The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

The woman’s stomach had reached a tipping point, where her bellybutton was almost facing down and poking through the fabric of her shirt. Tears ran down her face, weighed down by clumps of mascara.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She used the back of her sleeve to wipe snot off her face. “I’ll take some of it back. Just give me a second.”

“Take your time, honey.” The cashier looked like she was ready to bury herself under the tiles, she was so uncomfortable.

“Well … I guess I could really do without burp cloths. Old shirts will do just as well, right?”

I put the nipple ointment I was checking out back on the shelf and rushed over to the cashier, yanking my credit card out of my wallet and slapping it on the counter. “No. Don’t put anything back. I’ll pay.”

The pregnant lady eyed me miserably. She rubbed her belly, as if comforting her unborn baby. Now that I took a closer look at her, she couldn’t be older than nineteen. Fresh faced and rosy cheeked. I wanted to cry right along with her. What a situation to be in.

“I don’t even know why I came here,” she said, her chin wobbling.

“You came here to get things for your baby.” My fingertips touched the back of her arm gently. “As you should. Don’t worry about it. You’re getting out of here with all of the supplies you need.”

“Are you … are you sure?” She winced.

“Positive, dude.”

A sheepish smile spread across her lips. She wore holed leggings and a shirt that clung to her belly like plastic wrap. I wished I could give her some of the maternity dresses I’d purchased with the outrageous budget Devon had poured into my account each month. I didn’t need mine yet. My stomach was flat but hard.

“Thanks.” She sniffed. “My boyfriend got laid off a few months ago, and he still hasn’t found a job. Really screwed us over.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” I plucked a gift card from the rack by the cashier and pointed at it. “What kind of employer does that to someone? Please put two thousand dollars on this.”

I needed to know this girl had a constant stream of diapers and baby clothes until her beau found a new job. Otherwise, I wasn’t going to sleep at night.

She cried even harder as a reaction, this time with relief. Then she spoke, her speech littered with hiccups and sniffles. “Yeah. It’s been a shit show. We were counting on this gig. It really changed him … getting fired. Lately, he’s been losing his temper. He’s nervous about the hospital bill, but what am I supposed to do? Have the baby in the bathroom?” Her brows knitted together in anger. “He’s the one who said we were being careful enough. Which, of course, was bullshit. If we were careful, we wouldn’t be pregnant.”

“It takes two to tango.” And three to create a soap opera, I thought bitterly, remembering Tiffany.

“Right?” Her eyes widened. “At least I found a job at the local thrift shop. He barely gets out of the house these days. Just drinks and watches TV and … shit, I’m sorry.” Her cheeks turned crimson. She ducked her head, shaking it. “It’s not your problem, obviously. You’re too kind.”

“Dude, I spill my guts to anyone who’s willing to listen, so don’t even think twice about it. My insurance broker knows my blood test results, and the lady at the grocery store across from my apartment is my reluctant therapist.” I handed her the bags full of the things she needed, along with my business card. “Call if you need anything—if it’s something for the baby or just a shoulder to cry on.”

She took everything gratefully, her eyes clinging to me.

“This must be a sign that things are getting better. You know, half an hour ago, my boyfriend asked me out of the blue if I wanted to come here. He never takes me anywhere. This is so fate.”

“Fate is like a stalker. It has its ways of finding you.” I winked at her.

Twenty minutes and five dubious purchases later (did I really need a baby body mop and a booty fan?), I made my way from buybuy Baby to my car, swinging the bags in my hands, contemplating how many scoops of ice cream I was going to treat myself and Baby Whitehall to.

Three, I decided. One for me, one for her, and then another one for me, because Momma hadn’t had sex in a long-ass time and needed a mood boost.

When I popped open the trunk—featuring my novelty license plate BURSQGRL—to discard the bags, I realized that my car looked … different. I looked down and let out a little gasp, stumbling back.

All four of my tires had been slashed.