Cease Fire (Blackbridge Security 9)

No matter how much it’ll kill me, I’ll once again give her exactly what she wants because I’ve been doing it for years already.

She wanted friendship when I was in high school, and I drank up that attention like a dying man.

She wanted comfort when her mother died, and I was there with arms wide open.

She wanted space after I made a fool of myself by kissing her, and I left the country for eight years.

Now she needs me to stand aside and lie about my child, and as much as I despise her for it, I’ll keep to the shadows with a shattered heart.

I want to think that if I just try harder, I could make things different.

If I love her more, then she’s bound to see me as more than her best friend’s little brother.

As I pull up to my building, I still haven’t made my mind up with which direction would be best.

Chapter 14

Jules

I don’t know why I torture myself with staring down at the text messages Kit has sent over the last nearly three weeks since he found out the baby was his.

Morning and night it looks exactly the same.

Kit: How are you?

Me: Good

Kit: thumbs-up emoji

I haven’t seen him since he walked out of here that night. I haven’t gotten an irate phone call from Beth because he told her the truth either.

He’s keeping my secret even though it’s too much to ask of anyone.

I dab my eyes with a wad of toilet paper because I can’t seem to find the energy to get off the couch and go to the grocery store, but I need much more than Kleenex right now.

I feel like I need a hug, maybe a few kind words, but I know I don’t deserve either.

I long for him, but I blame that on the hormones. Before our weekend together, I could go weeks and weeks without Kit Riggs crossing my mind, and I’ve determined that the only reason I think of him now is because his child is growing inside of me. It has to be a biological thing rather than a real emotional need.

My stomach turns once again, and I hold my nose to the air, praying I can keep down the soup I ate earlier. I haven’t been having much luck keeping anything down.

I eat, then cry, then puke. It’s become so much a part of my daily routine, I’ve been working from home since the shit hit the fan.

What I was afraid of as far as Beth is concerned is already happening. She’s so busy with her new husband that I’ve only seen her once since she practically forced me to the Blackbridge Security office to announce my pregnancy. As much as I hate the distance between us right now, I’m also kind of grateful. She’d see through my tears if I tried to blame them on hormones, and I’d likely confess my secrets, thinking she’d feel sorry for me and offer forgiveness because I’m feeling nothing but sorry for myself these days. But I know that won’t happen. She’d be livid, feel betrayed.

The way Kit feels right now.

“Fuck,” I snap. “I can’t do a goddamned thing right.”

I roll my eyes at the incessant pity party I’ve been having.

I hate myself right now.

I hate that I told Kit I wanted to do this alone, and I hate even more that I’m a little mad that he’s giving me exactly what I asked for.

I want to be independent, but I also want him to rub my feet and bring me a box of Kleenex because my nose and eyes are raw from the toilet paper I’m forced to use right now.

I want him to make me come because I have the need but not the energy to do it myself.

I want the warmth of his body when I’m cold and for him to get up and turn the ceiling fan on when I’m hot.

Worst of all, I fucking want his arms wrapped around me, him telling me that everything is going to work out the way it’s meant to, because right now seems like the fucking world is ending.

Kit Riggs was never mine, yet somehow, I feel like I lost him.

He’s right. I’m so selfish it’s disgusting.

There’s a bump against my door, but instead of feeling scared, I’m hopeful.

Maybe he had enough of keeping his distance. Maybe that stubborn streak of his is reigning supreme today, and he’s come to tell me how it is.

I frown when my front door opens and Beth steps through.

“Good to see you too, heifer,” she says, kicking a box of diapers over the threshold. “A little fucking help, maybe?”

Her arms are filled with boxes of baby stuff, several shopping bags hanging from each wrist.

“I’m pregnant and bloated,” I complain.

“You’re barely pregnant. Get your fat ass off the couch and help. There’s more in the car.”