Page 2 of Jasper
Wilbert spits tobacco juice on the ground beside me. “Please tell me you are not going to get back on that thing.” His voice is rough and worried.
I glance over at him. “Look, this is my ride. If I can get her going again, I’m sure as hell gonna ride her home.” Turning back to my bike, I punch the ignition again. “Come on, damn it!”
“You are one crazy son of a bitch,” he mumbles under his breath.
I don’t even take offense because that ain’t the first time someone’s told me that. Might even be considered a compliment where I come from.
Pride and elation surge in my chest when it finally roars to life. She sounds ugly, loud, and wounded, but she started for me and that’s all that matters.
I walk my bike back up to the road and give old man Wilbert a swift jerk of my chin. “Thanks. The world needs more fuckin’ good Samaritans.”
His eyes drop down to the name patch on my chest and he responds, “Maybe it’s time to be the change you want to see, Jasper?”
When he turns and gets into an RV with out-of-state tags, I climb on my bike, turning his words over in my mind.
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel a spike of pain in my leg and feel bone tired as I head back to the clubhouse going nowhere near the speed limit. I’m bleeding, furious about the incursion into our territory and already thinking of the coming war with the Hyenas.
Chapter 2
Tessa
Being in the waiting room at the fertility clinic feels like being under a magnifying glass. I’m a surrogate for a wealthy couple who have very firm ideas on how they want the pregnancy to happen. We’re all here today to see if the first round of IVF was successful. An awkward silence has spun out between the three of us. We have the first appointment of the day, so we’ve got the waiting room to ourselves.
It’s too early to be awake for a girl like me who enjoys sleeping in. The scent of coffee is making my mouth water. Caffeine is one of the things I agreed to give up during the full term of the pregnancy, so I haven’t had any in the last thirty days or so. I’d almost gotten over the craving, until I caught a whiff of the delicious brew just now.
Although I’m sitting two chairs away from Mrs. Whitmore, she’s close enough to be overbearing. She’s leaning forward with her legs crossed so tightly that I’m not sure how the blood’s still circulating. She has her phone clutched in one manicured hand, scrolling through lists of I don’t even know what.
Her husband, Mr. Whitmore, sits directly across from me, taking turns between looking down at his hands and sneaking glances at me. I don’t care for the way he looks at me. I wouldn’t say he’s creepy but he’s definitely a bit odd.
“I just want to reiterate,” Mrs. Whitmore says, breaking the silence with that brittle, overly polite tone I’ve come to dread, “that the prenatal vitamin schedule I sent over is non-negotiable. You may experience some mild nausea at first, but studies show it’s worth it for the neural development benefits.”
I nod, even though I’ve read the email. All seven pages of it. “Of course,” I say. “We both want what’s best for your child.”
She rewards my compliance with a pinched smile. “Good. I’m glad we both agree.”
My fingers tighten around the strap of my purse. My back is straight, my knees together and my spine is stiff. There’s something so uncomfortable about the whole situation. When I agreed to be a surrogate I was just thinking about the baby and the end result. I hadn’t realized my entire life would be under such rigid control. But I guess I understand where they’re coming from, this baby is precious to them.
And I desperately need the money, so I’ll do whatever’s needed.
“I’ve arranged for groceries to be delivered to your house this afternoon,” she says. “Everything pre-approved by the nutritionist. All organic and local. I included some bone broth. I know it’s not everyone’s favorite, but it really does help with uterine lining support.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, already calculating how I’ll freeze what I can’t stomach and take the rest to my gran when I visit her at the facility.
“And we’ve picked an OB/GYN,” she continues. “Dr. Krauss at Monarch Medical. She specializes in surrogacy pregnancies and has a reputation for providing quality care. You’ll be transferring to her immediately.”
That takes me a second to process her abrupt words. “Oh, I thought the clinic had someone on staff.”
“We don’t want to rely on in-house staff for anything more than implantation and confirmation,” she says. “Monarch is private, discrete, and has on-call access.”
It’s not really a suggestion. It’s a done deal. My stomach knots, because I’m getting virtually no say so in anything and it’s my body. But I nod politely. “Right. Of course.”
She doesn’t hear my discomfort. I don’t think she cares about me at all. I’m just a rented uterus. I remind myself, once again that this isn’t personal. This is a transaction. A service that is supposed to be undertaken for the purpose of helping a childless couple create the family of their dreams. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to be a surrogate. But I also needed to do it for the money. For my gran. That’s the biggest reason I’m here.
Gran’s medical bills are stacked to the ceiling. Her insurance covers most but not all of what she needs. The experimental treatments she’s a candidate for are wildly expensive and booked out six months in advance. The specialist in San Diego says she needs scans, tests, and daily meds just to give her a fighting chance. And I’m all she’s got. So, I signed the contract, passed the psych eval and nodded through the information sessions. I agreed to let a stranger’s embryo be placed in my body in the hopes it would stick.
“Did you receive the update from the meditation app I sent?” Mrs. Whitmore asks suddenly.
I blink, squinting my eyes as I try to remember. “I… think so?”
