Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

Is that normal? I don’t have time to come back here every week! I have—nothing to do, I realize as I stop in front of the appointment desk.

“Just so we can talk,” she says soothingly. “By then, if you’ve made a decision, we can talk about the next steps.”

“And if I haven’t made a decision?”

“If you haven’t, then we’ll just do a routine check-up, make sure you’re healthy and the pregnancy is healthy. Sound okay?”

I nod numbly because it doesn’t seem like there’s anything else that I can do at this point. I pay my co-pay on autopilot, make my next appointment the same way. And then I’m walking out into the waiting room where Tansy and Ophelia are nervously watching the door.

Tansy jumps up as soon as she sees me.

“Are you okay? What did the doctor say? Are you—oww!”

She breaks off when Ophelia elbows her in the stomach, hard.

“Sorry,” she sheepishly adds.

Ophelia doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask any questions at all. She just wraps her arms around me and hugs me as tightly as she can. It’s exactly what I need right now and for a second, just a second, I bury my head in her shoulder and take deep, shuddering breaths as I struggle not to cry. She pats my back, combs her fingers through my hair, makes low, soothing sounds that somehow make everything better and worse at the same time.

If someone had asked me even six months ago how I felt about Ophelia, I would have said she was good for Z but that I wasn’t looking to be friends with her. It’s amazing what six months does, and now, here we are, nearly as close friends as I am with Z and Ash.

“Let’s go home,” she says after a couple minutes, and I just nod. I’ve been staying with her and Z for the last couple of months—I’d planned on moving out, getting my own place, but she and Z insisted that I stay with them through the season. Z has a huge mansion, so there’s plenty of room for me to give them their space, especially since I pretty much have an entire floor all to myself.

I don’t say much on the drive home except for the obvious.

“The test was positive. The doctor gave me some information to read on”—my voice breaks and I clear my throat, try again—“on my choices.”

Neither Tansy nor Ophelia pushes me on what I’m going to do, which I’m grateful for. I mean, I know what I should do. I should get an abortion and start the season the way I’ve wanted to all along—in tip-top shape, ready to conquer the world. I’m sure it’s what Mitch will tell me to do,

what the guys will expect me to do. And it’s the right thing to do. It is.

And yet I’m having a really hard time getting there. Maybe it’s because I’m still wrapping my head around the reality of being pregnant, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m being more stupidly emotional than I ever thought I could be. But every time I think about getting rid of Luc’s baby…

I’ve already lost my best friend since this mess started. Am I really going to deliberately get rid of his baby, as well? The idea is anathema to me.

But how can I not when I have contracts and endorsements and expectations and—

I slam the door shut on that train of thought as I feel myself start to panic all over again. The last thing I need right now is to hyperventilate in the middle of Salt Lake City traffic. Something tells me Ophelia and Tansy won’t handle it as calmly as Dr. Amato did.

The car is silent, too silent. I know they’re giving me my space, and I appreciate it—I do—but if I have to drive all the way home with only my thoughts to listen to, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. But I can’t think of anything to say that isn’t help! or fuck! or make it stop!—none of which are particularly cheerful. So I reach over and flip on the radio instead, hoping the noise will drown out my thoughts as well as the silence.

It might have worked, too, if “Bleeding Out” from Imagine Dragons wasn’t the song currently playing. Fuck. Are you kidding me? It’s like the universe is actually out to get me.

The lyrics wash over me before I can stop them, words about losing your way and seasons hiding and skies turning gray “and everything is screaming.” God, it’s exactly how I feel right now and how I’ve felt for the last two months. Like everything inside me—everything I am and everything I’ll ever be—is screaming, screaming, screaming. What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?

God, things are such a mess. Such a fucking, awful, terrible mess—and I don’t have a clue how I’m supposed to dig my way out. Don’t have a clue if there even is a way out. Everything feels so overwhelming right now, so terrifying, that all I want to do is curl up in a ball and hide for about a million years.

But that’s not an option, largely because my body has come with its own personal countdown clock, one that will go off in six months whether I’m ready for it to or not. And because, as we pull up Z’s long and winding driveway, I see Luc’s Range Rover parked right at the top of the hill.

“What’s he doing here?” I demand. It’s not that he’s completely stopped hanging out at Z’s house since I’ve moved in—of course he hasn’t—but his visits have been few and far between. He usually only shows his face when the group of us are getting together. So the fact that he’s here now, just as I come back from my first obstetrician visit, is more than a little suspect.

“Oh, shit,” Ophelia says. “Z promised he wouldn’t say anything.”

“You told him? You promised—”

“I didn’t mean to! I swear! He tricked it out of me. And when I freaked out, he said everything was going to be fine. I thought that meant he wasn’t going to tell Luc, but you know how he is.” She looks miserable. “I’m so sorry, Cam.”

I do know exactly how he is. Just like I know he’s got his own, unique code of honor which I am positive had him running straight to Luc with the news of my pregnancy—which is awesome, really. Just frickin’ fabulous. It’s not like I wanted a day or two to assimilate it myself, before I told him. Not like I wanted to get a handle on what I’m going to do or anything.