A week goes by, and Mac and I haven’t said so much as a word to each other. Just silent stares, and glares from across the room. We take turns coming into the main room, and then retreating back to our bedrooms. I’m seven months pregnant today, I wish I knew if it was a boy or girl. On the dresser I tap the horns of the dragon Gatz gave me. I’m so ready to give it to the baby.

Heading into the main room, I sit on the couch and turn the TV on. There’s an ER program on, and someone pregnant is in distress. She’s crying and weeping for the baby’s care, and I can’t help but tear up. Fucking hormones.

The other day a woman dropped an egg on a cooking show and I cried for her. She would have won that competition if she didn’t drop that egg.

Mac’s bedroom door opens, and he struts out wearing a low-slung pair of jeans, and nothing else. His strong chest displays the slightest bit of hair, and hard nipples. Stopping, he scratches his chest, eyeballing the TV.

“What the hell are you watching?” he asks with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

“It’s the miracle of life.” Gesturing my hand toward the TV, just as the woman’s water breaks all over her and two nurses.

Mac sits down on the edge of the couch, smoke swirling around me.

He glances at the TV, and then me.

“Are you crying?”

I wipe my cheeks, they’re wet. Fuck, I swear my crying has no bounds. “No,” I snap, snatching the cigarette from his lips and plopping it in an empty beer bottle on the coffee table.

His brows furrow inward, his jaw ticking.

“Second-hand smoke?” I point to my belly. “It’s very dangerous for the baby.”

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. Collapsing fully into the couch, he throws his arm on the back of it and looks at the TV focusing on the woman giving birth.

The woman screams, and they show a vaginal shot. I can’t help but wince, that’s just scary.

“That’s fucking terrifying! How does a chick come back from that?” He leans forward clutching the remote and turning the channel to Mad Max. I’ve seen it before, and like it but I was in the middle of that show!

“Hey!” I try and grab the remote, but he shoves it down his pants like a child.

“Come and get it, Pocahontas.” His hand slung across the back of the couch, a smug smile on his handsome face I don’t know whether to take him seriously or hit him in the head with the ashtray again. Games. It’s all games.

“Oh, don’t get all pissy with me, Pocahontas,” he laughs. Standing, I’m pissed he keeps calling me a fucking princess.

Grabbing the beer bottle from the coffee table, I tilt it slowly and spill it on his crotch. The smell of ash and stale beer filling the air. He jumps up, droplets of liquid staining the floor.

“Fucking hell!” He quickly brushes the stale beer off his jeans before furiously glaring at me.

I turn, trying my hardest to waddle to my room, but of course he’s faster than me. He grabs me by the wrist and halts me in my attempt to escape.

“If you wanted me to take my jeans off, you could have just asked, not fucking douse them in piss warm beer.”

“Would you prefer cold beer? Not that your dick could get any smaller.” I look down at the outline of his cock. It’s not lacking in size, but I’m not about to feed his ego.

He shakes his head, a smile hidden under his grimace. I almost think he likes to hate me.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Simone.”

“This is the only game I know how to play.” A sinister smile crosses my face. Leaning in, invading my space, I suck in a tight breath. I haven’t had a man this close to me in months.

“Then let’s play. I play John Smith, and you’re my Pocahontas.” His teeth nip my ear, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “Where I fuck the respect into you and the defiant little bitch out.”

“You have no idea how much bitch I have inside of me,” I fire back, my tone of voice huskier than I want to let on.

“Is that right?” Amusement thick in his voice.

“Let’s just say, I have your name on my list in bright red marker,” I threaten. He quiets, taking a step back. He flicks his chin with his thumb, his forest eyes burning with intrigued interest rather than anger.

“You know, I’d almost believe you were a bad ass if you didn’t have such sadness swimming in your eyes, Princess.” I swallow hard, his words hitting home.

“I’m- I’m not sad.” I shrug. Am I?

“You don’t sound so sure.” His hair falls into his face when he tilts his head to the side.

Opening my mouth to defend myself, nothing comes out. My empty chest feels cold and I suddenly feel sad. As if I’ve been suppressing how I really feel for a long time.

Looking at the floor, my hand twirls a piece of hair next to my face. I’ve been sad, I’ve mourned but I’ve never really moved forward from being forlorn.

He did it, Mac broke my exterior shell and I suddenly feel exposed. I roll my eyes, and turn my back, sauntering back to my room. This conversation is over.