“I don’t know…”
“Because to me she looks like that blueberry chick from Willy Wonka. Well, except she’s all red-faced and sweaty.”
“Give her a break! She’s, like, eight months pregnant by now!” I remind him.
Grabbing a pack of Twizzler’s from the shelf, Greg rips the wrapper open and goes at the red candy. “You feel guilty for doing that to her. I don’t blame you. That’s a tough row to hoe.”
“What the fuck did you just say?”
Taking another bite of his Twizzler, he goes on to tell me, “You’re right to blame yourself. I would too. I mean, for you, it was what, just one hot night of pleasure? And for her, well, nine months is a long time to have your body taken over by a parasitic alien.”
“It was more than one time,” I remark. “Usually more than once in a night.”
“Bareback more than once, huh? So you don’t even know which time it was that did the trick, sealing her fate as a single mother and yours as a lonely, creepy stalker.”
“I don’t even know for sure it’s mine,” I tell him.
“Yeah, right. Could be any number of the men who come and watch her from afar like pathetic losers for months on end.”
“I’m gonna fucking kill you for running your mouth one of these days,” I warn him, but he just keeps chewing, completely unfazed. I know a lot of stone-cold killers, but all of them would envy this odd convenience store clerk’s composure. Not for the first time, I wonder what kind of shit this dude has seen that completely deadened his nerves. With a huff, I ask him, “Why do you think she hasn’t asked me for a DNA test yet?”
“I don’t know,” he replies. “Maybe because she doesn’t want you in the baby’s life.”
When a low growl escapes me at hearing that infuriating notion, he holds up his palms, waving his Twizzler at me and says, “You asked the question, dude. Not my fault if you don’t like my answer.”
“If she wants my money, then she has to let me in their life.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want your money either,” he says. “Again, that’s just a possibility, not a judgment.”
“What woman wouldn’t want my money?” I ask.
“One who doesn’t think that putting up with you is worth it.”
“She obviously needs help!” I exclaim. “She works twelve hours a damn day in a diner and lives in a rundown hellhole!”
“Tell that to her, not me. If it were me, I would definitely carry your kid for eighteen years of cash.”
“Fuck off,” I tell him.
“Look, dude, she’s not going to be like this for much longer. Soon, she’ll pop the kid out, and her body will get hot as hell again, and then men will want her even with the screaming baby around. If you ask me, now is about the best chance you’ll have to get her back, before she has options again.”
“Do you know how many women I could have right now if I wanted them?” I tell him.
“Dozens? Hundreds? How would I know? I’ve got bad teeth and I run a gas station. I don’t have a lot of experience getting attention from women. I have to actually work for it.”
“A lot. As many as I wanted.”
“But none of them are her, right? Which is why you would rather watch her from across the street than take one of the others to bed. Sort of pathetic for you, but I’ve never been in love. Maybe this is just how it makes people act.”
“I don’t love her,” I argue with a scoff. “We were only screwing around together for a few weeks.”
“How long does it take to fall in love? Some people say it happens in seconds when it’s love at first sight. Why not a few weeks?”
“You sound like the biggest pussy on the planet,” I tell him.
“Says the man who has been pining away for his baby mama for months and hasn’t done a damn thing about it. Do your bros know how pussy whipped you are for pussy you’re not even getting inside?”
“Fuck you, Greg.”
“Hey, I got laid last night,” he says. “Be honest with me, when was the last time you bumped uglies with a woman?”
“You’re full of shit, and that’s none of your goddamn business.”
“So, in other words, Naomi was the last woman you banged eight or so months ago. How sad is your dick right now?”
“Shut up,” I tell him with a sigh. As if I actually expect my words to stop his mouth from running. Just like Naomi, Greg isn’t scared of me, and nothing I do seems to intimidate him.
“That bastard is probably ready to mutiny,” he continues. “Does it even work anymore, or did she take your balls away from you too?”
“Low blow, Greg. Low fucking blow.”
But he’s right. Naomi owns every part of me and has for months now, even though I’ve tried to move on. It’s impossible. I can’t forget her, especially since I know she’s carrying my kid. Yet, for some reason, whether it’s pride or fear, I can’t figure out how to go about getting her back.
I thought she was a distraction I didn’t need, and then I was certain she intentionally got knocked up because she’s a thief who prefers to take money rather than earn it.
Now I just feel like a giant asshole who is so twisted that I don’t know which way is up. My closest friend the past few weeks has been Gas Station Greg. He’s the only person I can talk to; I can’t even begin to explain to my boys what I’m going through.
And yeah, maybe I’m pissed at the guys because they are all free to screw whoever they want; but as soon as I sleep with a woman and feel protective of her, they think I’m going to run the entire MC into the ground. It’s not fair that I’m held to a higher standard just because I’m the president.
While the MC has always been the most important thing in the world, and that probably won’t change anytime soon, I can’t help but feel like maybe there’s room for something else in my life too.
If only I could figure out how to get it back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Naomi
* * *
This morning it took me twice as long to get ready because of the pain in my lower back. In fact, it’s so bad that I haven’t even been at work for ten minutes before I escape to the bathroom to sit down on the toilet seat in one of the stalls while I wait for the cramping to stop.
Last night, when I got home from work, I couldn’t sleep, so I put together the crib I got from a consignment shop. Guess I must have pulled a muscle in the process.
The ache does stop, temporarily, before it comes right back just as strong or maybe even worse than before.
And finally, after half an hour of the on-again, off-again pain does the realization of what’s going on finally hit me.
I think I’m in labor.
Pulling a wad of toilet paper from the roll, I sob like a baby into it because I’m not ready for this! My due date is still two weeks away. I thought I would have more time to prepare for the baby, emotionally and physically. Other than the crib and a few outfits, I haven’t even bought bottles or diapers!