember what doing things Trick’s way sometimes means. A flash of myself draped over a foam wedge, limbs tethered like a slave’s, struggling through being paddled for a transgression against a man who clearly thinks he’s above the law and can get away with anything.

He did get away with paddling you and more, a small voice in my head reminds me. So far, he is above the law. And that’s partly because I failed to cooperative with the FBI. Now he’s here, getting away with whatever this is.

Closing my eyes, I try to blank out everything. After a few more minutes, I’m able to go. When I finish, the wand dangles above the water between pinched fingertips.

“Here,” Trick says.

My lids rise, and Trick curls his fingers, beckoning me to give the test to him.

“Let it dry all the way.”

“My girl’s a proper princess tonight.” His voice is low, sexy, and reminiscent of the nights I was with him. “Give it here, babe.”

Is the warm casual way he says babe calculated? Because it’s what convinces me to hand the stick to him. I don’t even look to see its result.

Trick’s dark blue eyes glance at it, and then he drops it into the trash. “Get cleaned up.” He washes his own hands and steps out, leaving me alone.

My nerves vibrate with the need to know. Instead of looking, I wipe myself, stand, and pull up my clothes, then I study the soap bubbles in the sink, thinking about Trick’s place, which is beautifully decorated and immaculately clean. He told me not to drag his bedspreads on the floor. Isn’t that incongruous with his wild lifestyle?

Using my elbow, I close the door he left open, then wash my hands for longer than necessary. Finally, after I’ve stalled all I can, I bend over the wicker trash bin and look in.

Positive.

* * *

Trick

The things I plan to say fade when I see Laurel’s face. There’s a crease between her brows and she’s got her hands clasped in front of her. Recognizing the posture as the one she takes when she’s vulnerable, I meet her in the middle of the room and pull her against me, closing my arms around her. The tension in her body makes it tremble.

“This was the year I was supposed to apply for grad school. That’s over for now. Work, a baby, and school? I can’t see how.” She exhales against my neck. “It’s fine though,” she says, her voice growing determined. “I’ve got a friend from college who’s been trying to get pregnant for three years. Even in vitro. I shouldn’t complain. I have a good job. I can do this.”

Her rambling doesn’t need a response, so I wait. Finally, she presses her palms against my chest to separate our bodies. Releasing her, it’s good to see her expression’s a little less strained than it was a few minutes ago.

Sitting down, she takes a sip of the room temperature ginger ale. “So now we know.” Laurel tucks her long legs under herself and draws a throw blanket around her shoulders. Her words don’t matter. The way her body curls inward tells the real story.

Walking to her kitchen, which needs another fifteen square feet at minimum to be truly serviceable, I put the flowers in a vase I find in a cabinet. Then I put the food I brought on plates and bring them out to the coffee table.

She shakes her head sharply and pushes her hair over her shoulder. “I can’t eat.”

Appraising her, I say, “Almond chicken’s like water. I don’t even think salt got an invite.”

She smiles, but doesn’t reach for the plate.

The Hunan cashew chicken I’ve got is spicy as hell, and I eat half of it in minutes because I missed lunch.

She picks at her food, eating little.

“What’d you eat today?”

When she speaks, her tone’s harassed and sharp. “Trick, do not start.”

My gaze flicks to hers, and I pin her with a look. I’ve already checked what things are safe for me to do to her while she’s pregnant. This early, the baby’s protected in the fist of her un-stretched uterus and nestled behind pelvic bones. Tonight if she needs a lesson, I can give her one without putting my kid at risk.

Laurel sighs. “I don’t want to fight. There’s just a lot to process and figure out. And I can’t do it with you here. So could you please go?”

Taking a bite of food, I chew and then swallow, drawing out the pause. “Are you under the impression you’re making the decisions about this?”

Her eyes widen.

I reach in my pocket and retrieve the three-carat, flawless canary yellow diamond ring. Dropping it on the coffee table like I’m ante-ing up at a poker table, my eyes never leave her face.

The ring rests next to the Mason jar she’s using as a glass. Drinking from jam jars? An aged, cracked antique for a bathroom mirror? And then sports and Star Wars bobble heads on a living room shelf along with a couple of sports trophies she won in high school? It’s like she emptied a junk drawer to decorate. What’s with her place?

Her eyes remain glued to the ring, but her hands stay clasped in her lap and she doesn’t say a word, which makes me impatient. I show up and there’s no smile and no kiss. She doesn’t even invite me in. I don’t get what she’s doing. She flirts via text all the time. Now we find out she’s pregnant and she’s going to try to what? Keep her distance? Not happening.

“You and that baby are going to have my name. You’ll live with me for at least eighteen months, then we’ll reassess.”

“What? Why would we pretend to be engaged for eighteen months? Maybe that wouldn’t matter to your lifestyle, but it would mean putting my life on hold, which I’m not willing to do.”

Wouldn’t matter to my lifestyle? What is she talking about? This plan puts a wrecking ball through my lifestyle.

“I’m not talking about pretending to do anything. I said you’d have my name. That means getting married.”

Her nose wrinkles. “We don’t have to get married for you to be listed on the birth certificate. And why eighteen months? What gets reassessed after a year and a half?”

“Whether you can move out with my kid. Eighteen months is the pregnancy and the time the kid’s a little baby. It’s the time you’ll probably need the most hands-on help. I won’t know what you need if I can’t see you.”

“And you’re going to help me?”

Her skepticism grates on me. She knows next to nothing about my life skills and doesn’t bother to ask before assuming I’ve got none. “Help wears different outfits. It might come in the form of a nanny. Depends how things go.”

“I don’t need your supervision. And frankly, I can’t believe you’re even suggesting this. How many times have you been married and divorced that I haven’t heard about? You have one-night stands all the time.”

My temper’s wearing thin. It’s been a long day, and this is not how I saw my night going. I could use a drink, but I didn’t see a bottle of whiskey and I’ve got a feeling she doesn’t have one. What kind of Irish girl am I marrying?

“Never married. As for my sex life, I get my dick sucked a lot, but on the much fewer occasions when I’ve dipped my wick, there were no broken condoms.”

“I’m sure you must have gotten someone pregnant before?”

“Not that I’ve found out about.”

“And you think this is the way to handle it?” Her index finger touches the ring, moving it a couple of millimeters.

“Clearly I do.”

“Why would I agree? Knowing what you’re like? The FBI has a file on me because of you. And your life is… so dangerous, for you and the people around you. Frank Palermo shot at his own daughter and everyone near her.”

Shoveling some more food down my throat, I swallow and sip in some air. The spices are legit. Leaning forward, I take a swig of her ginger ale. Warm and flat, it’s not great, but it serves the purpose. “I understand your concerns, but I am who I am. You knew that before we had sex.”

Her gaze narrows, and for a second, I think she might throw her plate at me.

“Look.” My voice is controlled, but I can’t control how her resistance hits me. I don’t like it, and I’m barely keeping myself from spilling some old world shit about my owning her now. “I take responsibility for the broken condom and for not choosing a safer location for my cum.”

She grimaces, and I immediately regret being flippant and crude. Her attitude isn’t what I hoped for, but she’s not some prostitute or pretty little kitty girl. Though I’m happy to have her play one in my bed, when we’re talking seriously about marriage, a grown man doesn’t say certain things to his future wife. No matter how dead tired I am, it’s time to man the fuck up.

“I’m sorry for speaking to you that way, Laurelyn.”

Her brows rise in surprise, which is warranted. I almost never apologize to anyone. And in doing it, I sounded as formal as an engraved placeholder. It’s one extreme to the other tonight.

Sliding the plates aside, I move around the coffee table and sit in front of her, taking her hands between mine and rubbing them.

“Look, everything that happened to you in my place, including your getting pregnant, is on me. I’m responsible, so I’m taking responsibility.”

“It’s noble… I guess? But also very old-fashioned. You’re not old-fashioned, so I don’t get what you’re doing? Are you just trying to make sure I’ll share visitation with you or something? I will try to do that, Trick. As long as it’s safe.”

“It’s not about that. I’m always gonna be part of my kid’s life. I’ll never need a court’s interference for that.”

“So then why are you rushing us into a sham marriage? We’ve barely started talking again. We don’t have to figure anything out today.”

“I showed up with a hundred-thousand-dollar ring in my pocket. I’ve figured things out.” I take a breath and exhale.

This is Laurelyn Reilly. She’s independent, smart, and assertive. You have to bring her along slower than this, Trick.

My pep talk doesn’t work because it’s not in my nature to take things slow. I analyze, make decisions, and act, often within minutes to hours. How long does she expect to have to come to terms with what needs to happen? Weeks? Months?

“Remember the debate back in high school? If I tell you to trust me about something, do that. If I say I know what’s best, I do.”

She hits me with a look that I recognize from my sister Kathleen. It says, ‘I know you from way back and that’s why I don’t trust you.’ Except in Laurel’s case, every time we’ve disagreed, I’ve been the one proven right.

“This is completely different than your knowing someone’s cheating to win a school debate.”

“Similar enough. We’re at an impasse, and a decision has to be made. As captain of the debate team, you had the final word. We both know how that turned out.”

“Yeah, when I wouldn’t listen to you, you quit.”

“You lost the debate. If you’d trusted me, I’d have fixed the problem for you.”

“You didn’t care about the debate team.”

“No, I didn’t. I cared about the captain of the debate team. I joined so I could show off for you because I knew it would get your attention.”

Her expression is suspicious. “Is that true? I kind of doubt it. I tried to apologize after the debate, and you didn’t let me.”

“I let you. I just didn’t accept your bullshit apology.”

She laughs. “The picture of diplomacy your whole life. Do you wonder why I hesitate to spend time with you? Let alone marry you.”

I smirk, because she’s trying to persuade me that she’s being reasonable. I don’t care whether she’s being reasonable or not, but I do care that my opinion matters enough for her to try to win me over to it. She doesn’t understand leverage. I do.

“You’re right, Laurel. I suck at compromise. I hear married men have to compromise all the time. Why don’t you marry me, so I’ll get better at it?”

She laughs again, and this time it’s the deep throaty laugh that wakes my cock. “Would you really try?”

Do I lie? Nah, but I know how to make the truth less heavy. “I might pretend to if that would make you happy.”

Her laughter grows until she’s shaking with it, and I can’t help but smile because we were always good at this. I like that some things haven’t changed.

Finally, she tips her head back against the couch cushions and sighs. “I’d have to be crazy to marry you. I can name ten reasons it’s a horrible idea.” Laurel raises her head and challenges me. “You’d have to be crazy to marry me too. I’ll never be one of those girls who just gives in and does what you tell her to.”

Yes, you will, I think. I don’t say it. Yet. Tonight is one battle, and that’s a minefield I know to avoid until later in the war. What I say is, “We’re already together.”

“How do you figure that?”

Her green eyes are like stained glass and when the light catches them, it puts me off my game for a second.

“I text you every day. When I’m late, you want to know why. You also want details about my life, like why I’m wearing a suit. And you don’t just want answers, you want them immediately.” A blush warms her cheeks, and it’s fucking gorgeous. She’s gorgeous. As usual. Setting a hand on her leg, I rub her calf through the fabric of her jeans. “Admit it. You’ve got expectations. We’re already in this.”

The color that stains her cheeks answers for her.

“Come on. Put the ring on.”

“If I wear it, everyone will find out about us. I’m not sure I want anyone to know. Let’s see how it goes—”

“Everyone will know anyway.”

“Not if we don’t live together.”

“A piece of me is inside you, Laurelyn.” A beat passes. “Married. Nothing less.”

She swallows, looking away. “Everything I know about you makes me afraid to do this.” Laurel shakes her head, then picks up the ring.

Her sigh is heavy as she slides the ring on her finger.

I’m happy I won, but I’m careful not to smile. Tonight is one battle.