Dancer (5 page)

"Allison said she'd help me."

"Allison," he snarled with a dismissive wave of his hand. "She's a burned-out worthless pot head. She wouldn't know one end of a baby from the other."

Don't talk that way about Allison!
I wanted to scream.
Allison might smoke pot but she's still a good person. She's better than you, Dad.

Face full of pain and disappointment, Mom lowered her head without saying a word, her dark hair cascading her shoulders. It hurt to see her upset with me. Made me ashamed.

Fuck it.

I raced upstairs, retreated to my bedroom and flopped face-down on the mattress. The rickety bed frame wobbled.

Flipping to my side, I stared at the poster next to my bed. My favorite male actor stared back, posing provocatively with his arms folded above his head. He reminded me of The Dancer with his messy blond hair.

The Dancer.

My tears burned and blurred the actor's image. Rage replaced sadness and I slapped away those tears.

This time I flat-out refused to cry. Wouldn't allow it. Somewhere deep within me, something grabbed hold and from that point on I resolved to become stronger.

My days of being a victim were over. No more shedding tears. No more getting hurt.

And I
didn't
cry. I sucked up every uncomfortable emotion, firmly locked them in the darkest corners of my conscience.

An argument began downstairs. I heard their shouts in regards to the baby's future needs; what was best for it and best for me. Best for the family. They honestly didn't think I'd take decent care of him or her.

That pissed me off. I
wouldn't
be a bad mother.

Couldn't they see I wasn't a kid anymore? And why were they so quick to underestimate my abilities and underestimate
me
? They've made it clear their opinion—of me—couldn't be any lower.

Fine. In five months I'd prove them wrong.

This evening's disaster made me seriously debate Caleb's offer of moving in.

But—I still had to tell Caleb. That would be the ultimate test of our relationship. Caleb would prove how much he'd truly changed, if he'd changed at all.

Holy fuck.

* * * *

I
spent Saturday afternoon at Caleb's small apartment.

We hadn't had sex in weeks and he was going batshit with urges. Meanwhile I was going batshit trying to figure out the best way to tell him my secret.

Caleb held me and dipped me to the silky softness of his bed, covered by ebony sheets. Intense iridescent eyes, more intoxicating than those earlier glasses of wine, held mine and placed me under his spell.

Caleb's lips and tongue tasted me; his endless kisses warmed my face, mouth, throat, heightening my arousal, getting me warmer.

Without thinking I spread my thighs. He hovered above me on all fours and his firm cock pushed out the center of his jeans. He unzipped, freeing his cock to probe my inner thigh.

"
Mmm
." He groaned, his kisses urgent. He whipped up my skirt, groping, shoving his cock into the thin fabric of my panties.

"Let me fuck you, Sammy. Damn, I've missed fucking you." More kissing, gyrating, groping and cock shoving.

"
Mmm, fuck, you're hot. Lemme fuck you, lemme—
"

To my horror, he tugged at my panties.

No!

I nudged him off. Anger blazed in his eyes and quickened my pulse.

It's now or never.

"I have to tell you something, Caleb."

"What is it?" he asked, sitting on his heels between my legs. "I hope nothing's wrong."

"No. Nothing's wrong." I grabbed his hand and held it to my chest, wondering if he could feel my heart thumping.

I certainly could feel and hear it. Loud and clear.

"Come on, baby. I love you. You can tell me anything." His expression softened, although looks could be deceiving.

Especially coming from Caleb.

"I did something stupid a while back. I got pregnant."

"Really? You're pregnant? Well—that's great," he said with a short laugh. "Guess it happened that time I didn't use a condom, eh? So I'll just... uh, buy you a ring and we'll set a date for the wedding."

Um, yeah.

We raised upright, propped pillows against the headboard and leaned back. He turned to me, stroked my face with his forefinger, already grinning like a proud father-to-be.

"Someday I wanted us to have a cute litter of kids. I just wasn't expecting it to happen this soon. But hey, whatever. It's all good," he said. "It's all good 'cause I still love you so much."

How the fuck could I tell him the baby wasn't his? Could shit possibly get any worse?

Of course it could.

Tread lightly, Sam. This may soon get ugly. Very, very ugly.

"Caleb, it isn't your baby. I'm sorry." I cringed.

Silence. Big grey eyes glowered. Crazy eyes. Smiling lips fell to a line.

"What do you mean it isn't mine?" He scooted to the edge of the mattress, his backside to me.

I didn't know what to say. What
could
I say?

"Not my baby," he muttered as he lifted from the bed, zipping his jeans and slowly shaking his head. He stepped to the window and peered out, his shoulders slumped.

"I was going to tell you sooner but didn't know how," I said.

He mumbled something and spun to face me. Rage twisted his features.

"Why didn't you fucking tell me? Why did you wait so long? Christ, we've been back together for weeks!"

"What do you want me to say? You told me I could tell you anything—"

"I wanted to marry you, Samantha. Honest to god, I wanted to make a life with you and you drop this—
this
on me?"

Hotness flowed from my neck to my cheeks. "What do you want me to do? Abort it? Because I'm not."

"And I can't be a father to some other guy's baby." Wildly he threw his hands in the air, pacing.

Caleb kept ranting while I slid off the opposite end of the bed, making sure I stayed far away from him.

He made me feel like a helpless child. Like I was being scolded by my father.

Then came the name-calling.

Slut.

Stupid bitch.

Moron.

Whore.

Now I remembered why we broke up the first time. Now I knew—he hadn't changed at all.

And he was still ranting and raving like a crazed lunatic. "To think I've been whacking off and taking cold showers for the past month, just because you didn't want me to know you got knocked up by someone else. Fuck!"

"Okay, I get it. You hate me. I'm going home." I drifted to the bedroom door. He followed but stopped an arm's length away.

Too close for comfort.

"Dammit, Sammy. I'm sorry. I don't hate you. I could never hate you." Short pause. "But I can't do this. I'm sorry." He raked his fingers through his hair.

You can't do this and you're sorry. Even though you said I could tell you anything.

Anything!

Lies. All lies. I'll never give you another chance. I'd rather kill myself. Once a sonofabitch, always a sonofabitch. God damn you, Caleb.

You may not hate me—but I fucking hate you.

That's it. Over.

No point in putting off the inevitable, I left Caleb's apartment and drove home. Back to a depressing existence.

My heart a broken, gaping black hole of shit, I slumped in the corner of my dimly lit bedroom, surveying the four yellow walls littered with posters and a mess of dirty clothes scattered beneath my bed.

Hm. Maybe this is why Mom and Dad said I can't take care of myself. I certainly suck at keeping a clean bedroom. Oh well. Doesn't mean I won't change once my baby's born, because I will.

I will.

Visions of Caleb's tirade swept to the surface, bringing forth devastation. How his endless cruelty cut to the core.

I am not a whore. I am not stupid. I am not a bitch. I am not a slut. But you?

You're a horrible person without a shred of kindness or empathy.

You're the empty shell, Caleb. You're the one with a blackened heart filled with utter shit.

Yes. That's you.

Tears would not betray my emotions. Nevertheless I wanted to fucking die. Just.

Fucking.

Die.

I couldn't take much more.

But I also couldn't die.

Life must go on. I had to pretend everything was fine even though I barely got through each day.

This too shall pass
.

Please god, let it pass.

* * * *

M
onday.

I worked another grueling shift at Sizzle; this boring, thankless job that helped make my car payments and nothing else.

Since I carried a small bowling ball in my belly, my spine ached after hours of serving. But I pushed on, rushing back and forth carrying trays filled with dishes. Fetching drinks, answering phones and so forth, listening to customers bitch about getting the wrong food, cold food or bad food.

Christ
.

I wasn't as patient with the customers, which earned me less tips. I simply couldn't win.

I went to the kitchen to fulfill my gazillionth order and grabbed a plate of chocolate pie.

Doug, my boss, interrupted me as I headed through the doors to the dining room.

"Samantha, I need to talk to you."

Reluctantly I turned. "Yeah? About what?"

"Things haven't been the same with you for a while," he said without meeting my gaze. "You've been late coming in, calling in sick, hiding out in the restrooms instead of doing your work. I don't want to do this, but I have to let you go."

His statement sickened me. "No, I need this job. I have a baby coming."

"I'm sorry but it's been a long time coming, Samantha. All I can say is—good luck." Doug regarded me with pity. He tucked in the corner of his mouth and bowed his head.

Good luck.
Good luck?
Far from being good, I'd been having the worst luck of my entire life.

Tossing my apron to the floor, I slammed the dish on a counter, stormed through the dining area and outside where I paced, fists clenched, body tight as a stretched wire.

I eyed the free-standing sale sign, the perfect target for my fury.

The sign, bulky and heavy-looking, reached my chin and read:
Center-cut sirloin steak: 6.99 for a limited time only.
I kicked the shit out of it, alternating between punching and punting. Inch-by-inch the damn thing scooted backward until it toppled and crashed into the sidewalk.

I trampled and smashed it. "Mother fucking bullshit. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck this fuckin' shit. Sick of it. So goddamn sick of my life.
Motherfucker fired me for being pregnant.
"

Kick, kick. Slam, slam
. Plastic bits exploded every which way. One of my spiked heels snapped so I removed my shoes.

And my fury was sated. I felt like my normal self, not that I actually remembered what it was like.

A semblance of normalcy was better than nothing.

Even if it were only an illusion.

* * * *

A
llison called.

Dad snapped the newspaper, probably annoyed that I was talking to the 'worthless pot head'.

"I lost my damn job today." I strolled in the kitchen with the mobile phone glued to my ear, speaking low to ensure Dad couldn't overhear.

"Aw. Sam, I'm sorry. But listen—I found out something that might cheer you up," Allison divulged. Somehow I could tell she was smiling. "I found out the name of your dancer dude and some other stuff."

Astonished, I pressed the phone closer. "Seriously? You did?"

"His name is Chase. Chase Richardson. I found out his email and everything."

Oh my god. Am I dreaming? The Dancer—the father of my baby is Chase Richardson. Finally, finally a name to go with his face.

"Chase Richardson?" I echoed.

"Sam, get ready to have some fun. We got ourselves a pretty boy to play with."

6

H
oly shit. What did Allison mean by that? Whatever she meant it certainly sounded intriguing.

Was I game?

Hell yes.

"Alright, Allison. I guess you know what you're doing. Um, you
do
know what you're doing, right?"

"Don't you worry about a thing. You just go on and get some rest, that way you'll be nice n' ready for tomorrow night." She giggled deviously as we hung up.

What the hell did that crazy Allison have planned?

My question temporarily unanswered, I fell in bed and yanked the quilt up to my chin.

Despite my excitement I slept better than I had in months.

Sweet dreams, Sam. Sweet dreams.

Allison and I went to SIN the following night. The very nightclub where this whole nightmare started.

This time we didn't plan to drink or watch musical performances.

This time we didn't ogle cute back-up dancers.

Nope.

Allison knew Rachel Laurence, a friend of the club manager. Rachel told Allison that Angelique was scheduled to sing that night, meaning Chase would be there to do his thing and shake his booty.

It was
the
golden opportunity. Definitely. Absolutely. Totally.