Sitting on my bed, my head in my hands and my eyes on the floor, I stare at the white stick between my feet. The fancy white stick with the words ‘pregnant’ in bold, black letters on the little screen, as well as a 3 and a big old plus sign.
I’m pregnant.
An overwhelming urge to throw up hits me and I sprint to the bathroom.
Tears and vomit don’t mix well.
Heaving into the toilet, I let my tears fall freely, letting them stream down my cheeks in rivers. Kneeling on the old and cracked linoleum floor, I hover over the bowl, dry heaving.
How can I be pregnant?
I can’t be pregnant.
King’s been gone for weeks. Weeks. I’m three plus weeks pregnant according to that fucking stick, and if I add that up, plus how long it’s been since the last time we had sex, which might not even be when I got pregnant, I’m at the very least three months along. At least.
Groaning, I sit on the floor near the toilet and wrap my arms around my knees, trying to calm my spinning head and stomach.
I feel like shit, and it’s not just from the morning sickness. It’s everything. I’m pregnant and King’s gone. He’s not coming back. I’m pregnant and alone.
Jesus, that word. Pregnant.
I should’ve known something was off when the smell of coffee made my stomach roll. I couldn’t eat my pizza, the onions making me gag, and I woke up twice last week sick and dizzy. I chalked it all up to stress and sadness. I’m so fucking stupid.
“Sammy?” Tags knocks on my door, trying the handle. “You ready, babe?”
Jesus.
“Just a sec,” I call back, my voice small, choked up, broken.
God, his voice makes me want to be sick again, and I feel bad about it.
Standing up, I go to the sink and rinse my mouth and do a quick makeup fix. Just staring at my pathetic self, the tears start to well up again.
I feel broken and oh so lost.
I caved, letting Tags back in. Lonely and heartbroken, I gave in. It’d been four weeks, and I just wanted to feel a quarter of what I felt when I was with King. I was desperate for it. Desperate to feeling anything at all, and I knew Tags would give me something.
I started texting him, and then calling him. He came down for the day and I came here tonight to see him.
It’s wrong, but I can’t help myself. I need something. Anything.
Taking a deep breath and wiping at my eyes, I walk out of the bathroom and open the door, leaning on the frame for support, since it’s probably all I’ll be getting.
“You ready?” His excited voice fades when he looks at my face. “You okay?” he asks, touching my cheek, pushing my hair out of my face.
His hand, rough and unfamiliar, makes my stomach hurt.
I nod, moving away from his hand. “Sneezing fit.” I lie, noting my watery red eyes.
He chuckles. “Dusty ass old rooms in this place,” he snorts, talking about the Washington clubhouse and the room I’m currently using.
“Must be.” I force a smile, grabbing my purse from the chair next to the door. “Ready to go?” I need out of this room and out of my head.
He smiles. So handsome. So sweet. So not King. “Whenever you are,” Tags says, taking my hand in his. He’s such a nice guy, and I don’t deserve him, especially not now.
We walk through the club and through the main room. “Daddy!” a little voice shouts, taking off toward Tags. Dallas.
My stomach hurts looking at her, looking at the love she has for her daddy, her little arms wrapped around his neck. My baby won’t have that, and it makes me ill.
“Hey, sweetheart. You bein’ good for Kiki?”
Dallas nods, her curly hair bouncing around. She’s adorable, and if my uterus wasn’t already being used as a home, it might ache for a tenant.
We have a nice dinner at an equally nice restaurant. The food is good, and so is the conversation. Tags is perfect, everything any girl would want. I don’t deserve him, but I smile and listen to him talk because at the very least, it’s what I can give him.
I’m the biggest fucking faker that ever walked this Earth.
All I can think about is King throughout dinner. I think about what he’s doing and where he is. I keep thinking about his baby growing inside of me, and how mad I am at him for leaving me, leaving us, even when I knew deep down he always would. He promised me nothing beyond what he delivered.
And then I start reminding myself of how fucking stupid I was to let the man fuck me, repeatedly, without a condom, and how goddamn naïve I was to believe him when he said he’d stay. I’m twenty-nine, I should’ve been smarter than that.
“Your food good?” Tags asks, watching me watch the condensation slide down my icy glass and pool onto the table in front of me.
“Perfect,” I answer, not looking at him, just staring at my half-eaten plate.
“You sure?” Tags isn’t a stupid man. He knows I’m not right, but he’s a nice guy and doesn’t ask. He doesn’t push, and I’m eternally grateful.
Looking up, he smiles at me. So sincere and heartfelt. “You look sexy as fuck tonight,” he smirks, looking at my low-cut tee and my ample set of tits damn near spilling out of it.
His playful smile makes me laugh, even though I feel like I’m dying inside. “Thanks.”
“But it’d look better on my floor,” he teases, which makes me laugh harder. It feels good to laugh. I want more of it. More distraction. More something.
“Take me back to your room,” I all but plead, setting my cup down and standing up from the table. Done. So done.
Tags looks shocked for all of two seconds before he’s on his feet, tossing a couple of twenties on the table and taking my hand.
“You sure?” He looks back at me, and for the millionth time tonight, I’m reminded that he isn’t King. King wouldn’t have asked, wouldn’t have stopped. King would’ve taken me home and taken whatever he wanted from my body, no questions asked. Tags is not King. No one is King, but King isn’t here and Tags is.
I settle.
“Yes. Take me back to your room.”
Tags kisses me, his lips soft and gentle. His hand is in my hair, holding my head steady. “Jesus, I missed you,” he says, backing me into the room and shutting the door behind him.
Have I missed him? Yes. I’ve missed his consistency. I’ve missed his loyalty. I’ve missed his laugh. “You missed me a lot,” I note, laughing softly when I feel the hard outline of his cock pressed against my belly.
“That was never our problem.” He grinds against me. “My dick was always into you. I was always into you.”
“I can tell.”
It’s not that sex with Tags was bad. He gave me what I wanted and what I needed, but it was never enough. Never right. Never King.
“Off,” he growls, pulling at my shirt and tossing it onto the floor at our feet.
Tags worshiped me, loved my body and appreciated it. He still does, but I wish it was enough. I wish it was more.
Staring at my chest, he pops a breast out of the bra cup, my nipple puckering at the cold air. “Jesus, sweetheart,’ he groans, sucking my ever-growing-soon-to-be-milk-filled boob into his mouth. It feels good, but also wrong. I’m pregnant with King’s baby, but almost naked in Tags’ room, his hands on my pregnant body.
Walking me backward, Tags gets me onto the bed and on my back, going for my jeans. Popping the button and undoing the zipper, he groans. “Lift,” he tells me, his voice strained, pulling my jeans down.
In nothing but my panties, I feel exposed in the worst way, like Tags can see the baby inside of me. Like he can see the lies churning in my stomach. Like he can see King’s marks all over my body.
Crawling down my body, I stop him, grabbing his arm.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
“I’m pregnant.” The words fall out of my mouth like the tears fall from my eyes. “I’m pregnant,” I repeat, choking on a sob. “And it’s King’s.”