Weeks ago
I stareat the pregnancy test like it’s not fucking real.
It can’t be.
I can’t be fucking pregnant. Not me.
I’m not the type of girl to have a fucking child. I’m not mom material.
But I can’t just …
My hand instinctively lowers to my belly, and some kind of warmth floods my veins that I’ve never experienced before.
What the fuck is this?
My fingers begin to twitch, and I throw the test into the sink, angry with myself that I let this happen over some stupid dick.
It’s always the dick that convinces me to do dumb shit.
And it isn’t even a guy I wanted to keep dating.
Fuck me.
I knew I should’ve taken the pill.
I grab my shit and slam the bathroom door shut behind me, and I waltz down the stairs and don’t tell anyone in Delta Nu where I’m going. I don’t want people to put their noses in my business. I need to handle this by myself.
I jump on my motorcycle and drive downtown to where I know that fucker hangs out—an old neighborhood full of dilapidated houses mostly used by the wrong crowd.
I park my bike down the road and head toward the house at the end, where Sam and his buddies are probably counting money for the coke lords. I don’t care what he does. I just know he’s into the sadistic shit just like I am, and we were a good match for a little while.
But that has to end.
At the front door, two burly men guard the place.
“I’m here to see Sam. Samuel Garcia.”
“What’s your name?” the guy asks.
“Sunny Reed,” I reply.
The other one yells through the door. “Sam. Girl’s here to see you, says her name is Sunny.”
“That’s my girlfriend, let her through.”
I immediately barge past them into the house.
Sam’s busy with the counting machine, but stops when he sees me. “What are you doing here?”
I rub my lips together. “We need to talk. In private.”
“Sure.” He scoots his chair back and walks into a room next door, so I follow him through and sit down on the bed while he shuts the door.
“I’m pregnant.”
Again, the staring.
So much staring, it bores me to death.
