Bliss Brothers (Complete Series), page 30
Holiday hasn’t even asked me to stay.
Roman’s asked me to leave.
If I’m ceding control over my life to anyone, it isn’t her.
And yet…
“Okay,” I agree. “I won’t go.”
“Not today.”
“Nope.”
“Not tonight.”
“No.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Depends.”
Holiday sits up in bed, drawing the sheet closer around her. “On what?”
I push myself into a sitting position beside her and run a hand over my hair. “On whether or not you’re still hungry.”
She drops the sheet and crawls toward me, climbing into my lap to straddle me. “I’m so hungry.”
“I never knew being hungry could be so sexual.”
“Shut up,” she tells me.
We spend the third hour in her bed, too.
7
Holiday
ONCE, when I was in college, I overheard two women on a bus talking about how hot they thought their husbands were when they were pregnant.
Driver’s not my husband.
He’ll probably never be my husband.
But from the moment we fall into bed, I’m ravenous for him.
I want to lick every inch of his skin. I want to scratch my fingernails down the ridges of his abs. I want to climb on top of him, I want to lie beneath him, I want his hands on my hips as he takes me from behind.
I want all of it, and then I want more.
Food, and then more.
The first day he stays at my uncle’s house, he makes me two separate batches of pancakes. He stays late trading stories with me. He tells me about all the places he went in college on a whim—Mt. Rushmore, Disneyland, a place in Arizona called Slide Rock. And I tell him about all the times I skipped a party to stay home—that he ends up sleeping in my bed until the early morning.
Over breakfast I tell him about sneaking out of the bar early so I could lock my dorm room door behind me and put on my sweatpants. I tell him about moving back to my parents’ house early in the summer, and how they worried about it.
I can tell from the look in his eyes that Driver’s a little worried about it, too. “You honestly would rather stay home than do anything else?”
“Most times.” I think about all the ways going out can go wrong. “I get out enough. You met me on the beach, remember?”
“What makes you walk on the beach at night?” He’s really asking me what makes me think that the beach at night is a safe prospect when going out with my friends was too much for boring ol’ me.
“Oh, it happens every so often. I have to get out. But…not that often. Not the way you feel.”
“I don’t feel like that right now,” he reassures me.
“It’s okay, you know. If you do want to leave. You don’t have to stay here on account of me.” It tastes like a lie, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why I don’t spit out the truth. There are a thousand moments when I could slip it into the conversation, but I…don’t.
The second day slips by, then the third, and I am not getting any writing done. Driver can’t possibly be getting any work done, because he hardly checks his phone. Every time I wake up at night, half delirious from sleep and sex, he’s lying there next to me, breathing evenly, the rhythm of his breath calming and soothing.
On the fourth day, I wake up early.
Too early.
It’s because I’m hungry.
The hunger hits at the oddest times, like the pre-dawn hour, and if I’m aware of it at all, I have to eat. Driver chases morning sickness away. It’s either that or my body is determined not to be mortified in front of him again until it’s absolutely necessary.
I slip out from between the sheets, pull an oversized crewneck sweatshirt over my head, and pad out into the kitchen. The housekeeper restocked yesterday. I know exactly what I want.
Eggo waffles. Two of them. Right out of the toaster.
The freezer releases a gust of cold air when I open it, and it sneaks under the sweatshirt to my naked body. It feels recklessly, ridiculously good. Driver’s hands on me are so hot—his body is so hot, and long, and lean, and muscled—that the central air can’t compete. I pop two waffles into the toaster and linger in front of the open freezer.
Today’s going to be the day.
It has to be.
He deserves to know what’s going on, and I deserve for him to know, and I swear to God I will not fall back into bed with him without telling him the truth.
I had a good reason to wait—I really did. Seeing the disappointment on his face will break my heart and shatter everything we have together. It’ll turn all of this into something serious and vulnerable, and when that happens, I’m afraid he’ll disappear into the night and never come back.
Like most of my friends did the last time I did something out of my comfort zone.
The waffles pop up, scaring the shit out of me. All of those good reasons are excuses. I can cling to the idea of home for as long as possible, but I can’t hide from this.
Part of me doesn’t want to hide from it.
Part of me is secretly excited.
I wait as long as I can stand it to take the waffles out of the toaster and bite into one. They are so good. Better than I remember, even. It could be the top-of-the-line toaster that makes them so crispy at the edges and so perfect on the inside. I tear off most of the first one with my teeth and let my head fall back in near ecstasy. If this is what having pregnancy cravings is like, then it’s going to be a rough transition to the city, where I’ll have to share the fridge with at least four other women.
If that’s how it all plays out.
I finish one waffle and take a bite out of the second, making my way back to the bedroom. I’m almost there—my hand is on the doorknob and the last of the waffle is in my mouth—when a pounding knock on the front door of the house shatters the early morning silence.
I freeze, resisting the powerful urge to duck. Nobody can see me from here. I’m all the way down the hall at the door to the master bedroom. Who’s doing this, and why?
Maybe they’ll go away if—
Another knock rattles the entire house, and I turn and sprint back down the hallway. Driver Bliss is sleeping peacefully in my bed. I do not want him to wake up to this. I should wake him up in case the person on the other side of the door has some nefarious intent.
The third round of knocking begins as I skid to a stop in the entryway.
“Holiday? I know you’re in there.”
My mouth drops open and I leap forward, taking the final steps in a single bound. It takes a few seconds to punch in the code that disables the security system on the pad next to the door, and then I wrench it open and stare into the determined face of one Sophie Maclean.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s me.”
“What are you doing here?” I lean out of the door like she’s a strange mail delivery man who’s showing up at a completely unauthorized hour. “You’re supposed to be in Portland.”
“And you’re supposed to be on the radar.”
“What?” I run a hand over my hair. “What radar?” It strikes me that I am not wearing anything under this sweatshirt.
“My radar. You can’t call me and drop a bombshell like my period is late and then disappear for days. You just can’t do that. I was worried something happened.”
“You didn’t have to drive here,” I hiss. “You could have called. Or texted.”
“I called and texted,” she insists. “You haven’t answered me in days.”
“I—” Now that I think of it, I honestly can’t remember when the last time was that I checked my phone. My parents are registered to get any emergency alerts from my uncle’s security system, and nobody else here cares what I do. “I should have checked my phone.” Where is my phone, even? I know I had it at the resort, but when Driver brought me back here…I put it on some side table and forgot about it. It’s probably been dead for as long as Sophie has been texting. “But you didn’t have to drive all the way here, and close down your business…”
“I was worried sick,” Sophie says. “I know you like being alone, but this seemed…extreme. And I know it’s not my business, and you don’t have to tell me if you really don’t want to, but I was worried that you got news that—that shook you up, and it seemed weird after our conversation that you would just fall off the face of the planet like that, so here I am. Can I come in?”
I hesitate for the barest instant. “Yes. Of course. Yes. Just…shhh.”
“Why? Is someone here?” She lowers her voice. “Is a guy here?” Sophie turns and grabs the handle of a rolling suitcase, tugging it across the threshold. I close the door quietly behind her.
“Is it the guy, Hol?”
I can’t help the blush that spreads over my cheeks.
“Oh my God,” Sophie whispers. “It’s him? The same guy?”
“The same guy,” I confirm.
“So that means…” Sophie’s eyes knit together. “I have no idea what that means. Is he here because you are, or is he here because you’re not…”
I can’t meet her eyes. It’s not that I’m ashamed of being pregnant—surprisingly, I’m not. I’m ashamed of not having told anyone yet, and I’m ashamed of being so scared of their reactions that I’ve kept it a secret for days on end. It’s nobody’s business, really, but this is going to affect things, and…
And I need to get my eyes off my bare feet and face this, starting now.
I look up into my best friend’s eyes and clear my throat. “I’ll start with the facts,” I tell her, and she leans in, her eyes wide. I have to clear my throat a second time. “I’m pregnant.”
It comes out a little too loud, my voice bouncing off the vaulted entryway ceiling ahead of us.
“Holiday,” Sophie whispers, her voice awed.
“You’re what?”
The sound of Driver’s voice is like frigid water dashed across my back. My shoulders tighten painfully. No. No. This is not how I wanted him to find out. This is not—
I turn around slowly, praying that I’m hearing things.
Driver stands at the end of the hall that leads to the bedroom, sleep-tousled and wearing only a t-shirt and boxers.
He does not look happy.
He looks pissed.
8
Driver
“DON’T GO.”
Holiday stands in the doorway of the master bedroom in the pre-dawn light, which in this house is a misty gray. Her hair is flat on one side and she’s wearing a huge crew-neck sweatshirt. Even now, I can’t help but notice that the hem falls just below the curve of her ass.
I should not be noticing.
“I have to go.”
“Driver…”
I came straight here after I heard her tell her friend she was pregnant. Straight back to the pair of shorts that holds my wallet. I’d have walked along the beach without them, but I need the wallet in case I leave town.
Right now, all I want to do is leave town.
I yank the shorts up over my boxers, my hands unsteady on the belt I left through the loops. These shorts have gone through the wash twice here already. That’s how long I stayed, like an idiot. I finally get the belt on and pat the pocket. There’s my wallet. There’s my phone. I’m ready to go.
Holiday looks small, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I don’t know what you want me to stay here for. You’re pregnant?” I’m still not fully processing the news, and I can tell that it’s trying to force its way into my brain and failing. Holiday nods. “You’re pregnant, and it’s mine.” It’s not really a question. I can read the truth on her face. How did I miss it all this time? She threw up on the beach in front of me. She narrowly missed my feet. She’s hungry all the time, sleeps in late…
These are all things I could have chalked up to a few nights out at best and a stomach bug at worst. And I did chalk it up to that. And I chalked up the intense, all-consuming attraction we’ve had for each other to…
To attraction. To all-consuming, blinding attraction.
Holiday swallows hard. “It’s yours,” she says softly.
It hits me like a punch in the gut, then another one straight across the jaw. I take it like a sucker and my mind reels backward to four weeks ago. I know I used a condom.
I don’t know if it broke.
As much as I search for the memory, I can’t find it. Both things are true in my memory. The condom was whole, the condom was broken. Anger sears across my chest. Am I mad at Trojan? Is that it?
No. I’m furious with Holiday.
I didn’t think I’d ever have the chance to be furious with her. Get the chance—no. I didn’t want to fight with her. I never wanted to fight with her. I only wanted to be subsumed by her, again and again, and it’s only now I see how foolish that was.
I let it happen, and she took full advantage of it.
“I’ve been here for four days.” My voice is so deadly sharp I don’t recognize it. “I’ve been here, in your house, and in your bedroom, for four days.”
“I wanted to tell you.”
“You didn’t, otherwise you would have told me.”
Her head snaps up, and her gray eyes laser in on mine. “Fine. I was scared to tell you. I got the nerve up a hundred times, and then…”
“And then you just didn’t say anything. You decided that was a better plan of action.”
“Yeah.” Holiday deflates, her shoulders sagging. “I thought you’d be pretty pissed.”
“You were right about that.” My heart beats too hard and too fast for me to figure out what the hell is happening in this moment. “I have to go.” I make a move toward the door, and Holiday steps farther into the room.
“I wish you wouldn’t go.”
The look on her face breaks my heart.
But so does the fact that she waited this long to say a word, and she knew. She knew. Holiday knew, and her friend knew—if not the details, then at least that something was going on. She, at least, had a chance to grapple with the possible outcomes on her way here. I had no such luxury.
The walls of the bedroom close in, and I need to be gone. I need to be moving. I can’t stay here. I can’t think like this.
“I wish you would have been honest.”
Holiday flinches. Her mouth drops open, but after a moment she closes it again and steps away from the door.
I go out the way I came in—across the back deck, looking out over Ruby Bay—and I start walking.
* * *
“HEY. ARE YOU OKAY?”
At first, the voice sounds enough like my own thoughts that I don’t register it as something separate.
“Driver. Wait.”
I’m off the beach. I’m in the middle of the road, past the gate that separates the resort property from the club property. I have no memory of coming up the stairs from the beach or crossing the resort parking lot, or even going through the gate. Halfway up the hill, I stop and turn around.
Charlie’s coming up behind me in a pair of athletic shorts and a t-shirt. He’s been out running, and he jogs up the hill toward me, coming to an easy stop that’s not reflected in the set of his jaw. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on with me?”
What’s going on is that my lips feel numb and my brain is struggling to sort through…everything. And everything keeps crashing into me like waves off the lake. It’s relentless.
Charlie puts his hands on his hips. “You came stalking across the beach like you’re thinking about committing a crime. I don’t think I’ve seen you look this angry since Beau made fun of your car.”
When I was sixteen, Beau took some lighthearted jabs at the first car I ever bought. There was enough money for us all to have new cars at sixteen, but I didn’t want my parents to choose a car. I wanted to choose it, and I wanted to own it. If I owned it outright, I figured they could never take it away from me, no matter what happened.
I unclench my teeth and arrange my face into what I hope is an easygoing expression. “I’m not angry.”
“Bullshit.” He looks over at me, the picture of patience. “Aren’t you supposed to be out on the road?”
“You know, for a smart guy, Roman’s pretty dense about his ability to order people around.”
“He can order all of us around. He’s managing this circus.”
“I don’t know where he thought I’d go. I have to set things up in advance. It’s not like I drive around and find sponsorships at truck stops.” This is not strictly true. There have been a couple of occasions where I did end up with mutual sponsorships from vendors I met at truck stops.
“Driver.”
“What?” I look toward the top of the hill like it’s Charlie who has wronged me and is now keeping me from the house.
“What is it?”
I look back at him. It’s my brother, and as fond as Charlie is of making cutting remarks about how other people are stupid and lazy, there’s genuine concern on his face.
“Is it seriously Roman you’re angry with?”
“No.” The breath goes out of me in a whoosh, and for a long moment I wonder if I’ll ever breathe again. “I…met a woman about a month ago.”
“Holiday.”
“Roman told you about her?”
“Roman mentioned you’d brought someone to the pool. That’s pretty uncommon.”
“I brought her there because we had…a pretty intense night. It was supposed to be a one-time thing.”
“And it wasn’t?”
The wind rustles through the leaves on the trees around us, and an ache forms in the pit of my gut. I need to be in my car.
“When I got back in town earlier in the week, I saw her on the beach again. She was sick.” It makes my throat tight, remembering how overcome she looked. “I thought she was just sick.”
Charlie shakes his head. “I’m not following. She wasn’t sick?”
