Page 22 of Power Games

“So, she’s really pregnant.”

“Yep,” Vanessa replied with false cheer, before punching the thing again.

Left, right, low kick, high kick, left right. She was starting to get into a nice rhythm.

"Dammit. You're the unluckiest woman in the world."

Untrue, but it certainly felt that way today.

“I guess you don’t need to break up with me after all.”

A couple of weeks had passed since the night she’d confessed to her embarrassing crush on Charles over a couple of bottles of wine. Rob had followed the whole drama with almost as much interest as Vanessa, asking for constant updates.

Charles had taken Isabella to the doctor that morning and called her in the afternoon.

"You know, I think I do," Rob said after a while. "I mean, we had a very convenient thing. It helped us both. But sweetie, I'm having sex on the side. I’ve even had three boyfriends during the two years we spent together. You...I think you're using our thing as a crutch, a way to stay out of the dating nonsense. And, well, it may be time, Nessie.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but ended up pouting instead.

"You are the bestest crutch, though."

"Of course I am."

“And you give cuddles.”

“I do. But you need more. You deserve more. We can’t have you writing those sad songs until the end of your days. You’ll end up surrounded by fifty cats.”

“I’m allergic,” she reminded him.

“Fifty hairless cats.”

She giggled.

“Besides, I already told Kaia I was hers and she’ll definitely cut you if you try to keep me.”

Vanessa snorted. “She’d try.”

Left, right, left, right, kick, kick, kick.

Damn, it had been a while, and to her surprise, kicking and punching something felt good. She needed to buy a punching bag for her place.

“You’re pretty good at this, you know. It’s not your first time,” Rob noted.

She shrugged. “Yeah, my father was pretty adamant that I should know how to take care of myself. Crazy world.”

“Smart man. All right, you're going to be all bruised up if you keep at it for much longer," Rob stated. "You need to stretch, and I need to pull some weight. Spot me while you're here, will you?"

It turned out that spotting someone was a workout in itself. By the time she returned home, she was pretty beat, and ready to crash. She considered hopping in the bath for a while, but opted to lie down under the covers instead. She was totally going to need to change her sheets in the morning given how sweaty she was.

Her muscles refused to move, but she wasn't asleep. Not yet. Vanessa turned Rob's words around in her mind. He was right. She'd hidden behind him for a long time. Since dating Rob, her mother had stopped harassing her about getting a boyfriend. Her father wasn't fond of him—he had as much respect for actors as he did for singers—but even he had accepted the relationship. Robert Delaware wasn't the worst prospect; his family had oil money down in the South. Her agent was ecstatic with the many opportunities for ads; every time Rob launched a new movie, she was shoved in the limelight without any effort on their part.

But she hadn't had anyone to kiss, touch, love.

Just as that depressing thought crossed her mind, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out to find a new text from him. Charles.

They'd started talking on a daily basis, like old friends. It had been very natural; one moment, he called to ask about politics, the next day, she sent him the screenshot of a tweet she'd seen. Some random woman had started a thread saying that "if only the men who ruled the country cared as much as that guy" accompanied with the picture of Charles, hands deep in mud, helping a small farmer pull potatoes. He texted back, and before she knew it, they were chatting about almost everything. Jacobs Enterprises, her frustrating lack of inspiration when she had another song due in a couple of months, her intention to run away and live in Alaska after a particularly nasty training session with Patricia.

She'd missed his first text, sent earlier today before his phone call, and presumably before Isabella's doctor appointment.

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