Poppy

Positive.

Nope. I take a brief second to reflect, and you know what? There’s absolutely nothing positive about this moment.

Remember my no-Mondays policy? I should have enforced it. Should have stayed in bed and waited until it was Tuesday. Or next month. Possibly the second coming of Christ or nuclear apocalypse because…

The white plastic stick perched on my bathroom counter mocks me. As does the first stick. When I missed my period, I bought the multi-pack pregnancy test at the drugstore because three was cheaper than one. I pull the instructions out of box number three. Although peeing on a tiny stick seems straightforward if messy, I must have done it wrong. It’s impossible that I’m pregnant. Gator and I have been super careful, and I have an appointment to go on the pill. There’s absolutely no way he deposited his super sperm in my vagina and started a baby there.

No way at all.

Except, you know, for that one broken condom. I fish stick number three out of my pee stream (seriously, why are pregnancy tests so gross?), deposit it on a clean piece of toilet paper on the counter, and wash my hands. I’m not looking at tests one and two anymore. Clearly, they’re flawed. I knock them into my trashcan while I wait for the real results to show up.

I know exactly when I’m due to get my period. I track it on my phone after a particularly mortifying miscalculation during my undergraduate years that had me swearing off white clothing for life and vowing to always keeps a stash of tampons handy.

These are the longest ten minutes of my life.

I attempt to spend them constructively. I wash my hands again. I brainstorm reasons for two false positives. The tests could be expired. Or maybe the vat of coffee I drank this morning diluted my pee (although then I guess I’d be pregnant with quintuplets). I do anything but look at the white plastic stick waiting for me on the counter. It’s like pulling the handle on a Vegas slot machine. If you stare too hard, you won’t get four cherries, a bonus wild card, and the life-changing million bucks.

The timer on my phone goes off.

I look down.

Positive.

I’m pregnant.

Quite possibly, I’m never coming out of the bathroom. Right now, that seems like a great idea. I’ll pull a turtle and hide in here until somehow this situation sorts itself out. It’s a nice bathroom—I even splurged on matching bathroom accessories shortly after I moved in. My hand towels have these cute little gold pineapples on them, a nod to my future plans to pay a trip south of the border and check out some Mexican beaches once I’ve finished paying off my student loans. And while there’s lots of cold white and black tile, I’ve tried to liven things up with a bright yellow bathmat. It’s my here comes the sun moment.

Shit. I’m not feeling cheerful or sunny at all.

Moo bumps around my ankles. He knows something’s up.

I can’t be a mom.

I have zero experience at this. I’ve never taken so much as a babysitting class, and the opportunities for hands-on baby experience have been minimal. I’m underemployed. I’m still working on what I’m going to do next week, for God’s sake. I can’t be responsible for a baby, and I don’t think Gator is any better prepared.

Gator.

Sure we’ve been casually feeling each other out (and up), but he’s never said the R word. We’re seeing each other—not in a relationship. The sex is amazing, but he’s never talked about having feelings or indicated a desire to make plans beyond the next week. And while I’ve been cautiously optimistic about where we could go together, having a baby was not part of my plans. How do you go from casual-but-amazing sex to Lamaze classes and picking out baby names?

We’ve had sex, and it’s been hot. Dirty. Sweet. Ever since that rainy night in the bayou, we’ve been extra careful. He promised that the broken condom meant nothing, but apparently there are promises that even Gator can’t keep. He’d teased me out of my worry when The Accident happened, his arms strong and careful around me, and I’d let him.

Okay. So I’m going to be a mother. We’re going to be parents. Like a magnet to north, my hand rubs my belly. I don’t think I look different. But I will. When I just sort of… stop… and let go of the thinking and the worrying and just feel, I realize I’ve got this sort of warm sensation curled up below my belly. Like things have already changed, and my body is adjusting. As scary as this feels, it also feels… good. And not in a making lemonade out of lemons kind of way, either.

I get up because I can’t go tell the Bean’s father about the new plot twist in our lives wearing just my panties and a T-shirt. Not that I think Gator would complain, but it’s a good ten minute drive to his clubhouse, and we wouldn’t do a whole lot of talking if I showed up mostly naked.

Gator had mentioned earlier that he had church today, which turns out to be biker code for club meeting. He’d mentioned that he’d be home later tonight after he’d wrapped up things with his boys, but I can’t wait. You know that line in When Harry Met Sally, when Harry goes tearing after Sally at the end of the movie to declare his newly discovered love for his best friend? I’m Team Harry. Like him, I can’t wait. I want the rest of my life to start right now even if I’m unclear on the details.

I get dressed in a rush, grabbing the first semi-clean clothes I find, and then make my way over to the clubhouse like a grandma because I’m not doing anything to jeopardize Bean. The parking lot outside the clubhouse is filled with motorcycles. A handful of prospects are keeping an eye on the bikes, and one of them waves me into an empty spot. Naturally, Fang is with them. I think Gator nominated him to be in charge of the newbies because Fang is like Peter Pan and refuses to grow up.

As soon as I’m out of my car, Fang bounces up. “How’s my best boy doing?”

I’m having a baby, and he wants cat updates.

I’m suddenly shy, which is stupid. The Bean isn’t my fault any more than it is Gator’s, but he—or she—is someone we need to look out for. To love. Gator’s not big on expressing himself, but I know he feels strongly about his club brothers. Bean may not be a biker—yet—but Gator will make a good dad. I’m certain of this.

“Is the meeting over? Is it okay to go inside?”

I have no idea how long “church” lasts. When I asked Gator why they called their business meetings “church,” he couldn’t tell me. But maybe it’s because they last the length of an average religious service? But which one? Mass runs an hour, but some people worship all day. Or go more than once.

“Yeah. It’s over.” Fang hesitates though, which is weird because he usually jumps into anything and everything headfirst. Gator once joked that Fang didn’t come with an off switch, and I believe it. “Might want to hang back a few minutes.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Keelie Sue’s been throwing up something fierce.”

Something large and metallic crashes nearby, and a prospect starts cursing. Fang bolts over to see what’s up, so I take advantage of his distraction to slip inside. If Gator is still talking business, I’ll hang back inside. And if Keelie Sue is puking, I can hold her hair and go look for a ginger ale or something.

For all the Breed have a reputation as hell-raising, felony-committing, law-breaking rebels, their place looks like the JCPenney furniture department exploded. They’ve got a bunch of old couches, one of which is upholstered in a purple and blue plaid that no self-respecting factory has made since the Eighties. There is a collection of pool tables, a bar with a life-sized tiki man (with an outsized dick someone’s Saran-wrapped), and plenty of neon bar signs decorating the walls. A couple of girls are cuddled up with a few guys, but there’s no one I know. Since sometimes Gator hangs out in the offices, I duck down the hallway and start looking for my man.

My man.

I like the sound of that.

Not that I’m planning on putting a ring on it, but we’re together, he and I. He, I, and the Bean. Thinking of ourselves as a trio is definitely going to take some getting used to. The office door is closed when I reach it, but I can hear Jace and then Gator’s low rumble. The door’s not shut all the way.

“She’s done working in the bayou?”

“Lost her grant funding,” Gator says.

I expect Jace to make some kind of commiserating noise. Except… he doesn’t.

“Thank fuck.” He sounds like he means it, too. “How’d you manage that?”

“Jesus,” Gator snaps. “I talked to a few people, okay? Made some donations and suggested that the Weppley Foundation develop a sudden interest in Minah birds or any kind of wildlife that wasn’t four-legged. They went for it.”

The warm Bean-glow in my stomach turns into something bitter and way more acid. It would serve them right if I puked on the floor right here. The bastards could step in it.

“You find any evidence of wolves on her hardware?”

“Told you,” Gator says impatiently. “If you want someone to go through her laptop, I’m not your guy. Put Fang on it. But I didn’t see anything. Only had a problem once out in the field, too. She found a kill site that looks like it belonged to T.D. and his wolves.”

I have no clue who T.D. is, but the rest of this is starting to sound a little too familiar. Once again, the guy in my life has decided that he has special dispensation to screw with my research. And yet it doesn’t make any sense at all. Is Gator working for a rival foundation? For some developer who doesn’t want wolf preservation to come between him and his new housing development?

“You take care of it?”

“Yeah,” Gator says like it’s no BFD. “Like I said before, I cleaned up the tracks. She couldn’t prove it was a wolf kill, and then I shut down her funding. Fucking sucks, messing up her life like that. Have to admit that I feel bad about it, but she’s a sweetheart. Went right where I led.”

He feels bad about it? Rage replaces the nausea I’m feeling. Trust me, he said. Right. What the hell happened to this relationship thing? Or building something between us? The whole time, he was just molding me to be the way he wanted me. Stupid. Gullible. I give in to the urge to get the fuck out of here, but I’m proud of myself. I make like a ninja in my leaving, and that gives me so many new options.

For example, when I sneak out of the clubhouse, no one’s paying attention to me. That’s the upside of not screaming at Gator that he appears to be a lying sack of shit who’s screwed up my life. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, and I definitely have to take responsibility for putting myself in a position where my grant funding was ever at risk, but he’s clearly played a big role in my ending up broke and unemployed. If these were the Academy Awards, he’d be up for Best Supporting Actor at the very least. So I think it’s time to reward him, don’t you?

It’s not hard to find his bike. Like its owner, the Harley is big, dark, and snarly-looking. Gator doesn’t go in for bling or extra chrome—his bike is all sleek, powerful lines and black leather. Objectively speaking, his bike is gorgeous. Like its owner’s dick, ass, abs… you name it. I’ll bet Gator loves his bike. I’ll bet it’s his baby.

Baby.

The panic I’ve been suppressing tries to climb on top of the anger like a drowning person scaling a lifeguard. I shove it back down and rummage in my purse, coming up with my car keys. After a quick glance around to make sure none of the prospects are looking my way, I drag the keys over the slick black paint. Sure, it’s petty to take pleasure in marking up Gator’s bike, but it makes me feel better. Unfortunately, he’s either invested in top quality paint or my keys are weak. I barely manage to scratch the surface. I try again with similar results before I give up and move on to Plan B.

Plan B involves the bottle of hot pink nail polish rattling around in my purse, some fashion tape, and the pregnancy test. After all, Gator really should know that he’s about to become a daddy, right? Not telling him would be wrong. I have to make it quick because I can hear booted feet headed my direction, so I paint baby and fuck you on every inch of black and chrome I can reach. FYI? The nail polish stretches a surprisingly long way. When the bottle’s empty, I tape the peed-on stick to Gator’s seat.

Message. Delivered.

The next step in my plan is to revenge eat (I need to hit up the local doughnut store) and hole up alone because I have some thinking to do. I need to think, to be alone, to find a magic wand that can solve all my problems. No. No magic wand. No white knights, no rescues, no miraculous deus ex machina solutions to the shit storm I’m at least partially responsible for. I’m in charge of my life, and I’ll figure it out. Gator’s way too much like my ex. He thinks he knows what’s best for me. He’s bossy. He does what’s best for him, and my life is just the shit he sees in his side view mirror as he’s roaring past, going eighty. Or maybe I’m roadkill. It doesn’t matter. I won’t make the same mistakes I did with Nathan.

Gator and I are done.