“Fuck! What are yo– you doing here?”
I placed the glass of wine I’d poured myself on the table.
“I’ve come to get to the bottom of this–mess.”
I stood on my feet, bringing my Glock along with me.
“Cheap wine, love. Very cheap. I’ve left a list of quality reds and whites on the notepad on your counter.”
“Wha…”
“Seeing as though this bottle and a few more are in the trash, I suggest you start talking or I start filing paperwork for full custody of the child you’re carrying. From the heaviness of that trash bag, it’s clear they’re going to suffer with basic cognitive functions.”
“Excuse me.”
“A glass of wine here and there, fine. But, we’re talking, mental delays, slobbering, physical challenges, speech impediment, helmet head, diapers until they’re fiv–”
“I get your fucking point.”
“Good then, I don’t have to further explain why I’m holding this.”
The pregnancy test rested between my fingers.
“I want you to leave my home. Right now.”
“This– uh–” I looked around her indecent pad.
The DIY project was rather grotesque. Toddler art lined the walls, yet there wasn’t a toddler in the home. Neither had she birthed one. Her scribbles told a different story from the one I’d learned over the last six hours.
“Dwelling belongs to Hershel Holdings. And, it is far from a home sweetie. It doesn’t even meet the requirements of a house.”
“I don’t give a f–”
“Lower your voice when you’re speaking to me. You’re at a ten. I need you to be at a two or I’ll be forced to put two in you… giving you something to actually scream about.”
Her face was beet red. Veins protruded from her forehead. She was unraveling. Her anger was beginning to peak. I was quiet. Observant. Waiting for the slightest movement in my direction, because she was going to be a dead ass, mad ass bitch.
“You come into my home making demands and you expect me to be calm?”
“I do.”
I shrugged, closing the gap between us. It was difficult to maneuver the living room. The brick-hard couch was far too big for the space it occupied.
“And I expect you to bring your sweaty pussy into the bathroom and piss on this stick.”
“Get out,” she demanded, pointing toward the door.
“This way, Asia.”
I nodded toward the guest bathroom.
“Or–”
I pulled the steel of my Glock, placing one in the chamber.
“You can piss yourself right the fuck here. I’m not above catching it on the stick myself.”
“I’ve had it. It’s not good enough for you to be risking your freedom for him.”
