Page 50 of City of Wind and Lies

Hearing light taps against the glass, I swivel around in the large office chair to look out the windows. It's just starting to rain. I watch as the first few drops fall, denting the glassy surface of Lake Michigan and sending ripples across the water. Turning back toward the desk, I curl my fingers around the warm ceramic mug resting upon the surface and lift it to my lips, blowing on the hot tea before taking a sip. The strong smell of peppermint seems to be working well to quell my morning sickness these last few days.

The rain grows heavier, pelting against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Bowie's home office like nature's own metronome as I swivel back to face them. The steady beat traps my attention, and the way the rain slices through the air at an angle mesmerizes me. I've always loved rainstorms- the way the sky darkens, the clouds open up, and the wind whips things around. It's therapeutic in a sense, like a gentle reminder that there's beauty in chaos.

The ping of my phone breaks the trance I’m in and I turn back around to the glass desk, placing my mug down and reading the message on the screen.

Bowie

I'll be home around two. Dr. Marino will be by around three. Is there anything I can bring you?

I think it over for a minute, picking up the brand-new phone Bowie gave me last week and drumming my fingers against the back of it. The phone is a safety precaution, supposedly untraceable, and it has a new number that isn't on my employee file at work. I still hadn’t updated my address after Trey showed up- how else would Allen know where to look for me? The fact that he’s still out there somewhere doesn’t sit well with me, but Bowie assures me he’s handling it, and I trust that he will. I hope Allen finds his way to Cook County and drops the soap.

My eyes dart over to the plate of half-eaten peanut butter toast sitting on the desk. Usually when he asks if I need anything, I'm begging him to stop off for a sugary pastry of some sort, but today I don't have much of an appetite. I type out my response and set the phone down, shifting my attention back to the online training course for work on my screen.

It's been a little over a week since Allen attacked me, and I've been working from home- er, Bowie's- since. With as busted up as my face looked, we both agreed that it was better this way. If I'd shown up at the office all black and blue, I'd have been met with a barrage of questions, and the last thing I want is to keep telling that story. So as far as my department and Cami know, I'm in Cleveland for two weeks for management training.

Bowie said his men- still not clear what that means- were looking for Allen, and once they found him, he’d feel safer letting me come and go as I please. For now, I’ll have to stay here… which isn’t exactly a punishment.

Is it a tad annoying to be confined to this house? Yes.

Does it make it better that it's my boyfriend's fancy penthouse? Also yes.

I kinda like the possessive and protective thing. Not to open that little box of feelings again, but goddamn this is what I've always wanted. To be wanted by someone else, to be viewed as something worth losing, someone cared for. It's not like I'm actually being held here against my will. We talked it out until it all made sense and brought Bowie some peace of mind. It's his baby I'm carrying, after all, and the appointment this afternoon will prove it.

Some women might be offended by the paternity test thing, but for fucks sake, we were strangers the first time we hooked up, and with the kind of money that Bowie has, he’s got a right to want to know for sure. I have no doubt it's his, and he hasn't treated me like it isn't. In fact, he's treating me like a queen.

Shifting in my seat, I rub my thighs together to try to dull the ache that's started to throb between them. It seems to start up every time I think about Bowie. He doesn't just treat me well, he takes care of my needs, physically and sexually. I was a little shocked to wake up to his dick in my mouth, but fuck, I was even more shocked to realize what a turn-on it was for me. The man wanted me so badly that he couldn't even wait until I was awake.

I breeze through the next section of the online course on navigating difficult decisions and difficult people. My life has been filled with difficult people and having to use my best judgment to make decisions. Okay, so I may not be the best at making good decisions in my personal life, but professionally, I’m a pro. The people are the hard part. I’m not unfriendly, but that flare of temper won’t do well to win over my direct reports. Glancing at the clock in the corner of the screen, I see it’s almost noon. I’m still not hungry, but my eyes could use a break.

I push back from the desk, grabbing my mug and the plate of toast, and pad off down the hall to the kitchen. Setting the cup on the counter, I step on the trash can pedal to pop the lid open and tilt the plate to dispose of the toast. Just as I’m adding the plate to the dishwasher, my bladder screams in need, and I start to jog towards the hall bathroom to pee for what feels like the hundredth time today.

Maybe I should just bring my laptop in here, save me some time.

While I’m washing my hands, I catch sight of my face. The swelling has completely gone, and while there’s still a little bloody spot in the corner of my left eye, the bruises themselves are mostly faded. A faint smear of a pale yellow and brown remains under my eyes, but it can easily be masked with concealer. Even though it was my face that was hurt, I didn’t miss how pain flashed in Bowie’s eyes every time he looked at me after the attack. He hasn’t said it, but I know he blames himself. Though really, who would have suspected Allen of being anything more than a first-rate creep?

I finish washing and drying my hands and head back into the kitchen, debating on whether I want another cup of tea or just a glass of water. Deciding I want something warm, I fill the stainless steel kettle with water and place it on the front burner, turning the heat to high.

Leaning back against the counter, I look down at my flat stomach. “I’m doing this for you, y’know. I don’t even like tea that much.”

Being pregnant is a cool idea. Growing a whole fucking human inside of you? That’s wild. But I wasn’t emotionally ready to give up coffee cold turkey. The doctors said I could have small amounts of caffeine, but only having a small cup instead of my normal few would be like edging, and no one enjoys that. I start to hear the water bubbling, so I twist around, lift the lid of the glass jar, and pluck a tea bag out.

The peppermint tea was actually Rocco’s idea. I guess when his mom is sick, she swears by it. I was so tired of retching or puking at the most random things that I was willing to try anything, and once Bowie saw it helped, the man went out and bought a dozen boxes. It’s the little things like that, or the way he insists on washing my hair every time we shower together, that make my heart stutter in my chest.

I unwind the tea bag, stringing the tab over the rim of the mug just as the kettle starts to whistle. Killing the heat, I lift it from the stove and carefully pour the water in until the cup’s filled and place the kettle on the back burner. I really should thank Rocco the next time he’s around. He lives on this level too with his wife, but I’ve yet to meet her. I’d like to meet more of Bowie’s family, actually.

Does that make me sound like a crazy-obsessed girlfriend?

I just see the way Rocco and Bowie interact and I want to know so much more about my baby daddy. Their relationship reminds me a lot of me and Drea, except they’re actually related.

I get a little pang of sadness as I curl up on the chaise end of the couch nearest the windows. Seeing families interact always lifts the edges of the perpetual scab on my heart.

Cupping the mug, I stare out the windows, the rain coming down in sheets as I get lost in my thoughts. I let myself think about what it’d be like to tell my mom that I’m pregnant. Would she be happy at the news, or disappointed that I wasn’t married first? I watch my reflection in the wall of glass, slowly sipping the tea, and it unlocks a core memory.

When I was eleven or twelve, I played this stupid little game where I’d sit in front of a mirror and tell myself the exciting things that happened at school or the things that made me sad, and then I’d pretend to be my parents. I pictured them as two loving and important business people who traveled for work all the time and this was our routine video chats. I’d tell myself how proud I was of me or that the kid who tripped me in the hall was just seeking attention- all regurgitated statements from the evening sitcoms the Bradley family I was living with was into. I did that almost nightly until one of their real kids, Joey, barged into my room and started making fun of me. I punched him in the face and he went crying to his parents. I was back at the group home the next day.

After I lean forward and set the empty mug on the coffee table, I snuggle into the corner of the couch, watching the rivulets of water trail down the window and rest a hand on my stomach. “I promise to never leave you wondering where you came from.”

The heady scent of woodsy spice floods my nostrils on an inhale before Bowie’s voice registers in my ears. I swear my sense of smell is fucking supercharged lately.

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