Dark Notes

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

A loud thump vibrates through the phone, at odds with the silkiness in his tone. “This is my problem, one that’s going to go away very soon.”

“What?” Outrage pitches my volume. “You don’t just make a baby go away!”

“Lower your fucking voice. Where are you?”

“In hell.”

“Melodrama doesn’t suit you.”

I punch a pathetic fist against the tiled wall. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you for making assumptions about shit you know nothing about!” he roars.

“Is the baby yours?”

“I asked you a question!” he shouts then reins in his tone. “You’re making me wait.”

“Good.” Sitting against the door on the bathroom floor, I kick my legs out in front me. “You can go fuck yourself while you wait.”

“I’m outside.” The grating of his breaths strains the silence, followed by the bang of a car door. “Listen closely. I know you’re hurt, and I caused that. But you’re going to get the fuck over it and trust me.”

He can’t be serious. I don’t bother responding.

“I’ll deal with Joanne,” he says, “and you will get that fucking check-up.”

He ends the call, and I stare at the screen in disbelief. I remain on the floor, grinding my molars and cursing the creation of the opposite sex.

Men who praise and promise are the ones who hurt the most. They coerce and bribe and fuck with my head. Then they fuck my body and leave the kind of scarring fear that no one can see.

I thought he was different. Now I’m not sure.

But I do know he’s not the type to get a woman pregnant and bail. He’s too controlling and obsessive to not be fully invested in his child’s life.

That’s why he took the deal with the dean rather than moving out-of-state.

I love that about him. But I hate it, too. Because I’m jealous and selfish. I hug the pain twisting in my mid-section. God, this fucking hurts.

A fist knocks on the door. “Ivory Westbrook?”

The unfamiliar voice is deeply masculine. Probably the nurse or Emeric’s dad. So what do I do? I dread seeing Emeric with Joanne, but I can’t stay in here forever.

I climb to my feet, wipe away stray tears, and open the door.

The man on the other side stands a foot taller than me. Frank Marceaux, M.D. is embroidered on his white coat, but there’s nothing familiar in his handsome features. Wrinkles line his brow, though not many. He’s probably in his fifties? Reddish-brown hair combs back from a severe widow’s peak. Thick eyebrows curve over green eyes, and a small gold ring cuffs his earlobe.

But it’s his presence that denotes the family resemblance. Hands behind his back, feet planted in a wide stance, he studies me with too much focus. A shiver trills up my spine.

He raises an auburn brow. “Are you ready?”

No, definitely not. I slide the phone in my back pocket. “Yeah.”

As I follow him through the waiting room, my gaze locks on the wall of windows and the scene playing out in the parking lot. My shoes stick to the floor, and every cell in my body zeroes in on Emeric.

He paces a circle around Joanne. His mouth moves, his eyes blaze, but his overall posture conveys calm confidence.

She stares at her hands where they rub her belly, head lowered, and lips in a thin line. Probably the way I look when he’s teaching me a lesson.

Jealousy burns hot and fierce in my chest.

“Ivory,” Dr. Marceaux says.

I step forward to follow then pause.

Emeric stops just behind Joanne, breathing down her neck. With his fists on his hips, no part of him touches her, but he’s so close. The kind of closeness two people share when they’ve spent a lot of time together. When they’re familiar and intimate.

My heart squeezes and shrivels. She knows him better than I do. He’s been inside her, put a baby in her, and I’m… I don’t know what I am to him. We haven’t even had sex.

“Ivory.” Dr. Marceaux steps in front of me, blocking my view. “Follow me.”

I can’t seem to make my feet move, but my eyes work just fine, burning images of Emeric and Joanne into my brain and leaking tears all over my damn face.

Dr. Marceaux gently grips my elbow and leads me to an exam room. The moment he shuts the door, he stabs a finger toward the exam table. “Sit.”

I jump at the command in his voice and hurry to the table, crinkling the paper against the vinyl as I hop up.

He sets a box of tissues beside my hip, which makes me feel like an emotional little girl. I grab one anyway and wipe my face.

Lowering onto the stool, he rolls it across the floor until he’s sitting right in front of me. “He didn’t tell you about her?”

I wad the tissue in my fist and square my shoulders. “Not about the pregnancy.”