MICAH
“I’m pregnant,asshole. And you’re going to be a daddy,” the blonde—whose name I don’t remember—shouts.
My feet stumble backward until I bump the back counter. The earth quakes beneath my feet. And no matter how deep I inhale, air refuses to fill my lungs. I shake my head, refusing to believe a word this woman says.
A loud clang rings out and I snap my head to the left. Peyton stands frozen in place, the broom handle on the ground. Her eyes wide and mouth agape.
Shit. Fuck.
Peyton doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Her eyes locked on the woman spewing lies on the opposite side of the bar. All the color has drained from Peyton’s face. Her hands tremble at her sides. Any moment, she may explode with fury. Question is, will that fury be directed at me?
I need to fix this. Now.
“Sorry to break the news to you, but I always wrap up. Go trap some other random guy you hooked up with.” I fold my arms over my chest, widen my stance, and hold my ground. Appearing more confident than I feel.
The woman throws her head back and laughs. Laughs. Like she has secret intel. “Condoms aren’t always a hundred-percent effective.”
She didn’t own or discount sleeping around. Note to self. “You don’t look pregnant.” I wave a hand toward her skintight, come-fuck-me dress. “You on the prowl for another man to trap?” She grinds her jaw as her face reddens. “Until you have legal proof of what you’re claiming, you need to leave.”
The woman slams her palms on the bar and shrieks. A few people linger as Roar prepares to close, but their eyes don’t deviate from the madness. I don’t move or react to her obvious attempt at baiting me. And it seems to bother her more.
Oh. Fucking. Well.
Yes, it’s true, I have slept with a shit ton of women. Maybe two or three different women per week over the last year plus. The title manwhore was earned—not that I am proud. But I swear to whatever deity listens, I never went without a condom. Ever. And each one that got tossed in the trash was intact. If it wasn’t, the woman would have known then and there, and other preventive measures would have commenced.
Which is why I refuse to believe this woman. No doubt she slept with some schmuck she can’t pin down. Next easiest resolution, nail it on a guy you can find.
Sorry, bitch. Not happening.
After minutes of not caving, she grunts, pushes away from the bar and heads for the door. But not before calling over her shoulder. “You’ll see me again. Count on it.” Then she disappears.
Thank fuck.
For the first time in what seems like hours, I breathe. I turn to face Peyton and notice she hasn’t moved. At all. Is she breathing?
Shit.
“Hey,” I say and lift my hands to frame her face. She doesn’t respond. Her eyes vacant and off in the distance. “Peyton?” I step in front of her, crowd her, so she will look me in the eye, and stroke my thumbs over her cheeks. “Peyton, look at me.”
I stop breathing. My eyes refuse to deviate from hers. Then, she blinks several times as if waking from a deep sleep. Her usual fiery violet irises are duller as they refocus. My thumbs continue to stroke her cheeks as she starts to shake her head. When her chin wobbles, my pulse jolts.
“I need to go,” she mutters.
“What?”
“Micah…” Her eyes glaze over as she tucks her lips between her teeth. “I… I need to go.”
Go? What does she mean she needs to go? Go where?
Maybe she needs to sit down and breathe a minute. Shake off the crazy bitch that flew in and stormed out. If I were her, I would need time to process what just went down.
“Why don’t you go sit in the office. I’ll finish up out here. Then we can head out.”
Glassy violet irises whip to my starry blues. “No, Micah.” Her breathing picks up. Lungs heaving as if they can’t pull in enough oxygen. “I need to go home. Knew this was a bad idea.”
She starts to step away from me, but I catch her elbow. “Peyton.” Her name is a plea for mercy on my tongue. “Please, just come back to my place. We can talk about this.” I point toward the door. “There is no possible way that woman is pregnant by me. Or any woman, for that matter.”
Realization of how loud this conversation is has my eyes sweeping the club. I breathe easier when I see everyone has left. Well, the patrons are gone. The remaining staff has scattered to give us privacy.
“How can you be so sure? I’m no rocket scientist, Micah, but even I know the tiniest pinprick can lead to pregnancy.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Why is she on this other woman’s side? Is it the whole “women band together” thing? Because in this situation, that is complete and utter bullshit. Not when one of the women is shady as fuck.
If Peyton walks away from me now, I have a feeling I won’t stand a chance in the future. Again. No matter what, we can’t go separate ways tonight. Not with this fake ass shit lingering in the air. Not without talking this through and seeing reason.
“Peyton.” Her name is a whisper on my tongue as I step back into her space. “This whole situation is a clusterfuck. But I know, without a shadow of doubt, there is no possible way that woman is pregnant with my child. Not a chance. So, please…” I fully invade her space. Bring my lips to her ear. Feel her tremble beneath me as I rest my hands on her arms. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t walk away. Don’t shut me out. Not without giving me a chance. Not without giving us a chance.”
For day-long seconds, she remains a statue in my arms. Stoic and silent. Her hot breath on my neck the only reminder this is real. That this isn’t an epic nightmare—at least not the type to vanish when you open your eyes. This nightmare is manageable. It would be more manageable if Peyton took my side. If she believed the truth. My truth.
Do pregnancies happen when condoms are worn? All the time.
But I am no damn fool. Maybe off my rocker at times, but not a fool. The guy in the contraceptive aisle inspecting the condom boxes with hardcore scrutiny… yep, that would be Micah Reed. The guy who opens the box when he gets home and examines every wrapper for any cuts, tears or holes. That would also be me. Condoms don’t go in my wallet unless I am one-hundred-percent sure they are tamper-free. Hell, I even buy the ones with spermicide.
Don’t care what the woman said, her baby—if she is actually pregnant—doesn’t share my DNA.
Peyton fights an internal battle. Her fingers ball into fists, then relax, over and over. Much as I don’t want her to walk away from me tonight, she gets to make the decision to stay or go. What is happening between us is fresh, new. Wouldn’t surprise me if she took a step back and told me to fuck off. That she didn’t sign up for this.
But I really want her to step up and fight. Stick with me as we navigate our feelings. Then, give in to those emotions. Allow me to give in to mine.
For far too long, Peyton has consumed my thoughts. I suspected the moment I had a chance with her, I would shred her clothes and relish my name on her tongue.
The moment my lips crashed down on hers, though… it was as if my synapses fired right for the first time. Pieces fell into place and life started to make sense. And if I felt all that after one kiss, I fantasize what life may be like after I taste more than her lips. More serious and intense. Addictive and engrossing. I won’t be able to stay away from her.