Page 66 of Road to Absolution

CHAPTER 15

Society and the Outsiders

DELILAH

Hearing Viola and Tucker arguing in the hallway brought me out of my deep slumber. The blue walls were now brighter, telling me it was daytime. Oh no. I’m still in Art’s room. I had slept right through the night, in another man’s bed. No wonder my brother is pissed.

Thinking about how unfair this was to Maverick, my stomach suddenly spasmed. My bladder didn’t give a shit where I was or who I was with, or why I was doing either. It had a big baby laying on it and was pissed. “Oh my God!” I was out of the bed and rushing to Art’s bathroom when his bedroom door flew open and Tucker ran in. So that he knew I was alright, I yelled, “I have to pee!” I opened the bathroom door and screamed, “Oh my God!”

Art was wet. Naked. And reaching for a towel. “I heard you scream. You okay?” He looked down at my feet and lifted a brow while smirking. “Babe, did you just piss on my floor?”

I slammed my hands over my face. “Kill me.”

Rushing up behind me, my brother yelled, “He’s fucking naked!—Ew, what’s all over the floor?”

Dropping my hands and setting my shoulders back, I turned and pushed past my brother. Walking across Art’s bedroom with wet socks, my chin was high. “Viola, can you please take me to my room now?”

“Sure thing, Puddles.”

In the hallway, almost to my room, Diesel took one look at me and screamed, “Did your water break?”

Lifting my chin higher, I followed Viola right past him, and complained, “Can’t a girl piss herself in peace? Damn.”

“Uh, sure.” The MC President was clearly not used to pregnant women in his club, nor sparing them humiliation. He hollered down the hall, “I need a Prospect to do a clean-up on aisle nine! Oh, wow. That’s a lot of pee. And in Art’s room, too!”

Mortified, I rushed into my new room and slammed the door, pressing my back to the wood. Viola was laughing so hard as I asked, “Do you think Art will take the blame?”

Laughing uncontrollably, she fell onto my bed. “Not in a million.” She rolled. “I am never getting knocked up.”

Speaking of “knocks,” one was delivered on the door at my back. I seized, then madly searched for a place to run and hide. “Uh, coming!” I answered whoever was on the other side of the door, then ran into the bathroom and slammed that door.

My ear to the door, I heard Viola trying to say Entrez Vous, but instead butchered, “Antrée vo.” She was as bad at French as her brother was at Spanish.

“Where is she?” asked Art.

Get’em, V.

“In the bathroom.”

I gawked at the door, horrified she told him.

Knock! Knock! “Babe.”

With my chafing thighs—due to wet maternity pants, I ran to the shower, stepped in it fully clothed, and shut the curtain. “I’m busy.”

The door opened.

Rude! “Hey, buster!”

The curtain slid aside. “What are you doing?”

As if this behavior was perfectly acceptable—and normal—I put one hand on a hip then my other on the tile wall and leaned into it. “Taking a shower. Why do you ask?”

“Your ass is supposed to be in bed.”

Lift chin. Look normal. “It’s-It’s, uh, dirty at the moment.”

“Scrub it. Then to bed.”