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Without waiting for me to respond, Rocco stomped off like a caveman, lumbering out of my bedroom, footsteps loud as he disappeared down the hall. Well, at least one good thing came out of Rocco's pissy attitude. With our impending “talk” hanging over my head, I was so good and wound up I managed to spend least ten whole minutes not obsessing over Seb.
Tomorrow, I had to tell Rocco about Seb. A blot of fear shot through me. Rocco really would kill Seb. I was in a lose-lose situation, stuck between a rock and two prehistoric-minded, testosterone-fueled, hockey players.
By the time I finished sobbing under the duvet, feeling pathetic and sorry for myself, I had squeezed out every last tear I could possibly produce and then some. Despite the fear, despite seeing Seb with another woman and chickening out, despite how Rocco was going to react, I knew what I had to do. A round of confessions and brutal honesty, for Rocco, Seb, and myself.
Eventually, pregnancy exhaustion took over and I fell asleep, not that I got any rest. I tossed and turned all night, images of Seb and his mystery woman haunting my dreams.
Seb
Fuck. My. Life.
I drained the last of the whisky from the tumbler and slammed the glass on the countertop. Everything was so fucked up. Kylie—my Kylie—is that bastard Calloway's sister. Hot Blonde is related to Sasquatch. I barked a sarcastic laugh and shook my head. God has one hell of a sick sense of humor.
A quarter of the bottle of single malt was gone. I had a decent enough buzz going to find the fact somewhat hilarious. How the fuck did an asshat like Rocco Calloway end up the brother of such a stunning, kind woman? It boggled the mind. Then again, look at my piece of shit sperm donor of a father, the undisputed King of all asshats. Dear old Dad made Calloway look like Mother Theresa. My gaze flicked to the whisky and I frowned. Mon père loved to drown himself in alcohol. So much so, it permeated from his pores all hours of the day. I tensed at the similarities and clenched my fingers as I fought with my conscience.
Did needing a drink to process the shitstorm mean I was turning into my father? No one would blame me for getting blitzed considering what I’d found out.
I returned my gaze to the bottle and sneered at it. Knowing I might be more like my old man than I wanted to believe pissed me off. My lips curled back from my teeth and I snarled.
I am not my father!
Anger, shame, humiliation, and a shocking amount of self-loathing erupted to the surface. I whipped out an arm, snatched the bottle and glass, and threw them both at the sink on the other side of the kitchen. The glass exploded and the shards went flying. Whiskey splattered on the floor, the counters, and across the front of my shirt. Alternating between fury and despair, I slid down the cabinets until my ass hit the ground.
The outburst helped clear the fog of alcohol. I pinched the bridge of my nose to lessen the pounding headache that hammered inside my head. It didn't help.
Twitch, twitch, twitch.
Christ on a bike! Motherfucking eye. Frustrated, I slammed my head against the cabinet. Lucky for me, it’s mandatory that hockey players have skulls made of titanium, or it probably would've hurt.
Kylie was pregnant with my kid and I had to wonder, if I hadn't snatched Calloway's phone, would I have gone my entire life without knowing I had a son or daughter? I leapt to my feet and began to pace. Hands laced behind my head, I went back and forth, retracing my steps as I struggled to process how fucked up everything was.
A thought hit me and I stopped dead in my tracks. My jaw unhinged and my hands fell to my sides. Holy fuck. All this time, Kylie… she knew who I was. No way did she not know about the animosity between me and her asshole brother. Kylie knew when Calloway or me figured out what was going down, it would turn into a complete shitshow, and she screwed around with me regardless.
That was it. Decision made, I went to grab a shower and get some sleep. I needed a clear head for tomorrow, when I had what would likely be the most important conversation of my life.
Kylie
It was late morning by the time I rolled out of bed. Pleasantly numb inside, I calmly and methodically showered, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and even put on makeup. The panic didn’t hit until I left the safety of my room, then I had to force my feet to take me down the hall. I sniffed at the air and my stomach growled. Food.
“Here.” Rocco pulled out a chair when I stepped into the kitchen. A bowl of soup sat on the table, silverware, a napkin, and a glass of water at its side. “You sit and eat,” he ordered. “When you're done, you and I are going to have a little chat.”
My stomach did a somersault. I was pretty sure I knew exactly what kind of chat Rocco wanted to have. One with him hurling a ton of questions at my aching head. Questions I had, so far, refused to answer. T
he thought should have made me nauseous enough to put me off breakfast, but I was out of the dreadful, pukey, first trimester, and food was no longer something to avoid. It was necessary, to the point I ate all the time. I even started to crave strange combinations with sriracha sauce. I put it on everything, including a glazed donut once—don’t be a hater, it was amazing. I polished off the pile of eggs and bacon in record time, and did it without sriracha.
It wasn’t until I sat back in my chair that I realized I should have drawn out the meal to avoid “the talk.” Rocco drilled holes in the side of my head, his way of letting me know not only was he done waiting, but “the talk” was happening right then and there and would be downright unpleasant.
I glanced up. Just as I thought, Rocco was indeed glaring, gaze steady and determined. Despite the shower sweat dripped down my back. He relaxed his tense expression—even though it was too late. I knew Rocco wanted to preach hellfire and brimstone—he folded his hands on the table and took a deep breath.
“Who is the father, Kylie?” Before I could answer, the bastard lifted a hand and gave me the face-palm, the face-palm! and continued. “And don't give me that song and dance bullshit about you being afraid to tell me because I'm going to beat up whoever it is that stuck his dick in my baby sister.” His jaw ticked, and I snorted.
Yeah right, he so would.
Rocco gave me a withering look and I hunched down in my chair. Naturally, the nausea I thought would come earlier chose that moment to make its appearance, after I filled my stomach to the brim. In retrospect, I was glad I skipped the sriracha. Nothing was worse than fiery sriracha reflux.
“Kylie,” Rocco persisted, trying—and failing—to keep his tone from sounding threatening. He laced our fingers and those stupid pregnancy tears flooded my eyes. “You need to tell me who it is, Ky. I promise I won't be mad. You're having a baby. Not only is it not fair to you because, at the very least, this disgusting asshole should pay for his kid, but it's not fair to him to not know he's going to be a father. It’s also not fair to the baby to not give the other parent a chance to be in his or her life.”
My lips trembled and tears poured down my cheeks. Rocco can say he won’t be angry, promise he won’t attack the father, but the second I Seb’s name leaves my lips, Rocco would lose his ever-loving mind. Any scraps of sanity he possessed would burn to ash and disappear faster than my dignity.
