CHAPTER 15

 

 

London

 

 

 

The doctor’s office is crowded, which doesn’t really surprise me. Dr. Jackson is working me in as a favor to my father—not that I asked for any special treatment. I never do, but the doctor’s office must have a note on my account. Something like: Hugh Kennedy’s daughter! Handle with care! I hate that, but Dr. Jackson is my mother’s gynecologist, too, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

It took me four days to get this pseudo-appointment. Four days since Knox and I have slept together. After his somewhat aborted massage and the sex that followed, he refused to do it again.

Him and his bloody rules.

I can’t help smiling as I think back to the things he did to my body after he said what he did. Dammit, English, I really wanna fuck you! How do you say no to a plea like that?

I didn’t. Couldn’t. And thank God for that, I think now. The man’s got a strength of will that’s hard to believe, and he was a little bitter that I made him break his own rules. His words, not mine, and my smile grows.

Like anybody can make Knox Gallagher do anything he doesn’t want to do, or convince him not to do what he wants to.

But good Lord, the things he can do. With his mouth, his tongue…his cock. My nipples tighten and I feel a familiar twinge in my core. Dammit, but he’s going to bloody well pay for making me wait like this!

And how the hell does he manage to always get the upper hand?

“Ms. Kennedy?”

The nurse calls my name, and I take a breath. It’s just as well. I need to stop thinking about that cocky rock god before my blood pressure goes through the roof.

I follow Gloria, Dr. Jackson’s nurse, into the back. We go through the usual pre-exam stuff: weight, blood pressure, questions about my last period, and my reasons for the visit. I’m soon alone in the exam room again, waiting for the doctor, and glad a pelvic isn’t scheduled this time.

I hate those things.

I’m flipping through a year-old People magazine when Dr. Jackson arrives. She’s a tiny woman with one of those faces where you can’t tell if she’s 50 or 70 years old. Her graying hair is pulled back in an old-fashioned French roll, and her jewelry—costume necklaces and bracelets—must weigh as much as she does.

“London.” She smiles in her typical no-nonsense way and flips open my chart. A paper chart, not an electronic device like the nurse used. It doesn’t surprise me that Dr. Jackson is fighting the transition to digital records. She’s unique, headstrong, and unconventional.

I’d have her as my doctor even if my mom didn’t. Maybe even especially then.

“Hello, Dr. Jackson.”

“I wondered when I’d see you again.”

“You’ll never get rid of me.” I smile, thinking about the truth behind that statement.

“I meant because you’re late.”

“Excuse me?” I blink uncertainly. “I’m about a week early for my quarterly appointment, I think, but I’m leaving tomorrow for the rest of the summer.”

She takes a seat and glares at me. I’m used to her fierce expressions; she’s that way about most things in life, I think. This time, I’m sitting on the exam table, she’s in a chair that puts her at least a foot shorter than me, and I’m intimidated as hell.

“Dr. Jackson?”

“If you’re talking about your birth control shot, my girl, you’re late.”

“I’m sorry?” My brows draw down, and my eyes have narrowed. I know it, feel it, but my thoughts are stuck on the last thing she said.

If you’re talking about your birth control shot, my girl, you’re late.

“I’m late?”

“Almost five weeks,” she says with a firm nod and glances back at my chart. “Yes.” She nods. “You were due here almost five weeks ago for your shot.”

“Five weeks!”

She nods again, more decisively this time, and gives me a look that is equal parts chastising and irritated. “This is only your third shot, London. If you want this to be an effective method of birth control, you have to get your shots regularly. We talked about this! You can’t be five weeks late like this and expect it to be one-hundred-percent effective.”

“But…I can’t be five weeks late.” My voice too soft, but I can’t manage anything more.

How the bloody hell could I be so wrong on the date?

“London?” Dr. Jackson snaps. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I…I’m trying to understand. I got my last shot a couple of weeks after I got back from spring break, when I went to England. That should put me right on time.”

She frowns and glances at my file again. “According to your chart, you were leaving in a few days. I made detailed notes of our discussion, because it was only your second shot.” She jabs a finger at the paper and reads, “‘Patient reports no problems with first shot. Requests second dose early, because she leaves for spring break in ten days.’ Does that sound right?”

I stare at her in horror and try to ignore the sudden heavy pounding of my heart. “I got it early?” The words sound ragged. “But…no. I’m sure I came in when I got home.”

Dr. Jackson doesn’t exactly look impatient, but she doesn’t look happy, either. She taps her finger on the file. “Not according to my records.”

“Five weeks.”

I can’t stop saying it. I know what it means. I read the literature. In the first year, the shot can lose its effectiveness quickly if you don’t stick with the schedule. I’m responsible. Dependable. Trustworthy. Staying on a simple routine of doctor’s appointments was going to be so easy.

So why wasn’t it?

How did I get it confused?

And why am I so freaked out? But I know.

It’ll be okay, I told Knox that first night. And then I asked, Does it help if I tell you I’m on birth control?

A voice of reason speaks up to calm my racing nerves. Don’t get carried away. Even if you’re late getting the shot, it doesn’t mean you’re automatically pregnant. I mean, it was only a couple of times.

Oh, no? demands a hysterical reply. What are the chances that my girls would tell Knox’s swimmers no?

“I see you requested a full range of STD testing.” Dr. Jackson interrupts my rollercoastering thoughts, and I reach for composure with a couple of slow, deep breaths. “Can I take that to mean you’ve had unprotected sex?”

“Uhm…yes.”

“Recently?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“The first time? Uhm…” I count back, but it’s all a blur. “Eight or nine days ago.”

“Eight or nine days.” She nods, staring, and finally takes a deep breath before she stands. “All right. Well, we might get something. We’ll do a blood test, and, since you’re leaving tomorrow, I’ll call in some favors to get the response immediately. We’ll do the same with your STD results.”

“The same? You mean…there’s something more?” I know the answer, but I’m determined to pretend it isn’t possible.

“A pregnancy test.”

It’ll be okay. Does it help if I tell you I’m on birth control?

I reassured him. Knox trusted me, and I made him feel better about skipping the condom. Me, too. At the time. But now I’m sitting here with Dr. Jackson’s words rattling through my head.

You can’t be five weeks late like this and expect it to be one-hundred-percent effective.

I know, I know, I know. I did my research. Paid attention. Made an informed decision. And now…

Holy fucking Christ!

“I’ll call the lab,” Dr. Jackson says as she walks to the door. “I’ll have Gloria escort you.”

“When will I have the results?”

“A couple of hours.”

“That soon?”

She turns back to me, and for the first time, I see a flicker of sympathy in her expression. “I told you. I’ll call in a few favors.” She almost smiles. “Good thing we’re in L.A. and I have connections, because they’re big favors.” She angles her head in my direction. “I think you need them.”

 



 

I sit in the waiting room of Dr. Jackson’s office, anxious and totally unable to calm my racing thoughts. It’s been—I look at my phone—over two hours since I returned from the lab, and I’ve been lingering here in a constant state of anxiety. Dr. Jackson recommended I go do something—shopping, she suggested, or maybe get something to drink—but I can’t leave.

Not before I know the truth.

I’ve never been this close to a pregnancy scare before. I’m always meticulous about these things, just like Knox claims he is. Something about the two of us together sent us off on totally uncharted territory. Neither of us could think about anything but the other, apparently, and now I can’t think at all. I can’t function, can only pretend to look at my phone and scroll through the pages, switch apps, and pretty much stare blankly at the changing screen.

What if I’m pregnant?

I can’t be pregnant!

It was only a couple of times.

Five weeks late.

You can’t be…late…and expect it to be one hundred percent effective.

And then, when those thoughts lose steam, there are others eager to take their place. Ones that make me feel even worse.

The band, talking about Knox’s old girlfriend. Claimed she was pregnant with his kid, they said, but he never caved. And how did it resolve? Admitted she was lying. Said a bunch of nasty shit.

Yeah, that ought to make him trust me. Give him an interest in the possibility of fatherhood.

And what was it that he said? Welcome to life in the Gallagher family. A stepfather who hits on his stepdaughter, and a sperm donor who’s only after the money. Who the fuck knows what I’ll turn out to be like?

I know damn well he doesn’t plan to find out. At least not now, and not with me.

My stomach clenches and my breathing stumbles. I try to talk myself calm again.

Just stop! You don’t even know if you’re pregnant. The possibilities have to be slim, right? It was only a couple of times. And what are the chances you were ovulating when you slept with him?

Yes, ovulating. The internet is a wealth of information. Some good and some bad, as I’ve learned very well. It’s the one thing I could concentrate on while I’ve been sitting here, and I did a little digging. I now know that, even this early, a Quantitative hCG blood test can tell if I’m pregnant. Some hormone will tell the tale right away.

Thank, God, because I need to know!

Dear God, how did things come to this? And what a stupid question, because I was right there for all of it! Things didn’t happen to me; I was a willing participant in every bit of it!

I take another deep breath and shift in my seat as I look around the room. It’s remained pretty full as other patients have come and gone. No one pays any attention to me, which means I must be handling my shit pretty well. Right?

At least on the outside.

Good thing they can’t see the hurricane going on inside of me. Withstanding it is taking everything I have—and I can’t get away from it.

What is wrong with me?

The questions start a new rotation, but I shut them down as much as I can. I open up the app I use for my notes. It isn’t the first time I’ve done it this afternoon, but this time I try to concentrate with a new resolve and review all we’ve accomplished in the last few days. Ajia made his statement to the press, and while it didn’t really answer any questions, the media is now focused on trying to figure out exactly what he was and wasn’t saying. I’ve rewritten the band members’ bios, and they’re reviewing them now. I’ve put together their individual pages for the website, and we’ll go live as soon as the new bios are ready. Next will be to freshen their Facebook pages, give them each some individual personality, and create Instagram accounts for Zayne and Rye.

There will be other things, other sites and new content, but I started where I thought the guys could do the most good. Become more personal. Make changes that would be quick and obvious. Start to interact with their fans in a way that seems almost intimate and doesn’t involve any face-to-face contact.

Or fucking.

I frown.

Fucking. I close my eyes and swallow a ragged sigh. Fucking leads to pregnancy. Pregnancy leads to babies and…

Oh, God, I can’t be pregnant!

I don’t know how much more time has passed since the last time I checked out the waiting room’s clock, and I refuse to look now. Maybe or twenty or thirty minutes. An hour? It doesn’t matter. I’m dying for the results…and just as contented, anxious even, to sit here and wait. Numb in my uncertainty.

Just a little longer…

“Ms. Kennedy?”

Gloria calls my name, and I stand. My hands are shaking, alarmingly so, and for a minute I think I’m going to pass out.

Don’t be so dramatic! I tell myself. You don’t know anything yet.

I follow her back into a different exam room. Her face is…well, blank. Not happy, unhappy, encouraging, or horrified. Just purely professional, an expression I’m used to seeing from her.

It shouldn’t piss me off now, but it does.

“Have a seat.” She gestures toward the patient table. “Dr. Jackson will be right with you.”

I nod and climb up, reminding myself to never play bloody goddamn poker with Gloria.

I wait another ten minutes or so, and then Dr. Jackson finally walks in. She can’t play in my poker tournament, either, I decide almost immediately, and with supreme annoyance, because her expression is that same serious and yet ferocious look she always wears.

“Well?” I can’t help myself.

She pulls a piece of paper out of my file and hands it over. “Clean. No STDs.”

I clutch the single page, wrinkling it, but I don’t care. I was certain before I ever stepped foot inside the waiting room this morning that I’d be clean. I knew it about myself; I hadn’t slept with anyone except that wanker Colin in months. More than that, I’d never doubted Knox’s claim that he was clean, too. He is a man too much in control for it to be otherwise.

His test results, received back yesterday, had proved it.

But we’re just circling the thousand-pound elephant squatting in the middle of the room. We both know it, and I stare at the paper file in Dr. Jackson’s hands. Neither of us move.

“And the rest of it?”

She doesn’t open the manilla folder. She simply waits until I drag my gaze up to meet hers.

“Pregnant.”