Page 20 of Wanted You More

Until he pushes off the door and stands to full height, saying, “Did you ever stop to think that maybe the other reason being friends with you would be so fucking hard for me is because of how immature you are sometimes?”

My eyes widen a fraction at his cool tone before he wraps a hand around the doorknob to leave. “I’m sorry. I…” Not knowing what to say, I let my words fade.

His eyes drop down to my feet, where I wiggle my toes in the warm knee-high socks I’ve got on over my leggings. “You’re a smart girl who’s got a lot of potential, Boots. Do you really want to waste it by acting this way?”

Boots.The nickname somehow softens the tension between us, but it intensifies the guilt sitting heavy in my stomach.

As he opens the door, he pauses a second before turning toward me again. “Sometimes I’m glad you act out with me because that means taking the brunt of it so your dad and mine don’t have to. But come on, Austen. You got a second chance to live. Is this honestly how you want to be spending it?”

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before walking out and closing the door behind him to leave me with that question.

CHAPTER NINE

Monty pecks mylips one last time before moving off of me and collapsing onto his back beside me in bed. He lets out a breathless laugh before swiping a hand through his sweaty hair. “Fuck, babe. I don’t know what got into you tonight, but you need to be like that more often.”

“Don’t call me that,” I grumble, sitting up and pausing when I feel the wetness between my legs. Looking down, I suck in a quiet breath. “Did you wear a condom?”

We’ve always been careful, but things happened quickly tonight. They were messy and demanding, and I never thought about what he was doing, just that I needed him to.

Monty doesn’t seem as freaked out about the situation as I am. “It’s not a big deal. Calm down and go to sleep for a little while. I’ll drive you home later.”

Shaking my head at his nonchalance, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go to the small bathroom attached to his room. Quickly cleaning myself up and trying not to freak out, I dress and walk back into his bedroom to search for my shoes.

Monty sits up and watches me. “Babe, just come back to—”

“I said don’t call me that,” I hiss at him, bending over and snatching my boots up from his dirty floor. Why do I do this to myself? There are empty soda bottles and beer cans littering the stained carpet, dirty clothes everywhere, but the hamper and food that I’m pretty sure has mold growing on it covers his dresser and nightstand.

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Christ. Fine. No need to be a bitch.”

My tongue clicks. “You do realize I’m not on the pill, right? I’ve told you that before. I know I have. Maybe instead of throwing names around like an asshole, you should come to terms with the fact you could have just knocked-up a teenager.”

His eyes widen. “Whoa. You’re overacting. It was one time. I’ve screwed plenty of girls without one and I’m not a dad.”

I’m suddenly nauseous. “Great. So not only will I need to buy a pregnancy test, but I’ll have to get screened for STDs too.”

Anger takes hold of his expression. “Fuck this, Austen. Get your shit and get out. I don’t need to deal with this tonight.”

I scoff. “I was already leaving, dick.”

“Good.”

“Fine,” I shoot back, grabbing my keys and purse after slipping my boots on. “Don’t contact me again, Monty. We’re done.”

I can hear his doubtful laugh as I walk out the door, followed by his narcissistic, “You keep telling yourself that, baby girl. But you know my number when you change your mind like you always do.”

All but growling in frustration as I slam his door shut, I stomp toward the apartment exit. The usual crowd is outside, smoking pot, drinking, and being rowdy. I ignore their catcalls and whistles as I make my way toward where I parked my car.

It’s not a dangerous area, but I’m on edge as I instantly lock the doors and turn the car on. I don’t have the money to go to the pharmacy and can’t ask anyone for money for the morning-after pill. The thought of needing to take it makes my eyes burn.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell myself, gripping the steering wheel and driving home. Something in my chest eases when I whisper, “You’ll be okay.”

***

Two and ahalf weeks later, I’m walking into the small pharmacy with Marybelle, feeling like I could hurl at any second. My best friend wraps an arm around my shoulder and says, “I have a sixth sense about this sort of thing, and I don’t think you’re pregnant.”

I told her about ending things with Monty on the drive home that night. She’d been willing to go to his apartment and kick his ass, which I was grateful for. I know she probably would have to. She’s always looking for a fight, and she never liked Monty.

Her comfort does little for me now, despite how hard she’s trying to make me feel better. “No offense, Belles, but I think I’ll believe the test more than your gut.”

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