Page 56 of End Game
Replaying the statement, it makes no more sense than it did the first time.
She looks at me like she’s watching a man learn his fate after being tried for the most heinous of crimes. It’s a mixture of fear at the reaction, but also an acute curiosity.
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“The baby is yours, Branch.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I scoff, my chair going sailing back and smashing against the glass. “The baby is mine? Your baby is mine? No way.”
“I’m pregnant and the only person I’ve slept with is you.”
I laugh because that’s all I can do short of exploding everything within reach.
This has to be some kind of sick joke or game or attempt to piss me off for not calling her. That’s happened before, but not to this extent. Still, it’s possible.
“Layla, really,” I say, taking a deep breath and trying to calm down. “If you’re pregnant—congratulations, but the baby cannot be mine.”
“I know it’s hard to believe?—”
“Hard to believe? You know what’s hard to believe? That it’syoupulling this shit. I’ve had a lot of things pinned on me, but, believe it or not, never a kid. I never dreamed it would be you.”
The sky looks so dark, so foreboding as I look into it, wondering how the fuck I got here. How did I give this woman enough of a comfort level around me to claim she’s pregnant?
As her chair goes skidding against the rails, clamoring as it falls to the tile, I know—this is how it happened. She has that thing about her that’s just relatable enough to think she’s not like the rest of them. That she sees more than dollar bills and contract numbers. I believed that, and that is what is killing me most right now—I trusted her even when I knew better.
Her golden eyes dance with rage. “You think I’m making this up?”
“I don’t doubt you’re pregnant, but I have serious doubts it’s mine. I used a rubber,” I point out, thanking God for that little tidbit. “You’re on the pill. Explain to me how the universe pulled off me knocking you up under those circumstances. Hell, if it’s even a possibility, do you know how many kids I could have running around out there?”
“I have no idea how many potential offspring you have, Branch, and the fact that I know so little about you worries me too.”
“Didn’t worry you when you were coming all over my cock.”
“And it didn’t worry you when you stuck said cock in my vagina and told me how tight I felt wrapped around you before you went and got a condom,” she says flatly.
“Ohhh. That’s where you’re saying this happened. In that span of ten seconds I was in you raw?”
She glares at me. “I’m not saying I know when it happened. I’m just saying I know it did.”
“This is fucking bullshit.”
“You know what’s fucking bullshit?” Her arms drop to her sides as her tone starts to shift. “That I decided to tell you this because it was the right thing to do, and I almost had myself convinced that we could figure a way to work it out. You know, as I’ve been sitting around trying not to vomit, crying myself to sleep over not knowing what’s going to happen, and how I’m going to handle it all and how you’re going to handle it all and what’s the best way to tell you and to . . .” She sucks in a breath, her cheeks as flamed as her dress. “Forget I said it. I wish I hadn’t.”
“Forget you said it?” I laugh angrily. “You just said I knocked you up.”
“And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? You knocked me up. We fucked and now this. That sounds so pretty, doesn’t it?” Her features sour. “You think I’m any happier about this than you are? You think I wanted to have a baby byyou?”
Those words sear into my psyche, the emphasis powering into me. I may as well have taken a hit from the best lineman in the league because my stomach has been walloped hard.
By me? What’s that supposed to mean?
“You know what? You can do whatever you want with this information,” she says, walking a wide loop around me. “You have my word I’m not saying anything to anyone and I never will. If you don’t want to claim this kid, I’ll put on the birth certificate that I’m a whore and don’t know whose kid it is.”
“Layla . . .”
She shoots me the dirtiest look I’ve ever had someone give me. “If you want to see the baby after it’s born, I’d never keep it from you.Ihave a bit of class,” she glares, grabbing the door handle. “After a paternity test,of course.”
With the chilliest final glance she can muster, she yanks open the lever and walks out, leaving me standing in the warm summer night feeling as though I just stepped onto an iceberg.
