A mask slips over her face, the one she usually uses on her clients. “Did you ask him why he was in my office yesterday?”
I shake my head once more, mortifying my mother.
“Are you not the least bit curious as to why he needs a lawyer?”
I shake my head again. Nick’s band secured a record deal six weeks ago, so I assumed he was having the contract looked at, but by my mom’s stiff posture and the stern look hampering her usually docile face, I now realize my assumption was wrong.
Oh no.
Chapter Nineteen
Nick
When gravel crunching under tires sounds through my ears, I stop staring at a tattered business card. Jenni’s little blue car is rolling down the driveway of my dad’s property. I was waiting for this to happen. The instant I nervously fumbled out of her parents’ law firm yesterday afternoon, I knew this moment was about to occur.
I had no clue my lawyer was Jenni’s mom. The name on the business card I’m clutching readsTaylor Lee. Jenni’s last name is Murphy, so when she called my lawyer her mom, I was not only shocked, I shit bricks.
All last night and this morning, I was panicked out of my mind that Jenni would question me as to why I needed a lawyer. My panic wasn’t needed. She didn’t mention it today. Not once. That was when gratitude for lawyer-client confidentiality smacked into me.
I had planned to tell Jenni what was happening once we were alone, but when she climbed into my truck, my desire to have her outweighed my moral compass. Although I’m confident she will support me through this, just in case I didn’t know her as well as I thought, I took my time memorizing every detail of her face and body.
By the time I finished my avid assessment, it was time for Jenni to go home. Her mom had given her a strict curfew, which was odd considering she’s an adult living away from home. Jenni and I agreed to meet at Bronte’s Café the next morning at ten AM, where I had planned to confess my sins, but it appears as if my honesty has come too late.
She has changed her clothes, and her hair is wet like she's just gotten out of the shower, but her face is marked with concern, and her eyes are brimming with tears. She doesn’t know the entirety of my fuck up, but she knows I’m keeping secrets from her.
After scooting over, I motion for her to join me on the swinging chair bolted to the porch. She hesitates for a second before she makes her way toward me. Her backside has scarcely landed in her seat when she asks, “Why were you at my mom’s law office yesterday?” Her voice is soft but riddled with nerves.
I rake my eyes over her face, absorbing and categorizing every perfect detail to make sure I have it right before I begin to speak. “I needed a lawyer for a paternity case.”
Her brows scrunch as her pupils widen, but she surprises me by remaining relatively calm. “You have a child?” Her tone relays her confusion.
When I shake my head, she exhales a quick breath. It’s sharply redrawn when I confess, “A girl is claiming I fathered her unborn child.”
She watches me, but not a word escapes her lips. I’m having a hard time gauging her reaction. I can’t tell if she's angry or upset. She just sits quietly, motionless and staring at me.
After a beat, she asks, “How far along is she?”
My increased heart rate slicks my palms with sweat. I don’t want to answer this, because the instant I do, I know she’ll be gone.
The longer I delay in answering her question, the more tears fill her eyes. Seconds from bursting, I stammer out, “Four months.”
A sole tear drips down her pale face as she clamps her hand over her mouth to stifle her choked sob. Panic scorches my veins like a wildfire. All the terrible things I imagined last night are happening. The hurt, the anger, it’s all being relayed by her beautiful eyes.
“It’s not my baby. I swear to you, it isn’t mine. I don’t have unprotected sex.” My words are rickety, but nothing can conceal their confidence. There’s no chance in hell Megan’s baby is mine. I have rules to ensure shit like this doesn’t happen. Jenni is the only girl I’ve ever broken the rules for.
Jenni’s lips quiver when she asks, “When did you sleep with her?” She's panting so hard, her chest rises and falls with every gasp she sucks in. She’s genuinely devastated.
In a last-ditch attempt to keep her tied to me, I grab ahold of her hand. Pain hits my chest when she angrily yanks it away from me. “When did you sleep with her?!” This question isn’t as calm as her first two.
Even knowing I’m digging my own grave, I answer, “The night I went to your aunt’s salon.”
She slaps me hard across the face. My cheek stings, but it's nothing compared to the hurt reflecting in her tormented eyes. She appears mortified that she slapped me, but I don’t know why. I deserved it. I chased her relentlessly for months, then bedded her and another girl in less than twenty-four hours.
I’m a pig.
When she jumps to her feet to run to her car, the tears streaming down her face cause her to stumble on the gravel driveway. I rush for her, wanting to help her back to her feet. She recoils at my touch.
“Leave me alone!” she screams while jerking her bloody hand out of my grasp.
