#Jerk (10 page)

Everything is going according to plan. Baby is measuring right, things and bits are in the correct positions. Not much to report, apart from the lack of emotion I feel. I always envisioned it differently; I’d be holding my husband’s hand as we both cry at the sound of the heartbeat. Instead, I squirm uncomfortably from the gallon of water I am forced to drink while staring at a screen and pretending to know what I’m looking at. Not to mention the copious amounts of warm lube spread all over me.

At the end, she gives me a picture of the baby.

I stare at it the whole cab ride back to the office. Because I haven’t felt the baby move, and the fact that I’m still in utter shock about being pregnant, the so-called attachment I’m supposed to feel is missing. According to a pregnancy book I picked up over the weekend, many women have already bonded with their baby at this point and there’s some bullshit about how it forms part of the mother-child bond after birth.

Great, my kid is going to hate me.

Back in the office, I drop my purse onto the ground and make my way to one of the spare boardrooms, counting down the minutes till it’s time to go home (something I rarely do).

“Oy!” Clive scans the area and pulls me aside. “What’s the gossip with Haden getting engaged?”

“I know just as much as you…I think. Why, what do you know?” I pry.

“Dee is throwing a temper tantrum. I think she was hoping to pick up from where they left off.”

“But Dee has Big Daddy now.”

“Big Daddy has a big wife that caught wind of Dee.”

“No!” I gasp. “Listen, I have to get to a meeting. I want full details tomorrow. I swear Clive, you really should work for the
Inquirer
.”

“I know, my talents are beyond wasted here.”

Upon entering the room, I see Haden sitting at the table with his laptop and coffee. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, and seems engrossed in whatever’s on his screen.
Probably porn.

“Make this quick,” I complain. “I want to go home.”

“You’re the one pushing for this erotic make-believe story, not me.”

“What’s your problem with it? Obviously Mr. Sadler has no issue and neither did the board,” I point out in a huff.

“There’s fantasy and then there’s plain ridiculous. Men are not virgins at twenty-five.”

“Clearly you weren’t. Did you even read the story? He came from a strict Catholic upbringing. His mother had cancer from when he was eighteen to twenty-four. When she died, he wanted to honor her wishes.”

“I did read it, it’s just difficult for me to compute but hey, I’m not a horny old woman reading erotic fantasies to escape my failing marriage.”

“You don’t need to be an old woman to enjoy these types of books. I was in a happy relationship and read books in this genre. It was fun, even gave me ideas.”

Crap, I said too much.

Haden shifts uncomfortably. “Right, when you were with Jasper.”

“Jason,” I correct him.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath.

This is heading to an uncomfortable place, yet his snide comment irks me.

“Do you have a problem with Jason?”

“I don’t know your ex-fiancé. Except for when you constantly mention him.”

“I don’t constantly mention him,” I answer defensively.

“Right.” He laughs. “It’s obvious you’re not over him.”

“Of course I’m not. I was with him for five years. I’m not that heartless. I’d like to think I will always love him, just not in a way that would end happily ever after as soul mates.”

“You read too much trash.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “You don’t believe in love? You’re engaged. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Yes...I am.”

He doesn’t reveal anything else and I’m dying to ask how a man who is pushing twenty-six (thank you, Vicky, for the Facebook stalking) pops the question to a girl he has known less than four months.

Maybe she is knocked up! Oh, this could be even worse than I thought.

“We should get back to work,” I huff.

“So, chapter five. Crystal is a single mother with a five-year-old son forced to work as an escort to put food on the table. I’m worried that those feminist groups are going to bully the author. We don’t need bad publicity.”

“I agree. Perhaps the author needs to reword a few lines just to give a little more background as to how she was forced to become an escort.”

We talk more and jot down notes, ready for our meeting with the author tomorrow. For the majority of our meeting, we don’t argue. But of course, all good things must come to an end.

“I have to admit, this single mom stuff is tough on this character. Glad I ain’t a woman.”

I swallow the massive lump restricting my ability to breathe and fumble with the button on my blouse. This is your opening—go ahead, do it! Yet I continue sitting in silence, chickening out once again
. I am such a coward.

“Life hands you lemons, you gotta make lemonade somehow.”

“If life hands you lemons, you grab some tequila and have a party,” he cheers.

“See, that’s the difference between you and me. Tequila and partying is a thing of the past. When you grow up one day, you’ll realize it wasn’t worth all the hangovers.”

He leans in, too close for my comfort. “Funny, Malone, you seem to enjoy tequila and partying that night at the bar.”

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t drink. You always regret your actions the next day,” I say, staring at him.

He appears offended, pulling back immediately. Straightening his tie and adjusting his glasses, he clears his throat. “You are such a bitch sometimes, Malone.”

“Just like you are a jerk—all the time.”

He shuts down his laptop and storms out of the room without a word. I breathe a sigh of relief. This is too hard. It isn’t worth forming a friendship when soon he will hate me to the point he’ll wish I never existed.

A
voiding Marcus was harder than I anticipated. The rational part of my brain knew it was best that I tell Haden before Marcus. It seemed like the right thing to do, but Marcus was desperate, horny, and not afraid of letting me know that. I couldn’t pull the Aunt Flo card out because he gave me alternatives, and seriously what is it with young guys and their thirst for some Back-Door Betty action?

My clothing had started to feel restrictive, and I was fairly certain I could see a small bump. Still small enough to pass it off as bloating. I couldn’t button my pants so I stuck to wearing skirts and loose-fitting blouses. On top of the stress of telling Haden and Marcus, I had my parents to deal with.

To soften the blow, telling my sister Gemma would give me a taste of what was about to come. She was over the moon and wanted all the juicy tidbits about Baby Daddy. Then came a whole speech about how much she was going to spoil her niece/nephew. We talked about the right way to tell Mom and Dad, and agreed it was best over the phone followed by a visit.

My nerves were shot to hell about making that phone call, but I couldn’t hide it forever. Plus I really needed my mom and her parental advice right now.

As predicted, my parents were deeply disappointed, especially because they loved Jason so much and spent an hour telling me that I should have fallen pregnant with him. It wasn’t a ‘rewind and let’s try again’ situation. The damage was done. Mom, of course, was extra disappointed that Haden was younger than me. It was frowned upon in her generation and that lecture took another hour. By the end of the phone call, I was emotionally spent. As soon as we hung up, my mom called me right back and started panicking.

“Are you taking your prenatal vitamins?”

“Make sure you don’t eat blue cheese and cold meats.”

“Don’t sleep on your stomach. You might squash the baby!”

I could have listened all day to her. There was nothing more comforting at that moment than some motherly advice. I told her that I would clear my schedule next month and fly to Virginia to spend a few days with them before I got too big. She seemed more at ease by the end and even gloated about being a grandmother and knitting booties.

With that ticked off my list, I knew I had no choice but to tell Haden.

The perfect opportunity presented itself on Friday night, a week later. I suggested that we work on finalizing some details on
Fallen Baby
and asked the Jerk to come to my apartment. Hoping he didn’t get the wrong idea, I ordered a ton of take-out. The old ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ saying. Not that I wanted to get to his heart, I just wanted to remain alive by the end of the conversation.

He turns up at seven on the dot, dressed in light jeans and a white tee. The Chucks on his feet make me think he won’t be going out clubbing, especially since he is also wearing a baseball cap. I blame the hormones again for noticing how delicious he looks. I haven’t bothered to dress up. I’m wearing a loosely fitted tank top and drawstring shorts. It’s pretty much the only thing that fits right now, plus it is scorching hot outside. Being pregnant in the summer has not made me a happy camper. Thank God for A/C.

Walking barefoot back to my sofa, I ask him to take a seat before offering him a drink.

“Nice place you got here. You moving?” he asks, spotting the bare walls and stacked boxes.

“Yeah, soon. This was ours, but we decided to sell. Had a few offers and I think we’re closing soon.”

“Ours?”

“Mine and Jason’s. We bought it two years ago.”

“Right. Have you found a place?”

“I’ve been to inspect a few. Not much in my price range. I wish I could afford to buy this place but a part of me thinks it’ll be good to move on.”

That seems to be the extent of our forced conversation so I grab my laptop and go through my bullet points, all the while finding the courage to start the inevitable. Throughout the conversation, my head is repeating what I’m about to say over and over again until the point that he waits for me to respond and I have no idea what he just asked.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?”

“You seem distracted. I asked if the author planned a sequel.”

“Uh…not at this stage.”

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll bite. Why are you acting weird?”

“Weird? Okay…” I take a long breath.
“This...is very...I need to ask you a question.”

He sits back into the sofa. With a composed yet undermining stare, he waits patiently if not eagerly for me to speak. I become a little distracted, imagining myself sitting on top of him, riding his beautiful pierced dick, and then…
fuck these damn hormones! Focus!

“That night in the alley—”

“You said we weren’t to talk about that,” he is quick to remind me.

“I know I said that but I have to ask you something and I don’t want you reading more into it.”

“What are you going on about, Malone?”

Here goes, my eggs all in one basket—literally.

“Did you...” God, how do I ask this? “
Did you...you know, finish?”

“Finish?”

“Finish...do the deed. Shoot your load.”

There is a wicked grin on his face, and rubbing his barely-existent beard in an annoying yet smoldering manner, he has me stumbling on my thoughts.

“Let me get this straight, Malone. You’re asking me if I came?”

Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, I feel so juvenile, nodding to suppress the sheer embarrassment.

“I’m curious as to why you’re only asking me this now?”

“Because I just need to know.”

With his arm draped along the back of the sofa, he inches closer, intimidating me with a persistent stare. He doesn’t realize I’m in the prime of the pregnancy, loaded with hormones, ready to pounce and beg him to fuck me because I am so damn horny I can’t even think straight.

“It’s a personal question, and you’re demanding an answer without explaining why you need to know.”

“Cut the bullshit, Jerk. I think we passed personal when you decided to screw me in the alley.”

“You cut the bullshit, Malone. Why you wanna know?”

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out without thinking, without any emotion.

There. Done.

Phew. I release a breath, finally able to breathe a little.

It’s not just one ball of tumbleweed, but a whole colony that rolls past as the silence falls over the room. I don’t dare look at him, his heavy breathing enough of an indication that he is about to have a stroke.

“Why weren’t you on the fucking Pill, Malone?!” he demands, raising his voice and catching me off guard while jumping off the sofa.

“I was on the fucking Pill! Why would you come inside me and assume that?!”

He is pacing the floor, hat thrown onto the table as he runs his fingers through his hair in utter despair. His eyes are wild with panic, and he looks ready to smash the first thing in sight. I’m right; he does it moments later and the porcelain lucky elephant that Gemma gave me is splattered on the floor.

Okay, don’t go ape shit on him. The elephant is replaceable. Have some compassion for the Jerk.

“I put a fucking rubber on! You pulled it off. Then we used another one!”

“What do you want me to say? Scientifically we beat the odds and I don’t know what the fuck happened or how!” I yell back in frustration.

“How could this happen then? And how can you assume it’s mine? Who knows who you were doing? Marcus…it’s got to belong to Marcus.”

He didn’t just go there.

Yep, he did.

Unleash the hounds.

Quick to my feet, I’m eye-to-eye with him, matching his stance. Even though he towers over me while I’m barefoot, he doesn’t intimidate me one bit.

“I am NOT that person. Blood tests and ultrasounds confirmed how far along I am. I can’t even…you know what?” I say, barely able to control my anger. “You can just walk away now. Forget I told you this. You’re young, got your whole life ahead of you. I can raise this baby. I don’t need someone in my life thinking I’m a fucking whore!”

“I didn’t…look, I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“Too late for apologies, Jerk.”

Silence,
again.

This time, he sits back on the sofa and bends over with his face between his legs. His arms are resting on his knees, but they appear to be shaking. Neither of us saying a word, the silence continues as the clock ticks over.

“I’m engaged,” he mumbles.

“Yes, you are. I don’t want anything from you.”

“I love Eloise.”

Still without knowing what the hell happened in London, the name and sentiment strike a nerve with me. Almost like a ‘how dare I ruin things for him’ attitude. It dawns on me that he doesn’t even take a moment to ask me how I’m doing, whether I’ve had morning sickness, or anything about the baby.

This was a bad idea. I should have just kept this a secret and moved away and life could continue for him. Except you want the best for your unborn child, and having a father around who is a positive male role model is
supposed
to be good thing. I wouldn’t go as far as saying the Jerk could be a positive role model, though.

Again, I shouldn’t have breathed a word.

“Marcus. Does he know?”

“No…I thought you needed to know first. I will tell him tomorrow.”

“I want to be there when you tell him,” he responds, threatening me as he struggles to compose his anger.

“Wha…why? I don’t want to deal with your ego bullshit,” I inform him. “I’ll just tell him and it’s over.”

I want him to leave. I want to climb under my covers and cry myself to sleep. I’m scared, frightened, and unsure of how I am going to raise this baby alone. Somewhere deep down inside I wish he would have stepped up and taken responsibility for his actions. But true to form, he grabs his cell and wallet from the table without making eye contact.

“I have to go.”

There are no more words, and the second he is gone I begin to cry myself to sleep.