“Do you not like the drink, miss?” the bartender asked while staring at me. A group of men were in the corner, arms crossed over their chests and glaring at me. The club was called Dark Knight and for a Saturday night, there was no one here. They got new management and were desperately trying to save their establishment. I wasn't the only blogger or influencer here to enjoy a free drink on the failing business. I could tell that they were hoping to get more buzz, but by the looks of my drink, they needed to stop wasting money on influencers and hire a better bartender.
“What is this called again?” I asked. It was a sad day when I couldn't even tell what they were trying to accomplish. I lifted the glass up to my nose and took a sniff. Oh God. My stomach revolted. Bourbon.
Normally, I loved whiskey, but this smelled too potent. I felt like I was going to puke.
“It's a Smoked and Salted, miss. Two ounces of Four Roses Bourbon. Twenty-five ounces of maple syrup, slightly thinned out with hot water. Five dashes of Crude Smoke & Salt Bitters. It's our most requested cocktail.”
I took another sniff and gagged. The men in the corner fumed. The maple syrup was sickly sweet. There was no way in hell I could drink this. I looked up at the bartender, who was pleading me with his frantic gaze to take a sip. I felt bad for the guy, but this sounded terrible right now. “Right,” I replied. “I'll try it.”
I lifted the drink up to my lips and took a small sip. The taste on my tongue made me shiver in disgust. It was awful. Absolutely awful. Nausea swirled in my gut and I couldn't hold back the rising vomit. Within minutes I was puking on the bartender, my sludgy lunch leftovers projected over the bar top and onto the poor man. Once it was out of my body, I clasped my sticky mouth with my hand and hopped off the stool. I felt dizzy and tired and so fucking embarrassed. What the hell was wrong with me? This was so not professional.
The bartender gagged and wiped at his shirt with his wet rag. I looked up to see some of the club owners marching my way. Yeah. This was bad for business. I grabbed my clutch and made a beeline for the door. Shit. Shit, shit, shit!
Outside, the cool air hit my cheeks, and my feet wobbled as I hailed a cab and pulled out my cell to call Dax. Something was seriously wrong with me. He answered the moment my ass landed on the stained cloth seats of the cab.
“Hello. How'd the club go? You headed home?” I could hear the sounds of the bar where he worked in the background. He probably couldn't talk for long, but for some reason, I just wanted to hear his voice.
I started to cry. My eyes watered and I felt stupid. What the hell was wrong with me? I didn't even cry when my stalker attacked me. “Dax?” I sniffled.
“Are you crying? Shit! What's going on?”
“I just puked on a bartender. I puked all over him. He was wearing my cobb salad!” My voice was shrill as I sobbed. The cab driver gave me a horrified look in the rearview mirror, and I had to force myself not to chuck my purse at his head. It wasn't his fault I was having a complete emotional breakdown.
“You puked?” Dax asked, trying to make sense of my emotional rambling.
“Yes. I'm just so tired. I hate going to these clubs. I just want to sleep and watch Netflix.”
Dax went quiet. “Are you PMSing? I know you hate it when I ask because I have a penis and I'm not allowed to make comments about your emotional state and how it correlates to your Menzies, but I'm just trying to navigate this carefully.”
I blinked twice. Wait. When was the last time I'd had my period? I did some mental calculations and nearly dropped my phone in horror. Oh shit. Ohhh shit.
“Lydia?” Dax asked. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it worse. Maybe you should go home, have a glass of wine and just relax?”
“Dax?” whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I'm late. I'm fucking late.”
Dax went silent on the other end of the line. “Go to a pharmacy right now and get a test.”
“No. No, no, no. This isn't happening. I can't.”
“Lydia! You just puked cobb salad on a bartender. You have to. Oh my God, I'm going to be an uncle!”
“You're my cousin. It doesn't work like that, Dax.”
“I'm basically your brother,” he snapped. “Wait. Who is the father?”
I swallowed; another wave of nausea laced with shame consuming me. Oh shit. There was only one person I'd slept with recently... “We don't even know if I'm pregnant or not,” I hissed into the receiver.
“Oh man. This is epic,” Dax said. Why did he sound so goddamn happy?
“I'll go take a test and let you know,” I replied. “And stop sounding so excited.”
“I'll stop when you tell me who the father is.”
“Byeeeee.”
Two lines. Two fucking lines.
Holy fucking shit balls goddamn motherfucking cock sucker.
Did we use a condom? Nope. I was drunk. I get bad migraines from birth control, so I wasn't on the pill. It was a careless night all around. Not only did I have unprotected sex, but I fucked someone who didn't even have the decency to pat me on the ass and say good game. It was irresponsible. Stupid. What the hell was I thinking?
I was pregnant. I was actually pregnant. Like legit pregnant.
I didn't call Dax, because I wasn't ready for his questions and accusations. I wasn't ready to be a mother. I wasn't ready to raise a child with a man I barely knew. I mean, who even was Nico Mariano? Did I want to tell him? Should I tell him?
Did I want to keep this baby?
I was sitting on my bathroom floor, staring at the test and pressing my palm to my flat stomach. I tried to imagine what it would be like to raise a whole ass human. A living, breathing soul with my eyes and Nico's intensity.
No. I couldn't do this. What about my job? I couldn't review drinks while pregnant.
I licked my lips and felt tears well up in my eyes. It was moments like this that I wished I had my mom here. She'd know the right thing to say. She'd rub my back, get me a glass of water, and help me pick myself up off the floor.
I just wished I knew what to do. I lived in a one-bedroom apartment and my baby daddy wanted nothing to do with me. What if he thought I did this on purpose? He was one of the wealthiest men in the city.
No. I refused to feel bad. It took two to tango, and he didn't even bother to wear a condom. We both got ourselves into this mess. And he had a right to know, didn't he? What happened next was my choice, but the least I could do was tell him.
I spent the next few hours Googling anything and everything about being pregnant and having a baby. I learned that my kid probably had a heartbeat. I learned that I couldn't have caffeine.
I also learned that I wanted to keep my baby.
I worked myself into a frenzy of anxiety. The thought of just sitting in my apartment and not talking to Nico was freaking me out. I had to tell him. Like now.
I impulsively got dressed into jeans and a sweatshirt at 3:00 a.m. and made my way to Satin Sheets, with plans to leave Nico a message and let him know we needed to talk. I was sure someone was bound to be at the club who could relay the information.
It was stupid, but I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I needed to do something. Tell someone. At least this way, I could put the ball in his court. If he wanted to call, he could. If he didn't, I'd take it as a sign that I would be on my own in this.