Knocked Up by the Bad Boy (12 page)

“Oh
fuck
.”

Warm saltiness fills my mouth as he comes. A thrill shoots into my chest as I feel his legs shake, and the possibility that I make this powerful man vulnerable. I swallow his cum as he sighs, smoothing my hair over my head. He pulls out of my lips, and I lick them, savoring his taste. Something between a groan and laugh shakes from his chest as he lies down beside me.

“You’re too fucking good.”

My face twists. “Johnny, my hands.”

Smiling, he pulls my body over his and grabs the key on the nightstand, unlocking my hands. I put them on either side of his head, and he kisses the faint pink line on my wrist. A swooping feeling makes me weak. I touch his face, sliding my hands through his thick, dark hair, and finally his restless gaze falls on mine.

“You’re sexy as hell.”

A pang hits me.

Why couldn’t he have been an asshole?

It hurts because I want him again, but it’s never going to happen. Not now that I’ve lost my job and the only freedom I had.

“I can’t see you again.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever.”

“I mean it.”

“You’ve said that before.” He grins. “And look where you are now. Hell, I can’t blame you. I know I’m hot shit.”

“I can’t leave the compound anymore. He made me quit that job and there’s no way he’ll allow me to leave for hours anymore without getting followed.”

A shadow crosses his face. “Your dad’s a real
prick
. No offense,” he tacks on quickly.

None taken.

I lower my body into his arms and lay my head over his chest, closing my eyes. His steady heartbeat pulses into my ear. I should leave, but a voice inside me keeps saying:
Just a little longer.

A heavy arm wraps around my back and I relish the feeling of being held, that afterglow of sex when you’ve been fucked into exhaustion.

I shouldn’t have to live up to anyone’s standards but my own.

“We’ll figure something out. I’m having way too much fun with you to give up that easily.”

Johnny’s voice is filled with confidence, but I just don’t feel it this time.

It’s over.

* * *

It’s for the best.

Isn’t that what people say when something they really want gets ripped away from them?
It’s for the best.
We were a ticking time bomb. Dad was bound to find out, and when he did, Johnny would be dead. So it’s for the best, really.

I sit in one of the booths in the clubhouse, too lonely to just waste away in my room, but angry enough to avoid conversation with anyone. Another week of playing with Johnny’s card, folding it and unfolding it so many times that it’s about to fall apart. Dad has me watched day and night. I can’t go to the fucking store without a goddamn chaperone now.

No, it’s not for the fucking best because if “the best” means surviving in here, I don’t want to survive. I want to
live
. Fucking that mobster, however wrong it might be, made me feel alive.

The TV blares with some news story, and the vice-president’s voice roars at it.

“Change the fucking channel. I don’t want to look at that fucking
wop.
”

I look at the bright TV screen and see a handsome, dark-haired man who looks a hell of a lot like Johnny.

“
Reputed mob boss Johnny Cravotta was sighted attending a charity dinner yesterday. He was seen entering
La Ciccia
at seven pm last evening.”

The image flicks away as someone changes the channel, and I grip the edge of the table and fight everything inside me to scream to change it back.

He’s the boss of the Cravotta Crime Family.

I fucked a boss
.

Oh Jesus.
Oh my fucking God
. And he knew! He knew who I was and went after me anyway. No wonder he wasn’t worried about getting caught. He’s only the guy who my father worked with for fucking years. He has Dad under his thumb, just like everyone in the city.

And I didn’t put two and two together.

I feel faint. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I stand up, legs shaking, and head for my room, avoiding everybody’s face.

The things I said to him. I was so disrespectful. If I had known who he was, I would have
never
approached him. Jesus, what was I thinking? He must have thought I was so cute, having no fucking clue who he was.

As soon as I’m inside my room, I burst into mad laughter.

I didn’t just fuck a boss. I fucked the boss of Montreal. The most powerful man in the city, and I didn’t recognize him. To be fair, I’ve never seen him before. I try to avoid anything related to my father.

God, I’m such an idiot. I feel so stupid.

Now you
really
can’t see him again.

If it was any other guy, Dad would throw a fucking fit, but this goes beyond anything he’d tolerate. He’d take it as a personal insult.

The mattress squeaks as I sit down, twisting my hands in my lap. Another pressing worry makes my stomach twist in knots.

It’s been a week since I’ve seen him.

My period is a week late. It’s fine, really. Happens sometimes. Right? Then I think about the first night we were together, a week before the last time I saw him. We didn’t use a condom.

I rise from the bed so quickly that blood rushes to my head and blackness overcomes my vision. Color pricks back into my view as I take deep, shuddering breaths.

It was only once.

It only takes one time, idiot.

I have to find out.
Now
.

My footsteps seem oddly loud as I leave my room and head toward the stockroom where we store all our pharmacy supplies. I keep my head down, as if maintaining eye contact with anyone would spill the fact that I fucked the boss of our biggest fucking rival. Everyone would loathe me if this got out. It’d be considered a betrayal.

I burst into the small pharmacy, which is manned by a sweet but inconveniently sharp woman. She smiles at me behind a small desk.

“I’ve a headache.”

“All right, well, help yourself. The Tylenol is in the back.”

I head in that direction while keeping my eyes peeled for pregnancy tests on the shelves. My eyes scour the rows, and then I see them a few rows behind the Tylenol next to all the condoms. Goddamn.

I pretend to search for the pills, and then look over my shoulder at her. Her gaze is fixed on me.

“I can’t find—oh, shit.”

My arm sweeps aside a dozen or so pregnancy tests to the floor, and I stuff two of them in my jacket before I shove the boxes back on the shelf. Shit, she’s going to see where I was searching. Her chair scrapes the floor.

“Did you find it?”

I pretend to be replacing the toothbrushes just as she sweeps behind me. My arm pins to my side, crushing the pregnancy tests to my body. They can’t fucking fall.

“They’re over here.” She leads me to the Tylenol and pops open a bottle for me.

“I’ll just take two. Thanks.”

I pop them in my mouth. I’ll probably need them anyway.

“Do you want water? You don’t look so good, hon.”

I’m fucking fine, except for the fact that I fucked a mob boss and I might be pregnant with his kid.

“Yeah, okay.”

Because I can’t just swallow two pills without choking, I take the paper cup in my hands and tip the water down my throat. Some of it splashes over my lips. She takes the cup from me with a scandalized look.

“Thanks.”

Good god, I must look so goddamn suspicious.

I see her walking toward the shelf I was searching as I leave, and my heart seizes.

One crisis at a time.

At this fucking place, there’s no such thing as privacy. Communal bathrooms, showers, everything for those of us who aren’t married. Couples get mobile homes with all of that shit. Even the president’s daughter has to take a piss in the midst of ten other women gossiping about shit in the bathroom.

I squeeze into a stall and sit down on the toilet seat, trying to keep my legs from shaking. The girls saw me come into the bathroom. They can’t fucking know that I’m taking pregnancy tests. I open my jacket.

I watch one of the tests slip from my hands to fall to the floor, faceup with the brazen logo.

FUCK
!

The sound of the cardboard hitting the tiles grates against my ears. It’s so fucking loud. My hand snatches the box immediately and I pray that they didn’t fucking look at it. The voices in the bathroom simmer down and I crush the box in my hands, feeling a slow burn on my cheeks. There’s a nervous giggle, and then the talk resumes.

I balance one of the tests on the toilet paper holder and carefully unwrap the other one. Fuck. It’s so goddamn loud. I flush the toilet and rip the cardboard box, tearing the plastic with my teeth before dumping it in the toilet.

Okay. Just pee on the thing and it’ll be fine.

I take the test and grit my teeth as I balance it on the tampon disposal, grabbing the other box. Fucking hell, now I have the same problem.

I hate this place.

The toilet’s noisy flush covers the sound of me tearing the second box apart, and then I take the second test.

Now what? Do I wait here, or do I head back to my room?

I could stay here and feign an upset stomach, or I could retreat to my room where anyone could burst in at any second and see the tests lying there, plain as day.

Fuck it, I’ll wait.

The minutes tick by slowly as I pick up both tests and stare at the little windows.

Please, God. Let me not be fucking pregnant.

Then it happens. Faint pink lines hover over the window like a shadow, becoming more and more clear. Two ungodly pink pluses. Two positive tests.

Just my fucking luck.

It’s hard to breathe now. I have to bite down on my fist to keep myself from crying out.

I fucked a mob boss and I’m pregnant with his kid.

Oh yeah, I’m screwed.

JOHNNY

Le Zinc
is probably my most frequent haunt. It’s one of my favorite restaurants, and it should be, considering I hired the kitchen staff. Good food is important to me, and that’s why this place is fucking packed. They come to this restaurant in droves. I can’t blame them. Everything is streamlined. Modern. The food is great. You can smoke. You can bring your own wine.

But some don’t come for the great food or the service. They’re tourists. They watch an episode of
Sopranos
or they read the
Montreal Gazette
, and they know that this is a connected joint. Fucking Hollywood. What a joke.

Anyway, one of those assholes sits in the restaurant with a baseball cap.
A
fucking baseball cap
. And he holds his smartphone in my direction.

I’m trying to have a meeting with my captains in this place, and that jerk-off is taking pictures of me. With that fucking baseball cap on his stupid head.

It’s disrespectful.

“Hold on a second.” I interrupt François with a hand as I stand up from the booth, smooth over my suit, and walk in the direction of that jackass.

His head perks up as he sees me coming, frowning at me. I can just imagine what I must look like to this prick. When I reach his table, I grit my teeth in an attempt to smile.

Do not make a fucking scene. Be polite.

“Excuse me.” That probably never sounded so hostile. “Take off the hat, please.”

His mouth opens stupidly. “It’s my hat, and I’ll wear it if I want.”

How is this moron still breathing?

“Don’t be a jerk. This is a nice restaurant.”

Our eyes meet for a tense moment and for a minute I think he’s going to back down, but then he shakes his head. The veins in my head are about to pop.

I reach up and cuff the side of his head. It flies off and flutters to the ground.

“What the fuck?”

The other diners look up from their meals at the sound of the commotion, and then Shit For Brains stands up with his fists raised.

“Don’t touch me!”

Cute.

“Get out of my fucking restaurant.”

Before I drag you out the back and beat the shit out of you.

He obviously has no idea who I am, but his friend does. He gets up from the table and yanks Shit For Brains’ arm. “That’s Johnny Cravotta.”

“Oh.”

I almost want to laugh at his wide, horrified eyes, and the way his whole body deflates. He puts his hands behind his back and his shoulders slump, almost as if he’s bowing.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know who you were.”

“Get the fuck out.”

He nods and bends down for the hat, but I step on it, viciously grinding all the dirt and shit from the sidewalks on that fucker’s hat. Then I step back.

“There’s your fucking hat. Now get out.”

His eyes splinter with a flash of resentment, and he hesitates near my feet. I have to hold myself back, but the cool fire inside me recedes when he puts that fucking dirty cap on his head and walks out like a beaten dog. I reach into my pocket and throw money on the table for the waitress, and then I walk back to my captains, who give me appreciative smirks.

People who know me say I’m cruel, but everything I do is necessary. Even humiliating that dumb fuck in my restaurant. I need to set a precedent. I am
always
being watched. And I am always watching
them
. I learned that from my father.

Prick.

I sit back down at the table without a fuss, and we continue our meeting, but my mind is elsewhere.

“What about the bikers?”

The question snaps me in two. “What?”

“
Les Diables
. Shouldn’t we give them a taste?”

My hackles settle down and I lean back into my chair. “I told Carlos that the airport was off limits. That’s all he needs to know. I’m not giving him a cent. It’s our fucking territory.”

François shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “He has people working for him at the airport. I don’t know, John.”

He has the gall to question me in front of all my captains.