Page 21 of Fateful Exposure

She stepped away, leaving me feeling oddly empty, as she clutched one hand to her heaving chest. "Shit. Um…”

Her movements were hazy and unsure, and I noticed she avoided my eyes. "No. It's fine."

I caught her arm. "No, really. Tell me if I hurt you. I didn't mean to."

She swallowed, finally lifting her gaze to me. "It's nothing really. Just that my…uh…breasts are a little sore."

I waited for more information because other than sucking or ogling them, I didn't really know much about jugs, and she was talking like I was supposed to understand her meaning.

She smacked her lips. "The pregnancy."

"Right." I heaved out a deep breath, letting her arm go. An awkward silence ensued, washing away the remains of any sexual excitement. For a second, I'd allowed myself to forget the relationship between us—if I could call it that.

Fucking hell.I was in way over my head. Having a baby with a woman I detested and who detested me in return? What was I thinking?

Ever since we'd had sex, Selma had been consistently finding new ways to fuck up my life. First, it was getting me into a few months-long commitment I couldn't get out of. Now, not only was she carrying my baby, but she had been planning to keep it from me. For how long? That baby would have grown up with my blood coursing through its veins, and I would have been none the wiser.

She didn't deserve my sympathy; she didn't deserve anything from me.

Turning around, I reached for my equipment—what I should have done from the start instead of being here making things even more complicated for myself.

"You can’t keep me away from my child,” I said. “I won't allow it. I fully intend to be a part of that child's life."

"You don't have a say." That defiant spirit of hers that I hated was back in full force as if she hadn't melted like butter against me just a few seconds ago. "I'll fight you to my last penny."

I glanced at her mockingly. "Which is just fine, seeing as you don't have many."

Anger flashed across her gaze, and her nostrils flared. "Don't you dare, Ashton."

Quickly, I threw the bag across one shoulder and started for the door. "Watch me."

nine

Ashton

"Wait a second. Let me get this right." Milo, my best buddy, held up a hand, fighting—and failing woefully—to bite back a laugh. "You had a one-night stand with a woman, who then became your boss, who then became your baby momma?"

I rolled my eyes at his theatrics, downing my glass of whiskey in one go. "It's not funny, Milo. In fact, it's actually a fucking nightmare."

He threw his head back and thundered a laugh so loud people turned around to look at us. The downtown bar in Manhattan we were currently at, Cafe Cabana, was a particular favorite of ours. I found an odd sense of solace behind its dim walls and familiar ambiance; inside these four walls, I'd made some of thebest decisions of my life. There was no soft music drifting from a background speaker. Instead, the only sounds that filled the air were the loud conversations from the older men, the clinking of beer glasses, and the uncontrollable laughter from some couple in the corner.

I loved it. It reminded me of a childhood I never had. Nostalgia for a place I'd never known.

With Milo, I stumbled upon the Cafe about four years ago. It quickly became a clandestine retreat where the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders with each step through the door.

Plus, it helped that we were unknown in this bar. It was an acceptable distance from New York. No one from the highly affluent circle we worked in would ever think of coming in here, with its decrepit exterior or chipped painting on the walls. It was for people like me, people familiar with poverty who'd segued into wealth.

I'd never been able to let go of my roots, if one could call them that. As someone who'd grown up in the system and had been tossed around from home to home every few months, finding the one place where I really felt at peace was like striking gold.

"Damn, man." Milo wiped the sides of his eyes, gasping. "You've got yourself in some deep shit."

I sighed. "Don't I know it. And the worst part is, she's so fucking infuriatingly hot. I want to strangle her half of the time and fuck her the other half."

Milo's brows raised. The only annoying thing about being friends with someone for twenty years was that most conversations between us were done using facial expressions.

"Don't give me that look,” I muttered. “I know what you're thinking."

His voice was full of teasing. "What am I thinking?"

---