Page 10 of Dirty Grovel

I decide to leave it off a little while longer.

Let him suffer.

“Are you ready to have an adult conversation with me now?” he grits out.

I almost give in to the urge to mimic his patronizing drawl, but that would just prove his point. “Why? You’ve already made your mind up about me, so what’s the point in talking?”

“Because there are things I need to know.” His jaw tightens, the scar tissue along his cheek pulled taut.

“Whether my baby is yours or Drew’s?”

The vein in his forehead has never been more pronounced. “For one, yes.”

“Fuck you.”

His jaw tightens. I can see every tendon in his tense hands. It’s petty, yeah, but it does help to know that I can rile him up.

“Honestly, do you have to be such a bratty little child?”

“If I’m forced to be your prisoner, I might as well have some fun.”

His eyes narrow. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” I demand, following him reluctantly.

“Oh, no. I’m not answering your questions until you answer mine.”

I roll my eyes. “Who’s being a bratty child now, Mr. Big Fucking Deal?”

The name-calling slightly undermines my point, but whatever—I’m strolling into a new country in a stupid string bikini. I’m allowed to be a little testy.

That, and I’m pregnant.

We leave the yacht on the marina, moored next to others just like it, all of them glistening bone-white in the sun. Paradise stretches before us—palm trees swaying against a cloudless sky, colorful colonial buildings in sherbet hues lining the harbor.

The contrast between this idyllic setting and my personal nightmare couldn't be starker as Oleg leads me toward a big, white Mercedes parked at the harbor's edge.

There are people everywhere—most look like tourists enjoying their vacation. It should calm me down.

But there are too many uniforms walking around, too.

Am I about to be handed over to one of them? Thrown into some foreign jail cell where no one would find me, where I'd lose all control over my pregnancy, my baby, my future?

My heartbeat pounds as I watch Oleg gesture to a couple of cops standing near the marina entrance.

He leaves me standing by the Mercedes and strolls over to them. They start a conversation that I'm too far away to hear.

I glance around, realizing how far away from home we’ve travelled. Nausea starts to fight its way back up my throat but I suppress it with a swallow and a deep breath.

Nauseous in Nassau.That’s funny.

Title of my autobiography.

I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

My eyes dart across the busy marina. The tourist district looks promising—crowds to disappear into, maybe shops where I could beg to use a phone if mine dies too soon.

I might not get another opportunity like this, with Oleg distracted and thinking I'm safely contained.

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