By the time I made it to the sink in my private bathroom, the vomit had already hit my esophagus. I barely made it in time.
I threw cold water on my face and rinsed my mouth with mouthwash. Back in my office, I grabbed a cold bottle of water from the mini fridge and dropped down on the plush lounge couch like I’d just survived a war. Cracking it open, I pressed the bottle to the side of my neck, letting the chill settle my nerves before taking a few slow sips.
Amber came in a few minutes later, casually eating grapes, but her eyes were locked on me like I owed her money—andanswers. She had that look. That“bitch, I know something ain't right with your ass”look.
“Either your foundation doesn’t match your neck, or you pale as hell. You sure you ain’t catching something?” she said, propping her ass on my custom Roche Bobois desk like she paid for it. “And don’t lie either—I love you, but it’s three things I ain’t sharing with your ass: French fries and germs.”
“What’s the third?” I asked, feeling sluggish as hell.
“What?” she blinked, caught off guard.
“You saidthreethings you wouldn’t share. You only listed two.”
“Oh. Dick.” She waved her hand as if it were something light. “But bitch, stop deflecting. You sick?”
“I just have a hunger headache,” I mumbled. “Didn’t eat breakfast, and now I’m late for lunch.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, squinting. “Or maybe somebody’s eating the foodforyou.”
She grinned like she knew something I hadn’t even figured out yet.
“Girl, what?” I frowned.
She pointed toward my midsection. “I’m not saying you’re fat, but that belly looks kind of plump today. You pregnant?”
I laughed—then choked on my water. “You got to be having sex to get pregnant, Amber.”
“And Mr. One-Night-Stand doesn’t count?”
“Amber, please. Gage and I happened a little over three months ago. I’m a board-certified OBGYN. Wouldn’t I know sooner than my best friend, pointing out what is obviously myabout-to-get-my-periodbelly, that I was pregnant?” I quizzed.
“Well, Ms. Board-Certified OBGYN,” she said, hands on her hips, neck rolling, “that ass looks alittle overthree months pregnant. And certified people fuck up all the time in theirprofession. I mean—who is telling these dentists to put them big ass chiclets in these celebrities’ mouths?”
We laughed in unison.
“And did you forget I am also yourpersonal assistant?” Amber continued. “The last few shopping orders ain’t have them expensive ass cotton pads you like on them.” She snapped her fingers like she solved a murder.
My laugh faded. Suddenly, I was back in April at RYZE—being rolled around the dance floor in a cart full of roses, the music—my favorite love song, his voice in my ear. Then back in Gage’s penthouse…Letting that virgin dick turn my ass every way but loose. I cooed—actually cooed—at the memory of the orgasms he gave me, lapping this pussy like a cat drinking warm milk from a saucer.
“See? Look at your hot ass, moaning justthinkingabout your baby daddy,” Amber laughed.
“Bitch, shut up. It wasonetime. One fantastic time. And I know my body. I wasn’t ovulating.”
“You knowyourbody, but you don’t know that unused super sperm that nigga had heating up in his ball sack all these years. His ass shot that club up, didn’t he?” she asked, smiling like a damn Cheshire cat.
I stared at her. She stared back.
I refused to admit Imighthave fucked up.
“When was your last period?” she asked first, breaking the silence.
“Last month. I think.” I unlocked my phone to check Aunt Rose, the period and ovulation tracker app I designed. I couldn’t wait to prove this nosy girl wrong.
“See? I had one in—” I stopped.
“March.”
Amber fell out laughing. Likefull performance.She slid off my desk and onto her knees like her body gave out.
