Page 118 of Oblivion

An hour later he still isn’t back, and my cell is silent, absent of any calls or texts from him.

“Oh my god. You need to call him,” Starling explodes, the feet of her chair squealing as she twists to face me.

“I’m not calling him,” I say, crossing my arms and shaking my head.

“He doesn’t get to be pissed at you for what we did, when what he’s done is a thousand times worse,” she argues.

“Fuck him. I don’t care. I’m not going to chase him.”

“What did he do?” Bunny asks, keeping her voice low.

Until now, for the entire time that we’ve been eating lunch, I’ve shushed anyone that’s asked me what’s happened or where Evan is. “He drugged me, had a doctor remove my IUD, and then fucked me until he planted his fucking baby in me,” I shriek.

“You’re pregnant,” Clay, Hunter, January, and Bunny all say in almost comical unison.

“Yep.”

“And Evan is upset about that?” January asks carefully, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“No, he’s being a little bitch because he found out that Starling and I planned my fake engagement to give him a kick up the ass to finally show me how he felt,” I blurt airily.

“You and Drew were fake engaged?” Bunny asks slowly, her expression shocked and a little appalled.

“Fake to me, real to him. I never planned to go through with it, though,” I tell her.

“That’s cold,” Clay hisses.

“It took Evan two days to get him to dump me,” I snap. “If he loved me that much, he’d have fought to keep me and not walk away at the first shot Evan fired.”

“True,” Clay concedes. “So, where is Evan?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. He can go and fuck himself. I should be the one running, but I’m still here, even after he got me pregnant.”

“He’d never let you run from him, especially not now,” Hunter says, his eyes dropping to my stomach.

“If I wanted to run, I’d run. He’d never find me. I don’t have a tracker.”

“Yes, you do,” Sebastian says with an amused chuckle.

“No, I don’t. I know what they feel like, and I’ve checked. There’s no tracker in my neck.”

“You’re right, there isn’t a tracker in your neck. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have one.” His words are followed by a sly smirk.

“Excuse me,” I bark. “Where the hell is it then if it’s not in my neck?”

“If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you,” Sebastian says, with a shrug.

“Show me,” I demand.

“What?”

“If I have a tracker, show me it on the app.”

Pulling his cell from his pocket, he taps at the screen, then turns it around and shows me my name, next to a quickly flashing dot on the screen.

“Why is mine flashing quicker than the others?” I ask, looking at mine, then to the other labeled dots on the screen.

“You have more than one,” he confesses.

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